Barney
Watching Barty on the road was always a power trip for Regulus. Even though he wasn’t the one behind the wheel, knowing the person he was with was about to crush every other pretentious asshole on the track—especially when one of those assholes was his older brother, Sirius—felt incredibly satisfying.
He wasn’t entirely sure what the deal with this particular race was, but apparently, it was bigger than the usual. It was the first of a series of races, part of some kind of tournament, and Barty was hell-bent on winning it.
Regulus hadn’t even known Sirius was back in London until that morning, when he’d shown up out of nowhere. Had it been a coincidence? The one night he’d actually slept in his own apartment instead of Barty’s, and his brother decided to make an appearance?
It felt too calculated to be random. Maybe Sirius just knew him that well.
But it hadn’t been a pleasant surprise. Regulus wanted his brother as far from him as possible. London was his territory. Sirius could keep France for all he cared. But no, of course, Sirius had to have it all. He’d always been like that—restless, constantly traveling, never content to stay in one place. And anywhere was better than being by Regulus' side.
Fucking bastard.
"Why so sulky?" a voice cut through Regulus' thoughts, sharp and familiar.
Every muscle in his body tensed instantly. Of course he would be here. Wherever Sirius was, this bastard wouldn’t be far behind. It had been so long since Regulus had last seen him, but the tension still coiled in his chest like it had been just yesterday.
Regulus clenched his jaw, refusing to turn around. "What do you want?" he spat, his voice low and venomous.
"Come on, Reg," the voice replied, far too casual, like they were old friends catching up. "No need to be so hostile."
Regulus' fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging into his palms as his eyes rolled. He could hear the cocky smirk in his tone—like he had every right to talk to him, like nothing had ever happened between them.
"Don't call me Reg," Regulus snapped, finally turning his head just enough to send a glare over his shoulder. His expression was ice-cold, but beneath the surface, his heart hammered against his ribcage.
His lips pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes narrowing. What gave him the right to act so familiar? So at ease?
He hadn’t earned that. Not even close.
"Won't you look at me?" the boy’s voice was soft, almost pleading.
"Leave me alone, Potter," Regulus sighed, the exhaustion in his voice barely masking the tension boiling beneath the surface.
"You know me better than that," James shot back, his tone light but firm. "I don’t leave things alone."
That made Regulus’ blood seethe. The casualness, the audacity—it was infuriating. A flash of heat surged through him, and he could no longer hold it in. His body whipped around, eyes blazing with a mix of hurt and fury as his voice cut through the air like a knife.
"You left me alone!" Regulus snapped, his words sharp and biting, each syllable dripping with the weight of betrayal.
James stood there, momentarily stunned, but the impact of those words hit deeper than anything else could. Regulus' chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides, as all the pain that had been simmering for so long finally broke the surface.
“Can we talk?” James asked, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. His usual confidence wavered, and it showed in the way he hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “I know I didn’t handle things the way I should have, but—”
“You think?” Regulus cut him off, his voice icy, eyes narrowing with contempt. He didn’t bother to hide the raw anger that twisted in his chest. “Let’s break it down, shall we? You guys had broken up, right? That much is true. And what did you do all summer? Led me on—made me think you actually cared. Played with me like I was your personal rebound, all the while letting me believe it was something real.”
James opened his mouth to protest, but Regulus wasn’t done. His anger boiled over, spilling into every word as he stepped closer, his expression a mixture of hurt and venom.
“And for what?” Regulus hissed. “So when school started, you could go crawling back to her and forget all about me? What part of that do you think you handled well, you stupid shit-for-brains?”
The venom in his tone was palpable, each word hitting James like a punch. Regulus’ hands were trembling, though he tried to hide it, his heart racing with the frustration of months of buried emotions finally erupting.
“I was only seventeen, Reg,” James said, his tone defensive, as if that somehow justified everything. “I didn’t know anything.”
Regulus’ eyes flashed with indignation, his jaw tightening. “So?” he snapped, his voice sharp, cutting through the air between them. “I was young too. Don’t you dare use that as an excuse.”
His fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his neck tensing as he fought to keep control. The casual way James threw his age around, as if it erased all the hurt, only made Regulus angrier. His stare was unrelenting, burning with the kind of intensity that showed he wasn’t going to let James off the hook so easily.
“You don’t get to hide behind being a kid,” Regulus continued, his voice quieter now, but no less biting. “We were both young. That doesn’t mean you weren’t old enough to know you were hurting me.”
