Chapter Text
Chapter 12 - The Three-body Problem
1992
A residence of three. Two break in. Three end up dead. Three bodies found. One escaped. What of the remaining one?
It was a riddle for Draco until it wasn’t. That’s the curse of eyes that see beyond what they should. It gives him such a headache sometimes; to see the problems and not be able to solve them until precisely the right time. The three-body problem. This is something that he has to fix, he has to be the one who pulls the strings into their right order. He dreams the sequences, the scenes laid out perfectly under his fingers, years and decades from now, beyond his years of adolescence. There is a way to things that are meant to happen.
Harry Potter will thank him one day, and so will his cousin.
Tale as old as time; when death isn’t as fixed as one thinks it to be.
But to be honest, he could do without the chicken blood.
...
This is not his ideal idea for a date, okay? Barty admits it's been a good few years—a decade—since he's been in the dating scene. It's a Friday and he didn't have any classes. The weekends are technically his time off, Severus' turn to spy on the kiddo. He and Severus don't talk much outside the routine they've built around each other, but Regulus trusts the guy for some reason.
“He won't double cross us,” he'd said cryptically, “We can trust his judgement.”
Barty won't question Reggie's instincts. The guy is only an elaborate step or two from being a cold calculated mercenary. He's never been wrong before. He's made plenty of serious mistakes regarding his own health, sure. But he's never been wrong strategically.
The castle is swarming with Aurors and professors, Severus is supposed to be there, and Barty has been itching to get out of the school. Christmas break will be in a bit and he'll have to go deeper undercover, he might not get the chance to see his lovers as often. He takes Friday off. He informs Sirius and Remus that he will be taking Friday and the weekend off, and promptly Sirius suggests an outing.
He hasn't been wined and dined and f*cked in that order in a very long time. Perhaps never.
Evan and Regulus weren't exactly…well they were with Barty at a very strange time in his life. Sometimes—every day—Barty looks back in wonder. He's alive. He's free as a bird. And he is on a f*cking date.
It qualifies as a date. He thinks? Black has flowers. They're not for Barty, but he has the flowers. Barty is wearing Lupin's worn wool jacket, because December is so f*cking cold and because Remus was a champ and gave the coat to him with a nice goodbye kiss without Barty having to bitch about it. Barty has found that full moons don't exactly agree with lover number one, but it doesn't make Remus any less of a gentleman. He's sweet.
So flowers. The obligatory handing over of the coat because he's freezing his arse off, and the weather's nice out. A bit windy, and cold as balls, but no brats around, so Barty takes it. It's so exhausting, being around children all the time. He doesn't complain much about the job because he's good at it, but it can get overwhelming quickly. Graveyards are as nice a place as any other. They're like parks …with occupants. It's fine for a date.
He even gets to wear his own face. It's nice. He's had to shave a lot lately, so the usual weight of his beard isn't there anymore, but Barty takes it. He has no idea how Reggie did this nonstop for two years.
“We never brought him here,” Sirius says a bit awkwardly, scratching at his beard as they both stare down at the headstone with a grimace. It seems like lover number two is questioning why he suggested this himself.
Barty crams his hands further into the coat’s pockets and frowns when he touches crushed-up chocolate wrappers. He withdraws a handful of them and Sirius snorts, “Potter's idea?” Barty asks, cramming the chocolate wrappers, fondly back in the pockets. He should remember to visit Honeydukes before Remus transforms this month. The man loves his chocolate almost as much as he loves breathing.
Date at a graveyard. It's fine. It's fun, even. Barty asked, to be honest. Well, he didn't exactly ask. But it was mentioned during or after sex a while back, and Barty was curious okay?
“Reggie never asked,” Sirius groans as he kneels by the dry grass, his knees loudly clicking as he pushes the fresh flowers aside for his own small bundle of daisies, “He's…his recovery has been arduous. We didn't want any setbacks.”
Barty gets that. They all know Regulus. He's impossible. Overthinking everything because he perceives everything, ruminating and making disasters in his head all the time because he's grown up expecting the worst. Barty cannot even imagine what it would do to him, to see an empty grave with his name on it.
“It's nice,” he clears his throat, “Loved. I wish I could've gotten one for Evan too,” and then because he cannot contain the question any longer, he asks, “What's with the fresh flowers?”
Sirius looks up at him with a wince, “Uh, James visits sometimes?” He tries to stand, his bones cracking and creaking as he does, “Actually too often recently.”
Barty raises an eyebrow at his partner, “He visits his living husband’s grave?”
“Yup. He told me once…it's repentance,” Sirius does a gesture between a shrug and shudder, “Whatever that means." He throws him a side-eyed glance, “It’s weird, I know.”
