Wizards and witches had long abandoned the ancient art of bending the four elements in favour of wands and spells. The old practices and customs were forgotten, lost to time, relics of the past. Today, the only thing that remains of the benders are the four nurses at St Mungo’s trained in ancient waterbending healing, and the few people who displayed talents that remained from their lineage.
Regulus Arcturus Black, already sworn to the death eaters ( first in words, later in marking ), surprises as he becomes the first waterbender apprentice in many generations.
Bartemius Crouch Jr has been carrying his fathers rage across his skull for almost as long as he can remember. His reflection is a constant reminder of the fire that burned him then, and burns within him now.
Water, the old legends say, is the element of change. Where fire destroys, water heals. Neither Barty nor Regulus wants to be the people they were.
༄
It was hard to pinpoint exactly at what moment Regulus had stopped agreeing with the promises of the Dark Lord and his Death Eater associates.
Perhaps, it was when he was at St Mungos for his healer training, healing the same scars on muggleborn kids that he had inflicted the night before. When he looked into their dead eyes and he saw the dreadful recognition of them realising, too. When he felt his water patch together the very skin he had broken. And along with the deep shame and nausea that settled in his throat, he felt a bit of relief.
Water is the element of change, he hears his master say. He agrees.
He’s not the same as he once had been. He feels as if he is living in the decaying remains of the old Regulus Black, inside the shell of his former life. It is as if he is exposed in a new world, bare and weak. But it is not the world that has changed, it is him. He longs to shed the skin of the person he has been, like the serpent he was once proud to be.
There are so many regrets he cannot undo. He has done things that make his gut churn, sins etched so deeply into his bones that he is convinced that they’d be visible if someone peeled back his skin now. A pain so deeply ingrained with every move. Not a faint ghost of it, but so visceral it feels like torture. But the dark lord does not accept resignations, and exceptions are more than inconceivable..
The only thing that calms him is practising his bending.
Everyday, he keeps praying for something, anything that he can do to atone for his sins. Some piece of information, a weakness. Anything that can make up for his actions. Something to ease the weight on his shoulders. Because he is too weak. He realised that quickly. No, he is not a decent enough person to try. Not brave enough. He’s not his brother.
A slip of information during a death eater meeting. A flaw in the details. A secret. Anything.
Nothing appears. So he keeps bending, as it seems to be the only thing keeping him sane. The ebb and flow of water, the moon phases, the delicate dance-like moves in his waterbending scrolls.
Barty sits in the dull and empty hospital wing, tired of the loud continuous noise of the rain hitting the windows.
The hospital wing is certainly not an unfamiliar location for him, as he has been dragged there many times before. Usually, he’s there for five minutes only, Pomfrey pouring varying suspiciously coloured potions down his throat while scolding him. That, or short visits to people he would consider friends or acquaintances. Today however would not be a short visit, as he was forced to sit the afternoon out and reflect on his mistakes in the place that he’d been right to avoid.
The grounds of Hogwarts are unusually dark as the storm covers the afternoon sun, the room eerily dim and gloomy. Barty sits in near complete darkness, other than the few candles lit here and there. Still, he only sees the left side of his face in the mirror leaning opposite to his bed.
Half of his face covered by the shadows. Half of it scarred, scorched and perfectly illuminated by the light.
He has to look away from the sight of himself to prevent spiralling. It is not the first time he has seen his reflection- seen his mark ( two of which mean the same thing to him ) and had trouble breathing. He fights to ignore the crackle of fire against his own skin, the heat throbbing against his cheek. To not choke on the smell of burnt flesh once more.
He is reminded again of the shame. Of his father. He closes his eyes and wishes that things could change. Barty stretches his fingers as a distraction, trying to think of something else. Open palm, close palm. Predictable and repetitive movements.
Then, a loud creak of the large grandiose doors fills the room as faint, ballet-like steps echo. The smattering of the rain goes several decibels quieter almost as if the weather had been forcefully controlled.