“You’re right. Okay? I’m sorry,” James said, his voice strained, like the apology was dragging itself out of him.
Regulus scoffed, the bitter laugh catching in his throat. “Oh, now you’re sorry?” he spat, stepping closer, his eyes locking onto James with a cold, piercing intensity. “You don’t get to be sorry. Not after what you did.”
The floodgates had opened, and Regulus wasn’t about to hold back. “After you left me, I had to see you every single day at school—with her. With him. And you wouldn’t even look at me,” he continued, his voice rising as the hurt he had buried deep clawed its way out. “Then what? You graduated, packed up, and straight-up left the country. And to make it worse, you took my brother with you.”
His voice cracked, but he pushed through, the words tumbling out faster. “And what’s the worst part of all this?” he asked, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “She ended up dumping you. You picked her over me, and she dumped you.”
James let out a humorless scoff, his attempt to maintain some dignity barely masking his frustration. “That’s cruel, even for you,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Regulus tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Hm, well,” he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
He crossed his arms, leaning back just a little, as if to savor the moment. There was no sympathy in his gaze, only a sharp, vindictive satisfaction. “Funny how things turn around,” he added, the words cutting through the air like ice.
“Okay, you know what?” James snapped, his tone hardening as anger simmered beneath the surface. “You don’t get to play innocent here. I knew you were fooling around with Crouch too. You two always had something going on behind the walls.”
Regulus’ face twisted in frustration. “I did not!” he shot back, his voice rising defensively.
James raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Seriously?” he challenged, calling him out. “Isn’t that why you’re here? For him. Don’t tell me you’re not going back to his apartment after this, letting him unzip your pants like I used to.”
The accusation hung heavy between them, stinging with raw emotion. Regulus’ jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides, but his glare held steady.
“That’s completely different from what you did,” Regulus said sharply. “It’s been years, Potter. You don’t get to call me out on whether or not I’m sleeping with him.”
“Why are you?” James interrupted, his tone colder now.
Regulus blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Why am I what?”
“Sleeping with him,” James clarified, his voice laced with bitterness. “He broke your heart. He doesn’t want you.”
“And you do?” Regulus shot back, a scowl forming on his face. “You were the one who broke my heart. You. Even if he didn’t want me, Barty let me down easy. But you? You didn’t just hurt me—you practically ran when you saw an opening to get back with her.” His voice wavered with the weight of that betrayal, but his eyes remained hardened with years of pent-up resentment.
"Let me make it up to you," James blurted out, desperation creeping into his voice.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, incredulous. "Why the hell would I want that?"
“I’ve missed you,” James admitted, his voice softening. "I know you’ve missed me too."
Regulus let out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with anger. “Like hell I have!” His words cut through the air like a knife, but behind the sharpness, there was the faintest tremor—something James picked up on, despite Regulus’ best efforts to hide it.
“Don’t lie to yourself,” James pressed on, his tone both insistent and tender. Suddenly, he reached out, his hand brushing against Regulus' cheek. He traced gentle circles with his thumb, nearly sending Regulus’ heart into overdrive. “You’re far too smart for that.”
And just what in the fuck was that?
Was that fucking James Potter?
As Barty´s eyes narrowed down on what he was seeing, his eyes momentarily lost track of the road. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. His pulse raced not from the adrenaline of the competition, but from the sight of James leaning into Regulus’ space, his touch intimate and infuriating. Why the hell was James touching something that wasn’t his? Why was he even speaking to Regulus after everything he’d done? Barty's blood boiled with rage—he was going to kill him as soon as this race was over.
But then the moment vanished, and Regulus and James sped past him in a blur. Barty quickly shifted his focus back to the road, but what he saw nearly sent him off balance. He was approaching a sharp curve, his momentary distraction costing him dearly. In a frantic attempt to regain control, he yanked the wheel, narrowly avoiding the trees that loomed ominously beside him.
It was too late. The turn had come too fast, too violently, and the car spun out of his grasp. Panic surged through him as the vehicle spiraled uncontrollably, veering off the road and into the chaos of racing traffic. Other cars whizzed by, oblivious to his peril, their drivers lost in their own worlds as Barty’s heart raced with dread.
“Fuck!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. One moment of distraction, and he had plummeted from first place to dead last. There was no way he could recover from this blunder. James Potter had just cost him a fortune, and the worst of it all? Sirius Black was going to win.
But he had to try, right? If he got eliminated in this race, he wouldn’t just lose this chance—he’d be out of the entire competition. Barty wasn’t about to let that happen.