More like…well. Barty wouldn't call it weird, but oddly Gryffindor-ish. He wonders if Evan would have done that for him, had the roles been reversed. Would he have visited his grave regularly with fresh flowers? Were he dead or otherwise?
Probably would've called Barty an emotionally neglected moron. He used to tease Barty about it sometimes;
“Gotta mother and father you myself, you neglected kitten.”
Bless him, he tried. He had his own problems but he always tried. He smoked, he drank, and he was more depressed than a burnt tree log. He tried for Barty before he died. He wasn't necessarily a caretaker. He wasn't…well. He isn't. Barty didn’t try as hard to know him. Probably why he never realised that Evan was gone and replaced. That’s a f*cked up thought.
He looks down at the flowers and presses his hands against his clothed skin through his coat pockets; it's been a long time since he was taken care of. It's making him soft and weepy. When he was with Evan and Reggie, he knew how to behave; he was a sharp jagged piece of glass like them, and he could be snarky, sarcastic, and mean. When he was alone, which he had been all these years, he knew how to behave; he would brood, revisit every single memory, beat a tree with an axe in his stolen property a bunch until he didn't feel like killing anyone anymore.
But now that he's with…Sirius and Remus, he has no idea how to behave. They're not like Evan, they don't sink into depressive episodes, and they're not replaced by an imposter whom Barty ended up caring for, for two years. They don't provoke him, they banter, but even the banter is different. They're not whole, but they sure as hell look it.
Like a sunny afternoon. A blue sky. Their slates are clean, the smiles on their faces real. Even having sex with them feels real.
“I'm not one to talk,” Barty finally mutters, returning Sirius' glance.
Sirius’ eyebrows are raised all the way to his hairline, “What?”
“Nothing!” Barty shrugs, ashamed of his thoughts, “I mean…you Gryffindors. So damn sentimental.”
He huffs and sniffs, and would absolutely blame it on the cold weather if the canine shifter teases him about it.
Sirius' arm snakes around him and the man wiggles his brows, “What? You mean you weren't charmed by my sensitivity?”
Haughty, Barty rolls his eyes. Pretending to push the man away, but in reality, all he wants to do is plaster himself all over him. A bit embarrassing, that. He's not a touch-starved idiot like Reggie who needs to be tied down into domestic bliss. He's not Evan Rosier who so desperately needed someone to love. Barty is content with loneliness, he's content with late nights by the fireplace and his whiskey. He's content attacking tree logs with an axe to work his way through grief and injustice and his sh*tty father.
But it's nice. Sirius and Remus are nice folks. He doesn't need them to feel complete, but he's glad that they're there.
“Sensitive, huh?” He burrows against Sirius' side, he likes that they're all the same height. Evan was always a head taller, and Reggie was always a bit too short.
The man hums, his hand sneaking into Remus' coat pocket to hold Barty's hand, “We can have an encore of this morning,” he mutters.
Now, that sounds tempting.
“Well, when you put it like that—” both their gazes drop down on the headstone guiltily and Barty straightens back up, remembering the spectacle a few months ago with a flush, “Nevermind, it's weird talking dirty over Reggie's grave.”
They have not discussed that day even once, and this avoidance went to such lengths that Barty honestly thinks Reggie has blocked the whole thing out. He cannot imagine. Well, he can. Still.
“Empty grave, but yeah.”
“Has your Mum got one?” Barty asks after a beat to change the topic, “I mean, not that she was a saint but—”
Sirius' face darkens, “I'm aware there's a slab of stone in her name in the family crypt.”
Just as well. If she had an actual physical grave, Barty would've been honoured to piss on it continually until the stone eroded away. He knew what she'd done to Reggie, but now that he's with Sirius, more than ever, he's been exposed to what she's done to Sirius. Remus and him have talked about it briefly; about how sometimes it's fine to let Sirius indulge in his childish fantasies because his actual childhood was an endless nightmare. About how even in the bedroom, they cannot be aggressive or intimidating in the least, and about how Sirius would sometimes lash out for no apparent reason because he's never been able to regulate his emotions as a kid.
“He used to be…a wreck,” Remus told him over a cuppa. They were alone that night, Barty fresh from Hogwarts and Sirius busy in Sterling, “She did all that. He’s so bright and she dimmed his light for years.”
Barty knew. He's seen the bitch himself a few times, that night he’d tucked Reggie in bed after drinking with the dark Lord for the first time, she was screaming in her damn room. He remembers marching through the corridor, rapping on her closed door with his fist. He remembers shouting, “Shut up, you bloody Hag!”