Barty’s head snaps up in surprise. A figure stands by the entrance with arms crossed and a sweet smile across his face, a smile reserved for him alone. Dark hair. Grey eyes.
Barty’s heart leaps at the sight of the curls and the stormy gaze.
“Hey,” he rasps. “You’re here.”
“Heard of some Slytherin in the hospital wing. I’ve tried to find an excuse all day to come here. I practically begged to clean up so Pomfrey could have tea with Tekiq.”
Regulus manages to close the door behind him before he takes hasty steps towards Barty, because he's right there. Barty stands up from the edge of the bed as Regulus gets closer and they crash in a hug. Regulus' hands wrapped around his neck, hands fisted in his hair. Barty closes his eyes and breathes in the comforting smell of lavender tea and early morning dew, wraps it around himself like a blanket.
“You’ve been gone for so long.” He says, face muffled and buried into the space where Regulus’ neck meets his shoulder. Over two months of working at St Mungo’s, two months of Barty looking over the empty dorm bed. He presses a little closer.
“I wanted to be with you.” Regulus exhales, like a prayer. “I counted every day.” Being around him makes Regulus’ stomach turn over, his mouth go dry. Brown eyes and dark hair seize his thoughts when they’re apart. His heart sings at the proximity.
Sometimes when Regulus goes away for his training for too long, he’s scared that he’s losing him or that he will stop understanding him when he comes back. But when they’re like this- arms tangled, skin against skin- he feels an alignment so strong it intoxicates him.
“71 days.” Bartys voice is muffled against Regulus’ robes, a blooming feeling in his chest at the other’s words, his warm breaths against his shoulder. “I did, too.”
They stay like that, holding each other fiercely, for what feels like an eternity. Regulus’ ice cold touch against the fiery warmth of Barty’s skin. In that moment, they merge together as one, the heat and the cool perfectly balancing. The two of them, yin to yang.
The moment when they eventually start to let go, Barty catches Regulus’ gaze and presses a deep kiss to his lips. It’s the kind of kiss he previously had the privilege of experiencing everyday, which now feels like a rare luxury he must cherish and keep close to his heart.
“Is there a reason why you’re in the hospital wing?” Regulus asks as they part, face still against his, worry evident in his tone. “When I went to the dorm only Roman was there.”
Barty shook his head with a smile. “Nothing big. Just some Gryffindor who surprised me by cursing me. The idiot broke my fucking arm. ” Barty says bitterly.
Regulus’ signature eye roll appears as a reflex. “How do you even have the time to get into fights?” He remarks, forehead and nose pressed firmly against Barty’s. “Twelve O.W.L.s is crazy. Do you even sleep?”
“Who said I get into fights intentionally?”
”You have a reputation.”
Barty brings his lips back to kiss him again, lingering. ”And you believe these senseless rumours?” He barely pronounces the words before he goes in for another one.
Regulus smiles as he pulls away to get a proper look at his face. His long eyelashes and messy eyebrows are even more beautiful than he remembered, the slight scent of smoke clinging to Barty’s collar all too familiar.
He glances at Barty’s arm quickly, still bandaged although clearly not injured or hurting anymore. “Do you want me to have a look?” He says, unable to help himself, in true healer fashion.
“Oh, Pomfrey already gave me some draughts unfortunately. I actually tried to convince her that what I needed was some ancient magic or something— purely so that I could see you— but she dismissed me claiming it was too minor of an injury.”
Regulus, stone cold as he is, just scoffs. “This is nothing compared to some of the injuries I saw during my training. She was completely right.”
He smiles genuinely at Regulus brightly, which was singular, since his face was usually decorated by an unfriendly stare for everyone else. It was a smile that was reserved for him, and him only.
“How was St Mungo’s?” He asks.
