Next installment in the series; sequel to ch.4 of Seirios Aster's Little Lion Man, Two out of Three Ain't Bad.

Come 'Round Soon

"One too many drinks tonight, and I miss you, like you were mine … All your stormy words have barely broken … And you sound like thunder though you've barely spoken … Oh it looks like rain tonight, and thank God – 'cause a clear sky just wouldn't feel right …" ~Come 'Round Soon by Sara Bareilles.

As soon as Barty left the dormitory, he felt his stomach knot itself up in disgust with himself. It wasn't often that the blond let himself succumb to emotional rages, and especially not where Reg was concerned. Regulus was delicate – Barty knew that; he had known it for years. Regulus took pushes all the time – he got pushed, and pushed and pushed … and he never pushed back. Barty knew he wouldn't push back – he wouldn't fight, he wouldn't argue; he always just accepted all of the blame anyone ever wanted to put on him, as if he had always known it was his fault to begin with.

There had been times, when they were still just getting to be real friends, that Barty had tried pushing him. A poke here, a shove there – just to see what would happen; to see if he had a button. A limit. Something other than the programmed in whipping-post. And guess what? There was just about nothing – it had never happened as far as Barty had ever seen … Getting most emotional responses out of Regulus that weren't muted or hidden behind several layers of crap was like ripping teeth out of a nurse-shark. It was placid at first, and took a lot of prodding before it got a bit angry – you could do it for a while, but there were just so many rows of sharp pointy unpleasant things, there wasn't any way to completely accomplish your goal without deciding that it just wasn't worth the superficial injuries.

… … Aaand Barty had officially forgotten what the hell metaphor he was attempting to construct, nor what he had been trying to make a comparison to.

Sighing, he leaned over the edge of the couch he was sitting on, putting his elbows on his knees and clutching his head with both hands. He had at some point dragged himself down into the common room, and had added another log to the fire to stoke it up a bit; he felt like he was never going to get warm. Getting closer to the orange blaze that was starting up, however, it was painful it was so warm … Absently, he heard someone walking behind him, and he knew by the footsteps who it was without looking.

God he was a sad individual.

He knew what Regulus' feet sounded like. There was something not on with that, but he was busy forcing his feet to stay rooted to the ground, not figuring out what was wrong with his stalker-like tendencies. Because as soon as he knew it was the youngest Black, his urge was to immediately jump up and apologize –he didn't even know what he'd say. But it wouldn't matter; something would come out by way of saying in a sort of sideways tone that he had overacted or that it was fine, or they would never speak of it again – he'd call him a git, pronounce himself a moron, and they would be friends again the next day as if nothing had happened.

But he didn't.

Barty stayed right where he was sitting and let his best mate, who was most likely terribly emotionally distraught all on account of something stupid, once again, and was probably contemplating doing something more idiotic than Barty could even conceive of. The only thing this reaction he was forcing himself to have was their own mutually assured destruction in some way, shape, or form – that much he knew.

Then why wasn't he moving?

He could fix all of this; the blond Slytherin knew that all he had to do was chase Regulus down, say his peace, convince his friend that he wasn't upset with him and that he was just over emotional from the booze or something, and they could act like this had never happened. They could – this charade he'd kept up for the majority of the time he'd known Reg could just go on and on and on ad infinitum …

He just … … Didn't want to any more. Maybe the after affects of the booze were still swirling his head around – maybe he was just being a selfish git. But that feeling; the feeling of the dark haired Slytherin up against him, his warmth … It was something he couldn't get out of his head. It was something that he had never had before – never experienced … And he knew, beyond a shadow, that it had changed something in him … It would be an unbearable agony for him, one that he honestly couldn't even wrap his mind around fully at the moment, if he had to pretend that he didn't want that. If he had to pretend that some, not so small, selfish part of himself didn't want Regulus …

"Lookit what we 'ave here …" blinking, Barty realized that he had been staring at the fire for a while now, and he had most likely lost track of time. Turning slightly, since he knew he was the only one in the common room at this ungodly hour, so whoever it was had to be speaking to him, he saw what looked like a couple of his house mates, one of which appeared to be holding good sized glass bottle.

Oh. Oh no … … This was definitely something he did not need right no—

"Looks like we found ourselves a theif," the voice had a sneer, and honestly, in the sharp firelight, he couldn't tell who was speaking to him from the darkness – but the nearly empty firewhisky bottle. That caught the firelight beautifully. Hazel eyes narrowed slightly; he was in no condition to handle a confrontation; especially since it looked like he had three or so assailants to deal with.

"Sorry mates – dunno what you're on about," he said, turning back towards the fire, which felt like it was roasting him to death slowly and painfully. However, he kept his gaze trained away from them; he wasn't a bad actor honestly – look at the lie he'd been keeping from his best mate for years. Had to mean he was decent at hiding things, didn't it?