Don't you know your son is being groomed!? He wanted to scream at her, throttle her, Don't you know I just tucked him in bed when he wanted to die? Don't you know he's about to be raped?
He remembers how eerily silent she suddenly became. It reminded him of his father. His father would go silent too, after his outbursts, he would always act like Barty was unstable, in the wrong, in need of discipline, on different plains of existence. He would look at him with those beady eyes and twitching moustache. Merlin, how Barty hated that man's face.
“Dad?”
Sirius sputters, his round grey eyes swivelling over to him, “What do you mean, Dad? Like a kink thing? Did you just call me Daddy—”
“Your father,” Barty cuts in with a flush, trying to distract himself from the inverted muskrat, “Did he get any?”
“Why would he?”
Barty blinks at the man, “What do you mean, why would he?” He exclaims, “He died too, didn't he? Why wouldn't there be anything in his name in the family Crypt?”
Sirius shrugs and then skirts his gaze away from Barty's eyes. He looks weirdly ashamed of not knowing the answer, “He never…Barty we never …I mean, we only found three bodies at the house. He wasn't there. I just always assumed he died either before or after. He wasn't there with Maman,” defensively, he crosses his arms, “I didn't particularly care.”
“No. He was always there,” Barty feels something extremely cold running down his spine, “He never exited the house. I know for a fact. He used to spy on me getting Reggie home after …well after the Dark Lord roughed him up a few times.”
Beady eyes, an upturned nose, a door closed a bit too loudly with force. Reggie sagged down in his arms, only half lucid and trembling with the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. He was there. He was always there, locked up in that study of his. Regulus talked about it sometimes, before he lost his voice. He used to tell Barty how his father would avoid him for weeks on, locked up in that office, not even emerging to piss. Barty never bothered asking what he was doing in there.
“Well, he wasn't there then,” Sirius kicks a pebble, “Three bodies in the rubble. Nothing else.”
Three bodies? Barty shakes his head, doing the math quickly. One would be the Mother. One Yaxley. One Reggie—Evan. Regulus ran, and…what of the Father?
Sirius looks at him apprehensively as the silence drags on. Barty thinks about the contorted bodies, gutted and left for dead. Thinks of a tall figure, with a family crest on his ring, hunting young boys with a certain appearance. Too smart to be Pettigrew. Too subtle to be Lucius Malfoy, and yet…sane enough to have a pattern and evade arrest.
Sirius’ eyes narrow, “Hey, what happened—”
He grabs Sirius by the arms, “Are you sure?”
Sirius looks confused, “Well the bodies couldn't be identified. Only three sets of dental evidence,” he swallows, “Unless Maman literally didn't have a single tooth in her bloody mouth by then.”
He could still be dead, Barty thinks. Surely he's being stupid. Orion Black would be… over sixty-something by now. He was sickly even then a decade ago. He wouldn't be able to survive on his own, orchestrate a series of murders all across Europe and still run around to aid the Dark Lord. He wouldn't… he wouldn't?
“Who puts the names in the crypt?” Barty asks, the terror bleeding into his voice jolts Sirius, “Like…does it happen magically when a family member dies or…”
“No,” Sirius says slowly, his face pinched, “My Aunt used to be in charge of that sh*t, she died like last year too. I don't know, Barty. I haven't visited there in years. What are you on about?”
His own son, Barty shakes his head. He wouldn't do that to his own son. Surely. Even if he's alive, somehow. Even if he's killed all these people somehow, gone under the radar, he wouldn't… not to his own son. But Barty has a wretched Father himself. His own father would've and—
“Sirius,” Barty feels bile rising up his throat, “Where the f*ck is your Father?”
...
When Daddy came and picked him up from his bed that morning, Harry was only groggily awake. There was a bit of shifting but Harry was used to this ritual. Daddy always said that when he wasn't around, Harry was the house's dragon and had to keep an eye on Papa, also Harry and Papa both loved sleeping in, Daddy always woke up sooooo early.
Daddy kissed him on the head, leaving him on his and Papa's bed before he left for work, and Harry rolled in the covers, closed his eyes for a bit, and wiggled his toes on the mattress. Papa looked really really asleep still; his hair was sticking up funny, and there was drool—Harry giggled into his hands—gathering on his pillow.
The sun was shining through the curtains, and Papa was still asleep, his back to the sun. Harry was hungry, he decided. He wanted breakfast. But he wasn't supposed to be in the kitchen without Papa.
Harry sat up on the bed, slowly crawling closer to Papa, he poked the young man on the forehead and leaned down really close to pull at Papa's closed eyelids.
“Good morning, Papa,” he muttered, and Papa groaned, gently batting Harry's hand away from his eyes.