Regulus doesn’t mention the dead eyes or dark corridors. Or how he longed to see the boy opposite him everyday. Instead, he shrugs casually and looks at Barty with a hint of a smile. “They say I’m on the path of being granted the title of master.”
Master. His Regulus, a waterbender master.
“Merlin, your parents are surely very proud, first master in what- hundreds of years?”
The well intended comment settles in Regulus as a sharp bitter ache.
“Ah well… Actually, my parents did not necessarily agree with it. Do not agree with it.” Regulus says, swirling tiny lengths of water he picked up from the water glass next to them between his fingers absentmindedly.
Barty frowns confusedly. “What? But you’re doing it?”
“Originally they tried to stop me from being recruited. But the dark lord has a certain … Interest in ancient magic. He heard that I had been selected, the first in many generations, and as you know his word is always final…”
“Oh.” Barty says, taking this new information in. “I didn’t know.”
He purses his lips slightly and responds softly.
“I didn’t tell.”
In reality, Regulus had kept it quiet not to be secretive, but because it was an uncomfortable reminder that he prefers to not have to repeat out loud.
Truth was, his parents didn't like the implications of his element. Not only is bending seen as an inferior form of magic, but also, the sacred 28 supposedly stem from firebenders. The original element, original magic. Toujours pur. He’s logically supposed to be a firebender, if a bender at all. A boy who controls water doesn’t really make sense, unless his blood isn’t exactly accurate to the grim faces that paint the walls of Grimmauld Place.
Naturally, they thought it shameful that people knew, punished him for disgracing the Black name. ( They didn’t care that he swore, over and over again on his knees, that it wasn’t intentional. That he had no idea, no control. )
He tries not to think about it at all. The uncertainty whether the deviation was generations ago or recent makes him nervous, tense. And he knows it’s something he will never gain clarity in, as the question would equal a death sentence if he ever attempted to bring it up.
Sometimes, in his darker moments, his mind starts to convince him bits of his childhood make more sense in light of it. Memories of being disregarded and teased and hurt for as long as he can remember. Odd stares and seemingly unprovoked cruel remarks from relatives.
“Anyways, they’re probably right. What will a splash of water do in a war?” Regulus says, meaning it to be an attempt at a joke, but falls flat when spoken.
“Why are you saying that? You’re going to be very valuable.” Barty says fiercely.
“I'm not so sure of that.”
“Even the dark lord says so.”
Regulus knows that he can’t argue against the words of Voldemort, so he bites his tongue and focuses on moving the water back and forth in his hand. But he gives Barty a look in response that makes it clear he isn’t convinced.
Barty raises his eyebrows, staring into the bender’s eyes. They communicate through looks for a few seconds, and Regulus sighs and looks away briefly.
“Look, It's not me trying to undermine myself. Waterbenders just aren’t very useful in war. In battle, more specifically. I can't do anything effective without a water source. Besides, they’re very sceptical about using it for combat nowadays… And healing makes me a glorified nurse at best. There’s a reason people rarely use the original forms of magic anymore but… After learning it, I struggle returning to my wand”
“I've just become so in tune with my element, with the flow and the movements and rhythms of me, the water, the tides, the moon— it is highly spiritual. And I think it ruined me as a wizard, I don't feel that connection to wand magic anymore. I suppose they warned me beforehand... Well, I just think I’m useless for the cause.” He doesn’t mention that his negligence of ordinary magic is more so from fear of what he has done. That bending has been his personal form of rejection of his fate.
He can feel the snake slithering on his forearm the same way he can feel the water moving. He forcefully pushes the thought away and lets go of the liquid.
“So no more spells then?” Barty asks softly, brown eyes scanning Regulus’ unreadable expression.
“Well I imagine aguamenti can still be handy” He says with a smile pulling at the ends of his mouth, and Barty lets out a huff of a laugh. Regulus smiles slightly still as he shakes his head. “No, I won’t be able to abandon it. I still have a duty to live up to.”
