Sequel to ch.5 of Seirios Aster's Little Lion Man, Many Shades of Black

Next Stop, Vegas Please

"It's never your fault you can't start your own winning streak … but I'd hate to lose you, to the fortune you seek …" ~Vegas by Sara Bareilles

Hazel eyes opened for the first time in what felt like probably years … Or at the very least months; either way, the lids were heavy and the sockets ached, and he could barely get anything to focus … And when he did, he realized that holy shit, this room was bright. Immediately they were closed again, and he realized that it must've been daytime … And actually, it must not have been too early in the day either, because if that was sunlight, light in the morning didn't tend to be orange.

Oh god; he needed to yawn.

"Are you awake dear?" a voice made him pause and try to turn in the correct direction to respond, but god if his neck didn't ache … Actually, now that he thought about it, all of him ached – in a pretty bad way. Ached and at times outright hurt … Fuck; his entire body felt like someone had tarred it, feathered it, and then knocked it off a cliff. Into a lake of fire. Yeah; that sounded like an apt description; hell, breathing hurt, he was coming to realize.

"Good – can you open your mouth for me? I need you to drink a potion …" Yeah, that was likely Madame Pomfrey, attempting to give him something, hopefully for the pain, which had actually caused him to stop breathing, he realized. Shit. Air. That was important. And that damned yawn; it was stuck in his throat. He needed to … This was going to suck.

Yeah; his eyes welled up as he parted his lips as little as possible and the muscles in his throat stretched and contracted, and the blond made some sort of dying noise. He couldn't even cry properly; if he even started breathing quickly, which was sort of a requirement of the desired action, it was going to set off some sort of … Horrible pain cycle, because it would hurt so he'd want to cry more, and if he cried more it would hurt more, so he'd want to cry more … And fuck; Barty didn't actually want to cry anyway, right? He could handle this – it was just a little pain … Ok, so it was a lot of pain, but whatever.

The sixth year Slytherin felt something behind his neck, presumably supporting his head, though thinking was a thing that was rapidly becoming more and more difficult. His eyes flickered, but he still couldn't open them comfortably without feeling like his retinas were burning out of his head. "Now, it's alright –just drink this. You want a full mouth of teeth, don't you?" he had of course, little to no idea what she was on about, concerning the teeth or what a potion had to do with the number of them that were in his skull, but he wasn't really in much position to argue with her either, and he swallowed slowly and as best he could in order to get all of the burning liquid down – but of course, that also made him feel like complete shite because there was nothing in his stomach, and there hadn't been anything in his stomach in … Well, actually, he didn't know how long, but it was at least a day, since his only frame of reference was that the last thing he remembered was sleeping on and off through Saturday. However, since he hadn't the foggiest idea what day today was, it could have been far more than 24 hours since his last meal, and he wouldn't know.

"There you are – that should have those grown back in no time …" Barty could hear the pity in the young witch's voice, even if he couldn't see it on her face; he must've been in a pretty bad way of Madame Pomfrey was feeling bad for him – he knew that she was relatively knew at the castle in the position of medwitch, but he was also sure that in a very short amount of time, she would have seen a substantial amount of things and people and so, a substantial amount of injury.

"I'll warn you now though, Skele-gro does the job, but it won't feel good," she added with a sigh before walking away from where Barty was laying, pretty prone, in bed. (1) Well, maybe it won't be so bad because it's only growing back a few …? I think …? The thought occurred to him that he honestly wasn't sure how many teeth he'd lost – he wasn't too sure of much as far as how badly he'd been beaten.

He was aware that there were a lot of spells at first – curses, hexes, generally unpleasant spells as such. His wand was likely still in the dormitory where he'd left it, but after the initial spells flying back and forth – not by any of his own doing, mind you, but rather the three of them kept trying to best each other – including what he thought might've been a Crucio, which was probably the first time he'd blacked out for a bit from pain, they had decided that this was too easy. And apparently when things weren't difficult, you had to change up the plan to make it interesting. That was where the fists … And feet … and what might have even been teeth at some point or another, he really didn't know – most of the time was just equated to pain.