He slammed his foot down on the pedal, adrenaline coursing through him like a haze. The car ahead loomed in the distance, still a bit far but closing in. With one and a half laps left, he knew he had to claw his way back into at least third place. He would make it; he had to. The thrill of the race surged through him, fueling his determination as he navigated the track with renewed focus.
This was supposed to be the easiest race of the competition—Barty wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers that easily. Gritting his teeth, he floored the gas, pushing the car to its limits. He weaved through the field with reckless determination, slamming the wheel to the side as he edged dangerously close to other cars, almost playing a game of chicken. Only this time, it was side to side, daring them to back off first.
His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip, and with a burst of speed, he flew between two cars just as they closed in on each other. Mere inches separated him from disaster, but Barty didn’t flinch. He’d survive this race by sheer force of will, and with every car he passed, his focus sharpened, his grip unrelenting, because nothing—nothing—was going to stop him from making a comeback.
Moments later, Barty was back in the top three. Black’s car—a sleek, glossy red—was now in his sights, speeding toward the finish line. He cursed under his breath, knowing that first place was as good as gone. Still, if he was going to lose, he’d make damn sure it was by a hair's breadth.
With a surge of determination, he swerved around the yellow car in front of him, slipping into second place. His foot slammed the pedal to the floor, the engine roaring in response as he pushed the car to its absolute limits. The world outside blurred into streaks of color as he tore down the track, heart pounding, eyes locked on Black’s taillights. He wasn’t aiming for victory anymore—just the satisfaction of being right on Sirius’ heels when they crossed the finish line. If he couldn’t win, he’d make sure his loss stung less, just inches behind his rival.
And that’s exactly how it went. Sirius crossed the finish line first, but only by a split second. Barty was right on his tail, so close it almost felt like he could reach out and grab the bumper. The buzzing sound filled the air, signaling the end of the race. It was over. Despite the frustration bubbling inside him, he had at least secured second place.
Breathing heavily, Barty gripped the wheel tighter. It wasn’t the win he’d craved, but he’d been right there—close enough to taste it. For now, second place would have to do.
As Barty tore off his helmet, the deafening roar of the crowd hit him like a wave—cheers, car engines cooling down, the hum of anticipation. But all of it was just noise, fading into the background as Sirius’ voice cut through with that insufferable smugness.
"Rumor had it you never lost," Sirius jeered, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Guess the rumors were wrong."
Barty didn’t even bother turning to face him. His pulse was still thundering in his ears, not from the race, but from the sight of James fucking Potter still standing too close to Regulus. His Regulus.
"Shut the fuck up," Barty snapped, his voice harsh, brushing past Sirius as if he wasn’t even there.
The tension on the track felt thick—engines rumbling as the cars cooled down, the smell of burnt rubber in the air, and a chaotic mix of excitement and rivalry buzzing in the crowd. But none of it mattered. Barty’s entire focus was on the two figures near the edge of the track. The way James leaned into Regulus, like nothing ever happened.
Barty could feel the heat rising, his jaw tightening, hands curling into fists as he stormed toward them. Every step sent a fresh wave of fury through him, and before he knew it, his hands were on James' shoulders, shoving him back with force.
“Why the fuck are you talking to him?” Barty snarled, his voice low but seething with venom.
James stumbled, his cocky grin faltering as Barty’s anger radiated off him. The crowd’s distant cheering turned into a dull hum in Barty’s ears as his gaze locked on Regulus—waiting, watching for any sign that Regulus was okay. Because James had no business being this close.
The sharp scent of gasoline, the distant flashes of cameras from the spectators, and the pounding adrenaline in his veins reminded Barty of how much was at stake. He didn’t care about losing the race. Not when this was happening. Not when James Potter, of all people, was still standing where he didn’t belong.
"Hi, Crouch," James said casually, completely dismissing the sudden shove like it hadn’t happened.
“What do you mean, 'Hi, Crouch'?” Barty shot back, his voice laced with mockery, mimicking James with exaggerated disdain. “I asked you a question. Why are you talking to him?”
“Bee, hey—” Regulus stepped in, his voice calmer, trying to diffuse the tension.
Barty’s head snapped to Regulus so quickly it was almost startling. For a split second, anger flared in his eyes, but then, as soon as he saw Regulus’ face, it vanished. Concern flickered across Barty’s features, softening his tone as he asked, “Are you okay?”