He is still his mothers son, still the unfortunate second choice heir of the house of Black. Neither them nor the dark lord accept resignation letters. And there are barely any other waterbenders. The ones that remain are not interested in what it means. The wizards slowly erased the traditions and abandoned the practices of the people. His people, in some way or another. They’re dead, extinct. There isn’t anywhere for him to go.
There's an air of understanding between them. Neither tries to put it into words.
Barty understands that he has changed, beyond the magic. It is obvious.
In their fourth year, when they first found out about Regulus’ abilities, he was messy, boy-esque still with his mannerisms and movement. Now, he moves with a grace Barty’s never seen before. He’s in control, his back straight and his actions intentional. It almost reminds him of a dance, he’s light on his feet, elegantly poised. He is in tune with his surroundings in ways that are hard to put into words.
It was a gradual change, but now it is clear. He understands that Regulus is something else. He isn’t who or what he was before. Now, Regulus walks into the room with the air of a waterbender. Waterbender master, he mentally corrects himself.
“Do you regret it?” Regulus asks then, looking at Barty.
Barty looks back, eyebrows knotted.
“Regret what?”
“Taking the mark.”
A tense silence fills the space between them.
There are countless Hogwarts students who would do anything for the irremovable mark. Who so desperately long to contribute, climb to the top of the Death Eaters, prove themselves not only useful but also powerful. They grew up with everyone around them idolising it, comparing the cause to divine duty, speaking of the Dark Lord’s greatness.
Now they both have tattoos that stain the skin of their left arms, and indeed they don’t come off.
“Regulus-” Barty starts, before Regulus cuts him off. “ I think I do.” Regulus tries to swallow, but it feels like pressing on a bruise. His eyes meet Barty’s, shadowed and full of something unspoken, waiting for him to validate the damning words he spoke.
“Barty, I think we’re on the wrong side. And I think we’re going to die.” Regulus rasps, hasty and stressed as he forces the confession out.
He wants to tell him that he missed him, that they should stay together, make a futile attempt of escaping together, and live and die together. That they should find a place and try to live without all of this, without the war, the politics, the implications, and be free from what they’ve been. Decorate a home, find jobs. He wants him to understand that if they don’t get out now, it’ll be too late. That it is already too late.
Too late for a relationship that isn’t a doomed secret. Too late for a relationship that is a fact, that they are together, and it will remain that way.
“Why are you saying this?” Barty says, eyebrows furrowed. Regulus looks at him, fear in his eyes.
“It’s wrong. Everything is wrong. And I’m scared we’re going to die Barty, I really am. And most of all, I’m scared for you.”
The shadows in the room dance to the silence.
“Regulus, I don’t regret joining.” He answers, steadily.
“How can you say that?”
“We all will die one day. Everyone’s scared of dying, so what? I’m not sorry for joining. I did it for you.”
Regret thrums in Regulus’ chest, pulsing quickly and nauseatingly. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”
“If you’re in this, I am too. If you’re losing, I’m losing too. If you’re dying, then I’m already bleeding. When you were marked, I knew I’d be marked too. And I’m not ashamed of that.”
Regulus pauses for a moment, contemplating, carefully choosing his words. “I cannot take it if you get hurt, I cannot. And I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. ”
“Famous last words.” Barty remarks.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Regulus,” Barty sighs. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but it’s too late for regrets now. We are marked. The war is on the horizon. It’s already done. We’re already doomed, if that’s how you see it. And we’ve already hurt people, and we will hurt more people.”
“I know, I just…” Regulus pushes a few curls out of his face in frustration. “I just wish things were different. Everything. ” He closes his eyes. “I wish you could have been spared, left out of this.”
“Don’t say that.” Barty answers with slight irritation, tired already of this subject.
“What? Am I supposed to be proud that I lead you onto this path?”