"I take it you are awake m'boy? 'D like to ask you a few questions about your … activities, last night." Oh good; a visit from Slughorn – how lucky for him. A shadow passed over Barty's face, and he knew that the man was looming over him like a colossal walrus, huffing slightly from the walk to this side of the castle and probably about to start bellowing … Rather like a walrus whose harem is being ogled by another walrus, but that was likely a hippogriff of a different feather, as this particular colossal walrus was concerned about what had landed Bartemius Crouch Jr. in the infirmary and not potential competition in mates … Or at least Barty hoped this had nothing to do with harems, as that would be the Worst Case Scenario, indeed. (2)

"Please don't stay long Professor; I'll not have you working him up …" Barty wanted to reach out to Madame Pomfrey – wanted to tell her not to leave him to his walrus-y fate alone. But then, she would likely think that she had given Barty too many medications and that he was delirious – he wasn't sure if that would persuade her to tell Slughorn to bugger off or make him stay because the blond had been isolated from normal human contact for too long. Or something. He heard her shoes click across the room though, and she was gone – just as old Sluggs made some sort of walrus-like noise in dismissive response to her request and sat in a chair next to the bed Barty presumed he was in, making it creak and groan as if it were in more pain than the injured Slytherin was. And the blond wouldn't doubt it.

"Now, you know you can tell me anything," yeah – that was a complete load. He could tell Slughorn anything – if he wanted his body to be deposited at the bottom of the lake instead of in front of the infirmary doors next time. "And I know you were probably just messing around, and maybe things got a little out of hand … I just want to know who you were hanging around with so I can talk to them – you know, make sure that there was no harm done …" You dumb bastard; obviously there was harm done – look like I got into a fight with a bludger in a supply closet – and the bludger won, he thought, unable to help the annoyance. But honestly – no harm done?

"Don't suppose I r'mem'er, Profess'r," he managed to murmur, using his mouth as little as possible – he could feel that Skeleton-whatever-it-was starting to work; his mouth was starting to throb – in a bad way. "Took a few his t' the head, I reckon …"

"You could at least look at me when we're having a conversation, Bartemius. It's good manners," Slughorn responded, as if he hadn't heard what the blond had said at all. "And come now – you must remember something about the company you were keeping; what house were they? And year? Hmm? Your best guess—"

"Wif all due respect, profes'r," Barty started, keeping his eyes firmly closed and not facing the man either. He hated being called by his first name – most professors in the school referred to him as Mr. Crouch, which was fine; though it made him think of his father, not as much as that name did. It was the only way his father ever addressed him. Ever. It was just one of those things that really irked him. "I've been unconscious all day in the infirmary, and I've barely had time to open my eyes yet at all, which let me tell you, is not fun. I don't even know what time it is, let alone what I was doing. For all I remember, I could've fallen down the bleeding stairs – there are a lot of them here, you know, and they tend to move, on occasion."

"… … …" Ah; silence. Pure, golden silence. That was exactly what he wanted to hear out of old Sluggs; maybe the walrus would bugger off and leave him to the now stabbing ache he felt in his jaw. Talking as much as he had had apparently sped things up with that stuff Poppy had given him, because it felt like his mouth was trying to slowly split itself apart in several places at once. Fuck.

"Well actually, Bartemius, for your information, you have been unconscious in the infirmary for two days," Slugghorn said in a rather short tone, and Barty almost turned to face him at that – what did he mean two days? Oh crap …

He'd never sent that response letter to that howler.

His father was going to kill him.

"But, as I can see you are in no condition for guests," the professor continued as he ceased his torture of the chair he was seated in, "I shall return at a later time, when you have a better disposition." Good riddance … he thought to himself crossly – he wanted to turn his back to where Slughorn had been sitting, but he didn't dare move. It now felt like his jaw was attempting to slowly tear itself off.

"Poor dear," ah; so Madame Opium had come back. He didn't even want to respond to her; maybe he could go back to sleep…? Nope; nothing doing – she was suddenly casting a spell for something that was suddenly burning his skin. Which suddenly elicited a sudden reaction of a rather sudden pathetic yell that suddenly resembled a rather … choice … word.

"There," she said after torturing the blond for what was probably only a few minutes or so, but felt like eons to the injured teenager, who couldn't do too much more than lay there and writhe, occasionally making a noise or two that otherwise served to profess how pathetic he was. And felt. But mostly just was.

That was one thing he had – plenty of time to wallow through his pain in his own thoughts … and most of the things he found there were pretty depressing, honestly. His potions grades were horrible, as far as his father was concerned transfiguration, the one thing he was decent at, was completely useless – so he had no talent at all in his father's eyes. Which was why his father was never going to love him or respect him or be proud of him for anything he did – because he didn't have a natural ability to do anything that would aid him in working for the Ministry of Magic.