Regulus barely nodded before James, clearly affronted, chimed in with a snide, “Why wouldn’t he be? What do you think I’m doing?”
Barty's gaze whipped back to James, the simmering rage returning with a vengeance. “All I know,” he growled, stepping closer until he was practically nose-to-nose with James, “is that you're a fucking piece of shit, and I don’t want you talking to him.” His voice was low, controlled, but every word was a spark, lighting the fuse of his temper.
James Potter didn’t get to act like he was innocent, not after everything. Not after breaking Regulus the way he did.
“Well, it’s a good thing that’s not up to you,” James said, his tone irritatingly calm. “It’s up to Reg.”
Barty's mouth dropped open, disbelief and fury flashing across his face like a storm breaking loose. His jaw clenched so tightly, it was as if the words had physically hit him. “Don’t call him Reg, you bastard,” he spat, voice sharp with indignation.
James raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “It’s his name, isn’t it?”
That casual remark, the audacity of it, was like pouring gasoline on an already raging fire. Barty’s fists curled, knuckles turning white. The crowd was still cheering around them, oblivious, but for Barty, all of that noise faded into the background. All he could see was James—the smugness, the nerve to act like none of it mattered, like he had some claim to Regulus.
Regulus stood between them, a silent witness to the brewing storm, his eyes wide, torn between the two. His name echoed in Barty's head like a lifeline, but hearing it from James felt like a personal insult, a wound reopening. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to yell or throw a punch, but he knew one thing for certain—James had crossed a line.
“You think you’re so smart, huh?” Barty sneered, stepping forward until he was practically in James’ face. “Don’t call him anything. Not Reg, not Regulus, not Arcturus, not Black. Just shut the fuck up.”
James didn’t flinch, keeping his cool as Barty’s anger radiated off him. “Is this really what you want?” he asked, sidestepping the insult, but his words were aimed straight at Regulus.
Regulus felt the tension like a weight on his chest. James’ question hit too close, like a reminder of things he'd rather not face. “Shut up, Potter,” he snapped, his voice colder than the night air, taking the question as a personal jab.
Barty’s gaze flickered to Regulus, softening for just a second before hardening again as he turned back to James. “He doesn’t need you. Not anymore,” Barty growled, eyes narrowing with something darker—possessive, primal, like he was daring James to push it further.
“You literally use him just to have someone to screw—" James started, but he didn’t get to finish.
That was all it took.
Barty’s fist collided with James’ jaw in a flash of rage. The sickening thud echoed louder than the roaring engines and the distant crowd, and in an instant, everything spiraled into chaos.
Regulus froze, caught off guard by the sudden explosion of violence. He barely registered what was happening as Barty landed another punch, raw fury driving every hit.
And James? He didn’t fight back. He just stood there, absorbing each blow like he deserved it, like this was a punishment long overdue. His body swayed with the impact, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes never left Regulus. Even as the violence raged around them, it was like he was waiting for something. Waiting for Regulus.
Regulus felt his heart pounding in his ears, but he still couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He just watched as Barty’s anger spiraled further out of control, fists flying, while James refused to defend himself.
And then Sirius appeared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.
“Get your hands off him!” he shouted, yanking Barty back with all his strength. The force of it sent Barty stumbling, but the rage still flickered in his eyes, barely restrained.
“What the fuck is going on?” Sirius demanded, his gaze darting between the bloodied James and Barty, who looked ready to launch himself at James again.
That’s when Regulus finally snapped out of his daze. He grabbed Barty’s hand, his grip firm but desperate. Without saying a word, he pulled him away, their strides quickening as they left the scene behind, leaving Sirius and James in the dust, stunned and confused.
James watched them go, the sharp ache in his jaw dulling in comparison to the emptiness gnawing at him. Sirius turned to him, eyes wide with disbelief.
“What the hell just happened?”
But Sirius didn’t know. He didn’t know about the summer James and Regulus had spent together all those years ago, a tangled mess of secrets and stolen moments. Regulus had never told him, and James? He had kept his mouth shut too. Neither of them ever wanted Sirius to know the truth.
“James?” Sirius asked, concern lacing his voice as he observed James’s demeanor.
“It’s nothing,” James replied, the words coming out sharper than he intended. “Crouch is just... mental.” He shrugged, trying to dismiss the tension that still clung to the air. But inside, he felt a storm brewing, a mix of frustration and regret that he couldn’t shake off.
******
“What on God’s earth happened to your hand?”