“Don’t you see Regulus? If it wasn’t for this, I’d be my fathers little puppet. If I was on Dumbledore's side, I’d be set to work for the ministry for the rest of my life. I’d be stuck in that fucking house, but you gave me a way out. I wouldn’t have survived, I know that. I already have far too much of him within me, and it’s already killing me everyday. I would have rather died than stayed there.” Barty answers, anger laced in his voice. He feels it burn in his scar, under his skin, on his tongue, in his mind as memories plague him.
“I’d do anything to be different, to escape him. It fucking terrifies me how similar I am to him, at least this way, I’m with you, and I’m as far away from his world as possible.”
Regulus’ gaze flickers to the marking that stretches across the upper right part of Barty’s face, the permanent reminder of the pain he endured.
“You’re nothing like him.” Regulus says, voice hardened. He wonders briefly if Barty believes it himself.
The scar had never bothered him very much before. Back when they were younger, it was just something that made Barty more intimidating. By the time he became the person he trusted the most, it was just another one of things that made Barty, Barty. It was just there, because it had always been there.
He knows it wasn’t an accident. His father did it, Barty never had to say it out loud, but it was never a secret. He did it, and he did it on purpose.
He knows Barty is thinking about it too, the way his jaw clenches and his face turns away to the other side of the room, scar no longer visible to Regulus, flaws hidden, eye contact broken.
“You’re nothing like him.” Regulus repeats, with even more fierceness than before, eyes steady on his face. Barty’s eyes close hard, as if the words burn just as fiercely as the memories.
“I feel an all-consuming rage burning in me, Regulus. I am afraid of the person I see in the reflection every morning. The anger buzzes all over my skin, like I could run my finger along wood and sparks would set it ablaze. I feel it all the time, and it’s like I can’t calm it down.”
“I know it’s from him. I know it’s his rage, his fire. And I’ve done terrible things with it, against others. Still, I feel so angry I don’t regret it. I can’t, even when I should. Sometimes, I get so angry I feel like I can't control it. I can feel the heat all around me, within me and bubbling under the surface of my skin. Sometimes when I get mad the fire in the common room fireplace grows in size. And then.. Then I feel scared. ”
Barty knows what it means. He was there when the cauldron tipped over in potions as Regulus first used his, at the time unrealised, bending. He is aware that if he tried hard enough, he could probably turn his thoughts of fire into a spark in his hand even now. But the fire has hurt him. The fire has burnt him, is still burning him, and it has damned him. And he doesn’t want to ever hold it in his own hands.
He only realises his hands are shaking when Regulus clasps them gently in his, skin against skin—a gesture so familiar and comforting that he lets himself fall into it, just for a moment. He tries to breathe calmly, as he looks at him.
“Was he bending when he did it?” Regulus asks carefully.
Barty had always been touchy with the subject, for obvious reasons. Regulus had managed to piece together bits of information to form a general idea of the story, but still had little idea how it had been executed, exactly why or when. He never knew it had been fire bending, even though Barty’s own alignment to the element didn’t come as a surprise at all. He always had a feeling.
“Yes.” The word is strained as some rational part of him attempts to smooth out the dangerous tremor in his voice. ”He’s not trained or anything. I think it was mainly the anger in the moment that made it so powerful.” His anger towards me.
Regulus gives Barty a few seconds before gently speaking. “What happened?” He rubs a finger calmingly in circular movements at their intertwined hands, just the way Barty always liked.
He just shrugs, and he looks so, so tired. Referring to his scar so openly feels like a wound that is reopened, everytime. “I disrespected him. In front of some important people. You know, ministry. I was eleven, the summer before first year.” Barty wasn’t saying it all, dancing around the truth. He felt unable to jump into the depths of it without drowning, but still attempted at explaining it to Regulus, trying to get him to understand.
Regulus lets this new knowledge sink in and settle uncomfortably as an ache under his ribs.
“For a long time, I tried to forget. But it’s not just hard. It’s impossible.” Barty swears he can smell the smoke. His left hand untangles and reaches for his scar.