"Oh, but you do, mate," he heard footsteps getting closer to him, and Barty held his breath slightly, going to reach for his wand and realizing that … He didn't have it. He hadn't thought to pick it up when he had stormed out of the dormitory on his friend. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck. He needed to diffuse this situation or he was in for a world of hurt, he was sure.

"No – 'fraid I don—"

"Imobulous."

See, that was something that you could always count on Slytherin for – quick and decisive justice for a crime, no matter the severity, no matter the question of innocence. If the person fit the crime and could possibly be guilty, then they tended to take full responsibility for the action.

Unlike those wishy-washy Hufflepuffs, who wouldn't even really dwell on whatever wrong had been done to them. And of course eventually, being so full of sunshine and forgiveness, would decide that not only whatever had been done didn't really warrant repercussion, as it was not a long-standing disgression, but – and here was the real winning argument. Whoever it was hadn't meant to personally wrong the Hufflepuff it had been done to, and so, it would be the best to just forget it had ever happened. Or something.

Different than the Ravenclaw, who would try and logically deduce all possible suspects, collect evidence, figure out alibis, motive, et cetera … they would want all of the facts and all of the information they could possibly put their maddeningly over-thinking minds on before they would come to any sort of conclusion as to who it might have been who had committed whatever crime it was. And by then it would be the end of the school year and they would forget about it over the summer and justice would never be exacted.

And the polar opposite of Gryffindor; whoever the suspected culprit was would have some sort of fair trial, with a judge and a jury, and after both sides of the story had been exhausted to every angle, they would begin to deliberate. Eventually, the jury would come to some sort of unanimous decision regarding the guilt of the suspect – if found not-guilty, then it would move to the next suspect, unless further probable cause or motive was discovered. If found to be the culprit, the suspect will then be allowed to appeal that decision, and attempt to persuade their peers that evidence was circumstantial, it was his word against his …

But the Slytherin. Ah the Slytherin; cunning and vengeful – almost primal in their instinct, would take gut feeling over any evidence presented; if their peers needed any convincing, a Slytherin would use any means necessary and within their power in order to pin any necessary blame on the one that they were sure had wronged them. The satisfaction came after the assured guilt – when the proper punishment was exacted. The satisfaction came when they made the one who had wronged them know that it had been a mistake – and that it was something that you never wanted to do again.

Barty was quite sure that he had learned that lesson spectacularly.

A storm had broken out as two seventh years and a fifth year whose identities didn't matter at all had used a Mobilicorpus charm to take the blond's prone form to somewhere that was more secluded. Lucky for them – any noise he made, should the paralyzing charm they used on him wear off, which it started to several times, was usually drowned out by the crack of thunder after a flash of lightning. Honestly, it seemed almost fitting – it was just his luck after all, that the elements would turn on him like this.

But then, a clear sky just wouldn't feel right.

He supposed he should count himself lucky that they'd levitated him down the hall sometime a few hours later and veritably thrown his body at the doors of the infirmary, which had apparently made enough noise that it woke Poppy Pomfrey up out of a sound sleep. Honestly, Barty didn't know how long he'd been laying there on the floor – he was cold and in more pain than he probably ever had been before, but that made sense, since he was on the floor in the hallway at three in the morning in a pool of his own blood.

And since when had it become so easy for people to wander around the halls at night? Either Argus Filch was off his A-game, or else some other students were up to some pretty intense shenanigans that particular evening.

"Oh my god—Can you hear me?" he heard a voice through the haze of his pulse beating in his ears, though responding was basically out of the question; the Imobulous hex was gone, but even if he had been able to move his jaw, which was likely broken several times, he wouldn't have bothered – his mind was not there to allow him. Barty was unsure as to whether or not this was the med witch of the castle, but he was willing to make a bet on it.

Now, perhaps you think that this punishment, as far as for something befitting of the crime, removing several of Barty's teeth, breaking what felt like all of the blond's bones, lacerations, bruises, burns … This was a little extreme. And, for one Slytherin exacting his revenge for some pilfered alcohol, you'd be right. The problem laid in the fact that there had been three of them – three angry, young Slytherin men who had all had ample time to egg each other on, each one upping the anty, not realizing how much damage they were doing because everyone was laughing, and that somehow made it alright. That made it so that the pain they were dishing out was justified, because the crime he had supposedly committed was one that kept becoming more and more atrocious, with more and more gravity, as time went on – and as they drank more of what was left of the booze.

Coughing weakly, he honestly didn't know what was going on; the world was moving he thought, but that might've been something else entirely – his head spinning, him falling down stairs – at this point it was hard to tell about most anything anymore.

Lightning flashed, lighting up the infirmary as charms were likely said, and he felt things fixing themselves vaguely he thought – but honestly … all he wanted to do was pass out.

In fact, that was exactly what he did.

I … wish Reg … … were here … …

The End …?