Barty winced at the sight of Rosier’s concerned expression, an annoyance flickering through him. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with Rosier’s questions. It was nearly four in the morning—what the hell was he even doing awake?
“Nothing,” Barty replied, brushing off the inquiry with an air of indifference. But the sting in his knuckles betrayed him, a raw reminder of the chaos he’d just escaped.
“Um, it clearly doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” Evan pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your knuckles have fresh blood on them. Who’d you kill?”
Barty wasn’t prepared for that. The casual way Evan tossed the question around felt oddly unsettling, as if the idea of Barty taking a life with his bare hands were just a lighthearted joke.
“What’s it to you?” Barty shot back, irritation lacing his tone.
“Nothing, really,” Evan shrugged, unfazed. “I was just about to go for a walk.”
“At four in the morning?” Barty questioned, his lips pressing into a flat line, skepticism etched across his face.
“I haven’t adjusted to London yet,” Evan replied, his voice steady. “Can’t sleep, so... walking helps.”
“Hm,” Barty mused, a sly smirk creeping onto his lips. “Well, you know what helps a person sleep?”
“What?” Evan asked, a hint of curiosity breaking through his casual demeanor.
“Sex.”
Barty couldn’t resist the temptation to tease. After the chaotic night he’d just endured, his mind was teetering on the edge of madness. After leaving the race, he’d driven Regulus home, but not before a heated argument had erupted. Barty had confronted him about why the hell he was even speaking with Potter, and now, frustration simmered beneath his skin like a barely contained storm.
The idea of messing with Rosier’s head seemed increasingly appealing. Maybe it was just what he needed to blow off steam and find some semblance of relaxation in the chaos of his thoughts.
Evan’s face turned as red as a tomato, and Barty couldn’t help but take a twisted delight in it.
“You’re easy to fluster,” he remarked, a sly grin curling his lips.
“Yeah, well,” Evan replied, attempting to defend his honor, “I just wasn’t expecting that.”
“People are never what you expect,” Barty shot back, a flicker of mischief dancing in his eyes.
“I thought you said people were predictable,” Evan countered, arching an eyebrow.
“You remember,” Barty said, an almost proud note slipping into his voice. “So you did pay attention to what I was saying.”
“How could I not when you kept talking over me?” Evan retorted, feigning exasperation but unable to hide the trace of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“I just didn’t want to hear you talk,” Barty spat, irritation simmering just below the surface. He turned to face his door, digging into his pocket for his key, but—of course—he came up empty. He had given it to Regulus to hold onto before the race, and in the chaos of the fight, he’d forgotten to ask for it back. Now he was locked out of his apartment. Fantastic.
“Ah, fuck!” he exclaimed, frustration bubbling over.
Evan jumped at the outburst. “What?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
Barty let out a resigned sigh. “I left my key behind,” he admitted. “Can’t get in.”
“Don’t you have a spare?” Evan asked, a hint of hope in his tone.
“Oh, sure!” Barty replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. “That’s exactly why I’m still standing here instead of lounging on my couch.”
He turned back around, planting his back against the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at Rosier, the irritation radiating off him like heat from pavement on a summer day.
Evan let out an amused scoff. “Look,” he began, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Not that I care or anything, and this won’t mean shit because I think you’re a douchebag, but… you can take my couch if you want.”
He surprised himself with the offer, especially given how hostile Barty had been toward him. Maybe it was the sight of those bloody knuckles, or the way Barty’s rage seemed to mask something deeper—a flicker of hurt lingering behind his gray eyes that Evan couldn’t quite ignore.
Barty hesitated, taking his time to respond. But what were his options, really? Regulus would be fast asleep by now, and waking him would be the last thing he wanted to do. The boy deserved his rest. So, it was either accept Rosier’s offer or camp out in the corridor like a stray dog.
“Fine,” he mumbled, the word slipping out with a reluctant sigh.
So, that’s how Barty found himself spending the night—or what was left of it, anyway—sprawled across Rosier’s couch. Four solid hours of sleep had come easily enough, but then the nightmares set in.
They always did whenever Regulus wasn’t beside him.
In the dream, he was small again, back to six years old. The house loomed around him, cold and swallowed by shadows. He reached for the light switch, desperate for a sliver of clarity, but it refused to give. Flick after flick, the darkness pressed in closer, swallowing up the ends of the hallway, stretching deeper into the house. He was stranded at the far end, feet frozen by the door, not daring to venture further. As if standing there could shield him from whatever lurked beyond, as if not moving could keep the horrors at bay. If only it were that simple.