The permanent reminder.
“Especially when it’s always staring back at you in the mirror.”
Regulus’ eyes are vivid and angry in response, resembling the rumbling thunder clouds outside the room, heavy with rain. He looks Barty fiercely in his eyes. “Just tell me, and I’ll kill him. Say the word and I’ll do it. I’ll find a way.”
He has long been aware that he is prepared to murder for Barty. He thinks that forcing water down Bartemius senior’s throat, feeling him shake in desperation as he drowns at the hands of Regulus’ devotion, would be a good place to start. He thinks he can excuse his sins if it meant that it gave even just an ounce of peace for Barty.
Barty doesn’t know what to say. He’s wished for his fathers death many times before. Sometimes wanted so badly to do it himself, blade against skin, that he felt a sick guilt afterwards.
Why haven’t i?
Because I hate him. Because I still long for him to see me. Because he hates me. Because he will never look at me. Because I still feel his knotted hand in my hair and the flames against my face with his other.
Because my mother is dying, and she still can’t look at my scarred face.
Because I will still have the scar, still have his anger.
Regulus looks over Barty’s features what feels like a thousand times, taking in every part of his face. He thinks of his scar and his heart aches.
“Don’t look at me like that. Please. ” Barty whispers, looking away, unable to meet Regulus’ gaze. Regulus’ brow furrows, his gaze unwavering. “Can’t we talk about something else?”
“What?” Regulus answers softly, confused.
“I don’t want you to feel that you have to stay here and look after me like I’m one of your patients.”
“I don’t feel like I’m looking after you?” Regulus says, shocked.
Barty feels it, rattling around in his skull. This moment won’t last.
“I just don’t see you often enough to waste our one moment together in ages on my fucking scar. It is there, It’s a fucking embarrassment, and that’s the way it is. Let’s just forget it, please? ” He pleads.
The rain seems to calm down slightly as the smattering from above slackens. Regulus lets them sit in silence, focusing on the feeling of being in Barty’s presence. But what he has learned weighs down on his thoughts.
He desperately wishes that he could erase his pain, take it away, carry it for him. If only he could. He knows he is no good, but he wishes he could be for Barty. He wishes he could say the right thing, make it feel better.
“I have some too— had some too. Scars. Mainly all throughout my back and some on my torso. They’re not nearly as severe of course, and mostly faded by now. I've used them to practise my healing sometimes. The water feels good on my skin and they’re noticeably weaker but… magical scars are hard to undo.” Regulus says, his voice faltering slightly as he hopes to comfort somehow.
Barty thinks ‘hard to undo’ is an understatement. He wishes with every part of him that it never happened.
Suddenly, Regulus looks like he just thought of something.
He reaches for something hidden under his robes, a necklace, his hand moving with slow and deliberate intent. He pulls out a dark blue vial with delicate glass detailing, an ancient looking one. He holds it up in the air in front of Barty, making it glimmer magically when the candle lights reflect on it.
“It’s pretty.” Barty says quietly, still examining it.
Regulus nods in agreement, and then swallows.
“In this I have water from the spirit oasis of the north pole. It has special properties, so I’ve been saving it for something important. I don’t know for certain that it would work but…“ He looks into Bartys eyes.
“It’s supposed to work on magical scars. Heal them. Even the most impossible ones. I don’t know for certain that it will, but…”
Barty looks at Regulus, then the vial, then at Regulus again. Special properties. Healing.
“Are you implying that…”
Regulus nods.
Barty is stunned.
“Maybe… Maybe I can heal your scar.” Regulus says.
The rain continues to hit the big glass windows as a faint noise of thunder is heard in the distance.
Barty entertains the thought of looking in his reflection and seeing the unscarred version of himself. A version of his face that isn’t a mark of his fathers rage. He tries to merge the right side of his face with the faint memory of what his face was before, but finds it impossible to piece together.
Him, but no scar. Him, but only him.