“Hush,” Papa croaked and Harry giggled again—Papa was so funny all the time—“Not morning. Sleep, baby.”
He hooked an arm around Harry without opening his eyes and pulled Harry next to him like a little birdie. Harry hummed and hugged Papa back; he loved cuddling a lot.
“Papa,” he muttered again, poking Papa on the chin with his nose, “Wake up.”
“No,” Papa groaned.
“But the sun’s ooout.”
“The sun's lying. Come on,” he pulled Harry more tightly against him, “cuddle with Papa.”
Harry obediently closed his eyes for a little bit and huddled further against Papa—he was so cold all the time and it was nice to cuddle him in the summer because he wasn't on fire like Daddy—and he counted to fifty once, counted the ticking of the clock for…for fifty times too and then he nudged Papa again.
“What ‘da think Daddy made for breakfast today?” he whispered.
Papa shifted, humming, “Hmm…Porridge?”
Harry twisted his mouth and whined, “Noo, I want pancakes, Papa.”
Papa's hand clumsily patted his head, his eyes still mostly closed, “We can have pancakes.”
Harry worried his lips a little and squirmed in place until he was more comfortable. If Papa wanted to sleep in, then Harry could too, then he could use that later to force Papa to take them to the Lake park near the village today. That's how bargaining worked, Papa had taught him. Daddy called it blackmail, but Papa was adamant that it was just about being smart.
“Tell me a story,” Harry bargained with Papa, “I'll sleep.”
Papa chuckled, blinking his eyes at Harry with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Hmm, once upon a time,” he drawled, “there was a little boy who wanted pancakes for breakfast—”
“No, silly!” Harry protested, “Not my story!”
Papa dragged him up from his side and draped Harry over his chest with a grunt, “Okay, you demon,” he tickled Harry's feet, “Once upon a time, there was a sleepy Papa, who had a petit garçon and the brat liked pancakes—”
“Papa! So mean!”
“Hushhhh,” Papa hissed, “Inside voice, Harry,” he then smirked at Harry and sat up, grabbing Harry by his ankles, “Come on, monkey. Let's check on those hypothetical pancakes.”
Harry shrieked in delight as Papa shuffled off the bed and hoisted Harry upside down, one arm securely around Harry's middle as the boy's feet hovered close to his face, “You're getting too big for this,” Papa complained, “Don't kick me in the jaw.”
“What's hippoo—”
“Hypothetical,” Papa sounded like he was rolling his eyes as he padded out of the room, “means Papa lost his beauty sleep over pancakes that may or may not be. Come on. Upsy-daisy now,”
Harry feels as though his whole life is going upsy-daisy now. It’s such a weird feeling because he can reliably say that he’s never felt like this before. He feels a great something inside his chest, burning and making it really difficult to breathe.
Hermione tells him that the feeling is not really normal, but not surprising. She asked whether either of Harry’s parents was ever like this, and Harry had to tell her that yes, Papa had this ball of fire in his chest too. All the time. It was such a nasty thing. Hermione urges him to tell Papa. Harry does not.
He cannot go to sleep, when he does, he dreams about weird things…about blood running on the floors and the petrified bodies of his friends. He dreams about being hungry for blood and he wakes up drenched in sweat, so restless within his skin that the only thing he can do is walk the castle at night. Ron tells him that he makes noises in his sleep and it’s freaking Neville out.
He wants to tell someone, anyone. He wants to tell Sirius; surely his Godfather would get it. He won’t judge Harry and he can keep a secret. But he doesn’t want to be seen with Sirius a lot. Ever since the…incident, with the snake…people have been really scrutinising him. Everything he does is labelled, he is always pointed at with a finger or two, and pairs of eyes follow him and whisper viciously. Sympathetic faces are difficult to come by. He has Ron and Hermione, of course. They visit the library a lot, to find out more about the chamber.
A girl’s been killed. The last time the chamber was opened. Harry is terrified of himself. Because…because what if he is the heir? What if he ends up killing someone for real? First, there was the cat, and then Justin, and the boy was so nice to him too. When Papa’s Mandrakes woke him up, Justin told them that he couldn’t remember, but he told Professor McGonagall that Harry’s got something to do with it.
“Baseless bullsh*t,” Sirius tells him, trying to be comforting, “That kid Justin needs another wack in the head to set him right.”