A sudden noise shattered the silence—a harsh, rhythmic thump from the kitchen, as if something heavy were slamming against the concrete floor. Barty jolted, heart hammering as the sound echoed through the empty house. It came again, relentless and foreboding, each thud driving a cold spike of fear deeper into him. He wanted to stay rooted by the door, let the darkness swallow up whatever lay ahead, but curiosity clawed at him, insistent and unrelenting.
Despite his mind's pleas to run, his feet seemed to move on their own, guiding him forward, step by unwilling step. He walked as if in a trance, every instinct screaming at him to turn back, but it was no use. The path was set, his body on autopilot, edging him closer to the unknown.
In one hand, he clung tightly to his teddy bear, an old, ragged thing he’d had since he was two. Its fur was matted, one eye missing, the stuffing all but gone in places, but he didn’t care. That bear, named Barney—a name he’d thought clever at three because it rhymed with his own—was his only anchor. It was a sad, worn-out toy, yet holding it made him feel safer, even now, with shadows pressing in and every instinct telling him to hide.
But Barty had always acted on impulse rather than caution; thinking things through wasn’t in his nature. Each hesitant step brought him closer to the kitchen, and with it, the thundering noise grew sharper, more menacing, vibrating through the floor beneath his bare feet. He wanted to stop, to turn around and bury himself under his blankets, but something kept pulling him forward. The closer he got, the heavier the silence became between each deafening thud, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting.
There was a light, a small dim light coming from the kitchen, under the closer door and for some reason that made Barty feel a flicker of relief. It gave him a sense of safety but he should have known better. He used all his strength to push the giant door and made his way into it.
A man stood by the counter, his back turned, his broad shoulders looming like dark cliffs in the dim light. In his hand gleamed a massive knife, each brutal slice cutting into a slab of raw meat sprawled across the countertop. Blood pooled beneath it, smearing the cutting board in thick, glistening streaks that dripped onto the floor. Barty’s stomach twisted, his grip tightening around Barney, the once comforting toy now feeling small and useless in his clammy hands. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, and he felt rooted to the spot.
“Father?” he whispered, the word barely escaping his lips, trembling with fear.
The man froze mid-slice, the blade hovering for an agonizing moment before he lowered it with a slow, deliberate motion. Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Barty’s heart pounded as the man turned, his face twisted with a cold disdain. Dark, narrowed eyes took in Barty’s small, shaking figure, lingering just a second too long. Barty felt a chill crawl up his spine, his grip on Barney tightening as if the worn toy could shield him from the contempt etched into his father’s expression.
"Bartemius," his father said, voice cold and clipped. "Haven’t I told you it’s rude to interrupt me when I’m in the kitchen?”
Barty swallowed hard at the sound of that name—Bartemius. It was a name he despised, burdened with his father’s legacy. What kind of man named his son after himself? It felt like a cruel branding, a constant reminder that he was less of a person and more of an afterthought. If his father couldn’t even spare a moment to give him a name of his own, why would he spare even a second of his life to show Barty he mattered? The resentment coiled in his chest, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his knuckles white against the frayed fabric of Barney.
"I heard a noise," Barty admitted, his voice barely a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor.
But before he could brace himself, a rough hand gripped his chin, fingers pressing painfully into his cheeks, forcing his gaze upward. His father’s face loomed close, sharp features shadowed under the kitchen’s dim light. "Look at me when you're speaking," he demanded, voice low but unforgiving.
In an instant, the fear he’d tried to swallow down flared up. "I’m sorry," Barty blurted, the words tumbling out unbidden, desperate, his small voice betraying the tremble he couldn’t hide.
“You´re always sorry,” his father spat out. “And yet, you still fuck it up. You always do.”
Before Barty could react, his father’s hand darted out, snatching Barney from his grasp.
"And what’s this?" His father held the worn teddy bear high, inspecting it with a look of disgust, fingers pinching the frayed fabric as though it were diseased.
“No—Barney!” Barty called, his face falling with a mix of dread and desperation.
His father scoffed, shaking his head. "For God’s sake, Bartemius," he muttered coldly. "You’re six years old. This filthy rag should’ve been tossed ages ago."
"But… it’s Barney," Barty protested, his voice wavering with the fragile sadness only a six-year-old could know.
"Barney’s gotta go," his father replied flatly, already turning away, dismissing Barty’s plea as if it were nothing. "In fact, he’s going right now."
"What?" Panic bubbled up in Barty's chest. "No—give him back!" he cried, reaching out desperately.