A version of himself, where his father isn’t shadowed after him, where his scar does not burn in a searing, ripping way whenever his anger returns. Without the crackling flames he once saw, turning his skin into charcoal, eating and eating at him as he screamed until there was only sizzling tissue left. He pictures seeing his father after the term, scar gone, replaced by Regulus’ water.
But, the feeling is back, bouncing around his skull, rattling. Telling him that, this moment won’t last. Soon, Regulus will be gone. And he will see Barty for what he truly is, weak, unworthy of his attention. He knows he does not deserve this, he does not deserve to be healed.
But he realises he wants it, he wants it so desperately that he feels the hope spreading from his wrists up to his chest. Despite the fear clenching at his gut.
“Okay.” Barty says slowly. He thinks that if it was anyone else who had offered, the answer would be no. But it isn’t just anyone who asked.
Regulus knows it isn’t allowed. He knows he’s going against everything he’s been taught, that it’s selfish. But at that moment, it doesn’t matter, not when it comes to Barty. He would tear the moon from orbit if Barty were to ask him. He thinks that he would abandon it all, even his bending, if Barty so preferred it.
He releases a deep exhale, then unscrews the moon shaped cork. The sacred water comes out with a swift wave of his hand, defying gravity smoothly. It glows and shimmers in a magical way that Barty has never seen, even when Regulus bends it in the ordinary way.
Barty thinks that he can hear a faint sound emitting from the glow, a soft tone, as though the water itself is alive. Regulus’ face seems to calm down, softening while handling the water. Barty swears for a second he can see a faint glow coming from him as well, as if he was a part of it. He thinks that he is divine. The waterbender moves closer to him, until Barty closes his eyes instinctively.
Him, no scar.
”Do you trust me?” Regulus whispers, and Barty’s heart beats faster than ever. He’s afraid, and his face is still burning him, and yet the answer is undoubtedly yes. Yes, yes, yes- ”I do.”
There’s more silence. Barty is incredibly tense in front of him, eyes closed. The shadows of the dark hospital wing play over his face, and Regulus never noticed just how much his scar resembles a hand. Like four fingers curled around his head and a thumb at his temple. Eleven. His father. Regulus has to swallow back the rolling nausea in his throat.
Barty draws in a sharp breath as Regulus’ hand gently cups the left side of his face. Barty feels Regulus’ long, cold fingers tracing the scar gently and he shivers. Partly out of discomfort, partly because it is so unfamiliar. He knows the leathery texture so well, the feel of the scarring in his hand, he can trace rough flesh wove that runs along his eye in his sleep. But nobody else had ever touched it before. It makes him feel vulnerable. A feeling of cold dread spreads itself smoothly along Barty’s chest, he wonders briefly if he’s making a mistake, letting Regulus see him like this. There is a split second where Barty instinctively feels the urge to swat Regulus’ hand away from him—possessively, protectively.
But it’s Regulus’ hand.
Regulus’ hand that has killed. Regulus’ hand that has healed.
He calms under his hold instead.
After a few seconds of Regulus studying the damage, he slowly lets go and Barty feels him hover above his face instead, as he moves the water to cover his scar. He feels his left side of his face being enveloped, the water stretching from the upper edge of his nose to his hairline. Even with his eyes closed, his sight is blinded by the glow growing in intensity as Regulus begins to use his healing techniques.
He hadn’t had time to picture what it would feel like to be healed before it already had begun, but he still thinks it’s gentler than what his mistrustful mind would’ve imagined. The coldness of the water makes the movement, his skin being pulled and manipulated like a puppet on strings by the small twitches of Regulus’ fingers, a numbing feeling. He can feel his mark merging and changing in an unnatural manner.
There comes a pounding in his head that initially heightens in intensity, a throbbing spreading from his eyelid to his entire skull, and then stretches out and softens like waves against the seaside. He sees intricate patterns of colours and figures morphing feverishly in front of his affected eye, and tries to focus on deep breathing.