Which was the only respectable job anyone in the wizarding community could have.

And unless his father handed it over to him, he was never going to amount to anything at life.

Right; so he could have a desk job and a wife he married because he was supposed to, not because he loved her or even really liked her, or had anything in common with her – or really wanted anything to do with her at all, except to cook and clean. Not that he would ever notice because he would never be home long enough to see if there was dust on anything, or to eat the home cooked meals that she slaved over for years with no gratitude. And then, he would have a kid that he only had in order to continue the family line, because his father would pressure him into it – only to avoid ever coming in contact with that son, so that you are a stranger to your own continued bloodline. Then, that accomplished, he could continue emotionally abusing his wife, and whenever something went even slightly awry would be the only time he would be a presence in his son's life, because of course, discipline and discipline only was the way to deal with anything that resembled insolence.

That was one of the things that the blond was terrified about, actually, though he never allowed himself to say it, out loud or otherwise … Barty was named after his father – Bartemius Crouch. And he had seen how the first one had come out – and if he ever, ever turned into him, he just … Didn't know what he'd do. Closing his eyes more tightly, he sighed, though even that much made his chest sting. Barty just didn't want to be so caught up in what could be after he accomplished a little bit more in life that he lost himself … Seeking his fortune and forgetting about everything else but the prize at the end of the road that he was never going to obtain …

For a while, he had been convinced that he felt certain … things … for members of the same sex because he was so dead set on being different from his father; that it was just some sort of stupid thing he'd tricked himself into so that he wouldn't turn into his father. So he'd have something different – and hey; if he was gay, he'd never have a kid – and if he never had a kid, he could never fuck one up either …

"Back again, Mr. Black?" a slightly terse voice caught his attention, but he didn't care to figure out what was going on; he didn't think about his father much, because Regulus was normally was depressed enough for three or four people. But Reg wasn't there right now, so …

"I turned you away several times yesterday after you were recovered, and I've turned you away several times today as well; what makes you think that this time will be any different?"

"Is he awake, Madame Pomfrey …?" Barty knew that voice. He almost turned towards it, but he valued his face and the fact that he liked it when it was in as little pain as possible. Slowly, the sixth year Slytherin started to talk slow, calm breaths through his nose, attempting to push down his earlier, more depressing thoughts. If Reg was here, he didn't need to see his friend like this.

Problem was, with all this recent thinking he'd been doing and the pain and everything he seemed to be… stuck.

… … shit.

"… … Luckily for you, this time he is." And then, familiar footsteps. Though there was probably still something weird about the fact that the blond could identify him by his feet.

No; Reg just … Stay over there … … the thought crossed his mind weakly, as he knew his friend of course was not going to oblige. He just … Couldn't get a lid on it for some reason.

"Don't stay long though; I'll not have you working him up …" Pomfrey always said that, no matter who you were going to visit or who you were – even if a professor, or, on rare occasions, the headmaster, came to visit.

"Barty …?" the voice was sort of tentative – but then, the blond's eyes were closed, so it probably looked like he was still sleeping. In fact, he wanted to continue acting like he was … But he knew he couldn't. Poppy had told Reg that he was awake, and pretending to be asleep was only going to upset his friend, because he would think Barty was angry at him or some stupid shit like that.

"Reg …" he started as he heard his friend sit down next to his bed, hating the waver in his voice, but knowing that he had to say something. Unfortunately, he also knew that Reg would be able to tell he was having one of his rare, upset moments that he couldn't shake. Slowly, he chanced carefully opening one eye, though it was likely unfocused, and he couldn't really see much besides what was probably his friend's face. Honestly the light was hurting his eyes, but he was at least trying to look at Reg … Probably more than a slightly silly idea, if he wanted Reg to remain as oblivious to his rather unfortunate emotions at present as the dark haired Slytherin usually was.

"I think … now's not a good time …"

The End …?

1 – Yes yes; before anyone says anything, I know that teeth are not bones – however, teeth are considered part of your skeletal system. And the potion is called "Skele-gro", not "Bone-gro", so I felt I could take the liberty of saying it would cover teeth in the equation.

2 – Credit for this excellent passage goes to SuperMargarita; she is the most excellent portrayer of Bartemius Crouch Jr. that has ever portrayed Bartemius Crouch Jr. xDDD