But his father was too tall, and Barney was well beyond his grasp. With a rough shove, his father pushed him aside. "Let go," he commanded.
Barty felt helpless, a sense of defeat washing over him. "Please, Father," he pleaded, his voice cracking as tears threatened to spill. "I’ll be good, I swear!"
“Silence!” his father spat, venom dripping from his words. “Don’t whine. Be a man.”
Those words—"be a man"—struck Barty harder than any blow could. He was only six, wasn’t he? He wasn’t meant to be a man; he was meant to be a child. But that wasn't what his father conveyed. It felt like a label, branding him as weak, as if his very existence was a disappointment.
And maybe, under different circumstances, Barty would’ve swallowed his pride, wiped away the tears, and braced himself against the harshness. But this wasn’t just any fight; this was Barney, his beloved teddy bear, and he couldn’t endure the pain of losing him.
“Father, please—” he tried to plead, his voice trembling.
But it was futile. In an instant, the teddy bear lay sprawled across the counter, soaked in blood, and within a blink, the knife came down with a sickening thud, severing Barney’s head.
Tears streamed down Barty’s face in a torrent.
“What did you do?!” he cried, his vision blurring. “Barney—”
“Shut up already!” his father barked, dismissing his anguish. “Get over it. It’s done.”
“Barney!” he wailed, grief spilling over as he wept uncontrollably.
“Wake up!” his father shouted, his voice a thunderous echo.
But Barty couldn’t hear him. He kept calling out for Barney, as if that desperate cry could somehow mend the gaping wound left behind.
“Barty, wake up!”
With a start, he jolted awake, tears still glistening in his eyes. Confusion gripped him as something pressed him back down, hands firmly gripping his shoulders.
“Hey, hey,” a calm and soothing voice said. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
What?
His mind raced, disoriented and unable to make sense of his surroundings. All he knew was that his body was drenched in sweat, and a dull ache pulsed in his head.
“Barney—” he whispered, the name barely escaping his lips.
“Who 's Barney?”
As his eyes finally focused, his heart began to settle, and the first thing he saw was a pair of crystal-blue eyes gazing down at him, filled with concern.
Fuck. It was Rosier.
“What are you—” Barty began, but Evan cut him off.
“Are you alright?” he asked, concern lacing his voice. “You were having a nightmare,” he added, his tone gentle.
“Oh,” was all Barty could manage as the reality of the situation sank in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Evan shook his head, dismissing the apology. “It’s fine,” he said. “You just…had me worried, that’s all. You were screaming and kept calling out for—”
“Barney.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Evan said, taken aback. “Who’s Barney?”
Barty sighed, shifting under Evan’s grip, which still held his shoulders for some inexplicable reason. Amid the racing heart and tormenting nightmare, he hadn’t even registered how close they were. Their faces were mere inches apart, Evan leaning in as if any sudden movement might disrupt Barty further.
He couldn’t linger there under Evan’s hold; it was too…distracting. Barty found himself noticing details he hadn’t before: the delicate lines within Evan’s irises, the faint scar on his chin—a wound that looked like it might have come from a skateboard accident—and the nearly imperceptible freckles that dotted his cheeks. Each feature drew Barty’s attention, pulling him further away from the remnants of his nightmare and into an unsettling intimacy.
He hadn't intended to stare, yet somehow, he still had.
But he couldn't remain there. The air between them felt suffocating, so he slowly eased himself up from the couch, shifting his position to sit upright and creating space for Evan to do the same.
Evan couldn't help but notice how Barty was taking his time to respond. He seemed calmer than usual—less of a hurricane and more…sad. There was a depth of emotion behind his eyes, a hint of hurt that Evan couldn't quite pinpoint, yet it was unmistakable. It was written all over Barty's face, a subtle ache that tugged at Evan's curiosity.
“You don’t have to tell me—” Evan started to say, noticing the seconds slipping by without a response. To his surprise, Barty interrupted him.
“He was my teddy bear,” Barty admitted, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
He didn’t understand why he was revealing such a personal detail to someone he barely knew—someone he’d rather keep at arm's length. He had better things to do than sit here and dwell on his past. Yet, a part of him recognized that if it hadn't been for Evan, he would be alone in the corridor, curled up against the cold floor, lost in his own thoughts instead.
“Your teddy bear?” Evan asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.
Barty shot him a cutting look. “Don’t judge,” he replied, irritation creeping into his tone.