It helps that it’s familiar. The intimacy, the proximity, the smell of Regulus’ skin, the feeling of his breathing against his skin, his oh-so tender movement. Regulus was his home. He focuses on his scent and it calms his burning heart.
Regulus thinks of the damage he’s undoing. The damage done at the hands of fire, on the one he loves. Water is the element of healing. The same sense of relief he felt at St Mungos fills him now too, but infinitely more gratifying. He wishes desperately he could be better, that he could do good. And he wishes that he could protect Barty from the war and all the horrors that come with it. But healing him, helping him leave part of his pain behind, felt right. And for just a while, he feels some of the tension in his body leave, his chest already lighter, as the glow from the water reflects back on his face too. ( Maybe, it was not just healing for Barty. )
Water is the element of change.
Barty finds it difficult to not feel overwhelmed with the process. It feels as if the weaves of his tissue are being untangled to be rewoven in a different pattern. He thinks of his mother’s embroidery, with the water threading through his skin, Regulus’ bending reconstructing his face. It’s like he has plunged his face into ice water, or maybe something less intense, like the mints they crush in Potions into draughts, the sensation sinking into his profile leaving it feeling cool and stinging slightly.
When Regulus pulls away, withdrawing the moon water back into it’s vial, it’s the first time Barty feels a true absence of heat in his face in a long time.
It isn’t perfect by any means. The area around his eye is still stiff and marked by a few bumps. But the scar is no longer in shades of deep red, burgundy and ashy pink. Where there once was deep layers of irritated and scorched flesh, soft pale skin has appeared. Minute details such as his pores are visible for the first time in years.
Barty’s world snaps back into focus when Regulus puts his fingers on where the scar always had been once more, the coldness of his hand washing down on his senses like a bucket of ice. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. He blinks his eyes open, and now Regulus’ face comes into sharp focus in front of him; every thread of colour in his eyes, every delicate freckle on his nose, clearer than ever.
“It’s finished.” Regulus says softly.
Regulus’ hand disappears behind his collar as the vial slips back beneath the fabric of his heavy black robes, hidden from the world.
Barty feels the skin where his scar once was, his fingers brushing over fresh, soft skin, slightly tender but new, unmarred. He feels goosebumps spread across his arm, hair rising at the thought of seeing his own reflection. Will he even recognise himself? Has he lost something that has made him, him?
Him. No scar.
He turns back to the mirror, the one he has avoided for years. Across the hospital bed he sees a version of himself he has not seen in years. What stares back is a stranger, someone without the scar. He runs his fingers over the smooth skin again, almost expecting it to return. And the world does not crash and burn at the sight of it, instead he feels sort of feverish distant giddy as he looks back at Regulus. “It’s gone.” Is all that he can get out, heart racing. It does not feel real, like some sort of twisted dream.
Barty is frozen for a moment, letting the weight of the moment settle onto him. He considers his reality. For so long, he has come to see his appearance as something unpleasant, deviant and tangled– too closely associated with his memories. He avoided reflections and mirrors to try to protect himself as a sort of defence mechanism, but now?
Barty pulls Regulus into a tight hug.
The embrace is warm and cold once more, a perfect contrast. Regulus inhales deeply, taking in the comforting scent of Earl Grey, the faint fragrance of the Hogwarts laundry detergent and smoke. In that moment, the world outside those doors feel distant, as if the world has fallen away entirely. The feeling of Death Eaters watching him, the Dark Lord's raspy voice, Grimmauld Place– all remote enough that when Regulus blinks it escapes his thoughts. All of it pales in comparison to Barty’s hold. He feels impossibly light, guilt and pain gone. The feeling of the scar’s absence settles in him, too. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he did something good.
Regulus thinks that neither of them have ever felt anything that didn’t hurt. Yet despite everything, through all of this, they’ve found each other.
if all else perished, and he remained, i should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.