“I wasn’t,” Evan quickly clarified, raising his hands in a gesture of resignation.
Barty was about to go on, the words poised on the tip of his tongue, when a text notification flashed on his phone. It was Regulus, telling him that he had fallen asleep and mentioning that he had his key without even realizing it. And apologizing for last night.
For some reason, that simple message stirred a wave of agitation within Barty. He was sorry?
Barty knew he had no right to be upset with Regulus for talking to Potter. Regulus could do whatever he wanted; it was just that it stung. Even if Regulus had only been speaking to Potter to curse him out, the reality still hurt. It meant Regulus had wasted time on someone else, and it meant Potter still had the power to string him along, even after everything that had happened.
Before Regulus ever fell—truly fell—for Barty, he had fallen for James Potter. It all started the summer they turned sixteen. Regulus confided in Barty about James, and he mentioned how they were seeing each other and that he genuinely liked him.
Barty didn't mind… that much. Since they were fourteen, the relationship between him and Regulus had been nothing serious, just a casual arrangement. So, he assumed Regulus's fling with Potter would be the same. But when things ended and James returned to Evans, Regulus was left utterly crushed.
It shook Barty to his core. Regulus was his best friend, and no one was allowed to treat him that way.
Things only went downhill after that summer. It took Regulus over a year to get over Potter, but slowly, Barty began to bring him back to life. By eighteen, their casual encounters resumed—make-out sessions in the back of the music room, spontaneous escapades to the London Bridge at three in the morning, sharing cigarettes on rooftops beneath the stars. Regulus was his again.
But it was all just fun. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
Then, at nineteen, Regulus dropped a bombshell: he loved Barty. And in that moment, Barty panicked. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, suffocating him with fear and uncertainty. What if this wasn't just a game anymore? What if everything was about to change?
He didn’t feel the same way. Barty loved Regulus, but only as a best friend. He had never been good with feelings, unable to manage them in a way that made sense. He was so disconnected from his emotions that, despite Regulus meaning the world to him, he simply couldn’t bring himself to love him the way Regulus wanted.
So, he broke Regulus’s heart—not out of malice, but because it felt like the only option. He made sure to do it the right way, explaining himself carefully. He recounted all the things he adored about Regulus: how the sun caught his eyes, bringing them alive with the warmth of a thousand lights; the sound of his laughter when it was just the two of them, a private melody shared in the quiet; the way his fingers danced gracefully across the piano keys, as if they were part of a beautiful symphony.
But he didn’t stop there. He also laid bare the things that haunted him, even though Regulus already understood; no one knew Barty like Regulus did. He confessed how he’d only end up hurting him, that he didn’t know how to handle something as precious as Regulus. Sometimes he felt like he was floating through life, never fully present in the moment. He wasn’t good for Regulus, and he refused to let him settle for less than he deserved.
It was tough at first. Regulus cried; Barty cried. But after one sleepless night, things began to settle. Regulus accepted it, reassuring Barty that it was alright, that he wasn’t angry. He told Barty that if he ever found it in his heart to fall in love, he hoped it would be him.
And the funny thing was, Barty did fall for him. Just one year later, when they were twenty, Regulus had moved on. Their friendship never faded, and the late-night encounters persisted, but somewhere along the way, Regulus seemed to stop wanting more. At least, that’s what Barty thought. Regulus had grown comfortable with the notion that they could only be best friends who occasionally hooked up, and he was okay with it. That made Barty’s feelings all the more complicated.
How could he confess his love just a year after telling Regulus they couldn’t be together? Barty couldn’t do that to him. The way they were felt good; they had each other, and sure, they both mingled with other people, but none of that mattered. At the end of the day, they always found their way back to one another. It worked.
So why did Barty have to go and fall in love? He never acted on it. Nothing changed; Regulus still deserved more than he could ever be. So he kept quiet, swallowing his feelings and forcing them to fade into the background. Most of the time, it was manageable. But some days, he’d catch a glimpse of Regulus, and the air would be stolen from his lungs. Even now. Even when a whole year had passed since they were twenty and were now twenty-one.
Perhaps that’s why he didn’t want Potter talking to Regulus—or vice versa. Because if there was one person who could take Regulus away from Barty, it was James Potter.
“Barty?” Evan called, pulling him from his thoughts.
“I have to go,” Barty said suddenly, springing up from the couch and shoving his phone into his pocket.
“Wait—” Evan tried to protest, but Barty was already out the door, closing it behind him with a definitive click, building walls around their brief encounter.