But the others didn’t think so. The others agreed with Justin. The others pointed at him and whispered mean things about him. Dad’s Aurors would hold him in the halls, and ask him about how his dad and papa were doing, and the others would whisper about that too. In the classes, they would throw things at Harry when the professor wasn’t looking. At meal times, someone had snagged his bookbag, and Harry found it later covered to the brim with mashed potatoes. At the Quidditch pitch, there was always some mean doodle stuck on his locker; Harry with the face of a snake, Harry naked and ghoulish, Harry with a clearly stinky mess on the paper. Always a bunch boo-ing at him when he passed through the corridors, wincing, turning their faces.
Harry didn’t retaliate. Truth be told, he’s too afraid of himself to be mean and defensive. He knows that he has magic, and he knows that his magic can be powerful too. He is not an idiot, he remembers his bursts of accidental magic in childhood, and he knows he hurt Papa really badly that one time. He knows that just last year, he burnt his possessed Professor to death with his bare hands. He knows that people talk about that too; they don’t know Harry’s killed the guy, but they know he disappeared because of Harry.
He cries about it but it doesn’t help. He wants to write to Papa more because he knows the man is worried, but he cannot write all he wants to say because that’ll just worry him more. He wants Papa to come visit him, but knows that Dad and Papa aren’t supposed to be at the castle at all. A man’s died. One of Dad’s men. And there are rumours about that too. Some of the students…they think Harry did it.
When the article in the Daily Prophet came out, Third-year Hufflepuff, Tracy Davis, read it loudly whilst pointedly staring at Harry, loudly enough to be heard, but not loud enough for the staff table to get a sense of what was going on.
“Don’t mind it,” Ron would tell him, “They’re morons. When we prove Malfoy is the one behind this, it’ll all blow over.”
Ron and Hermione both think that Malfoy could be the one behind this. Harry is not sure whether he agrees with them. After the Quidditch pitch incident, where Malfoy called Hermione a ‘mudblood’, their suspicions were reinforced with vehemence. The boy’s awful; he outed Harry as a Parselmouth to the whole school, been bullying him left and right with the others for two years now, and he’s called Harry more names than Harry could count or remember. But even still…there’s something weird to these too. Malfoy doesn’t bully him like he wants to bully him. He does it like he has to. Like he’s on some schedule. There’s never a single expression of outward hate on his face, never any malicious tone. He sounds rehearsed if anything.
For some reason, the only person who can see that, is Harry. Ron gets so damn mad at Malfoy for his loitering, going so far as to curse Malfoy and breaking his wand in the process, and Hermione isn’t that fond of the guy either. They think he’s behind this. He has the profile. He hates them and he has cause. He is also in Slytherin. Harry has not told them about this yet, but Dobby was technically Malfoy’s elf.
All evidence points to the guy.
But there’s also the voice in Harry’s head. He doesn’t know where it is coming from. He doesn’t know to whom it belongs.
“Blood,” it calls for, “Get me their blood. Run them dry. Kill.”
This is what he is scared of. He didn’t used to hear voices in his head before, but now he dreams about it, and hears it at night. When he stumbled upon Justin, he heard it too, and when he found Mrs Norris, it was only because he was following the voice. He’s told no one about the voice.
He should’ve told Papa or Dad. They would have fixed it. He tries to think of them when the voice gets too loud. But what can they do? Pull Harry from school like Dobby wanted? Take him to some hospital? Ask him to hide this?
“We’ll prove it’s Draco,” Hermione repeats, rubbing Harry’s back at dinner, “Truth will out, in the end.”
That’s what Harry is scared of too.
That truth will out.
...
An infinity lies behind the concept of ‘nothing’.
When James says there’s nothing for them to do to save Dimmons, there is an infinite void to his grief and helplessness that bleeds into the meaning. When Albus tells them nothing was found when the Aurors swept the castle, there is his own confusion and wariness behind the word, a distilled apprehension that a man of his stature and position should not show under any circ*mstances. When Sirius says there’s nothing that he’s found that could lead them to Pettigrew’s whereabouts, there is a sea of brotherly concern and frustration brooding behind his glare, a fresh betrayal in his voice when he spits Peter’s name. When Harry tells him that nothing is new and everyone still hates him, there is despair and self-loathing, confusion, and terror of being denied innocence by those who shun him.
And Regulus is trapped in the middle of all these nothings. And days turn into nights and days again. Months pass and nothing happens. They are invited to Dimmons’ funeral, and his Mother was a broken witch; aged overnight by the news of her son’s passing, it seemed. James and Sirius act as though any unmarked male with a wand is going to ambush Regulus and gut him on the spot. Regulus goes along with it, there is no more fight left in him. There is nothing. He is a bird perched on the very edge of a quivering branch, aware that a snake is lurking, ready to strike, surely with enough speed to outmanoeuvre his wings, jaws outstretched and venom dripping from its fangs. A stilted stillness. Margery is concerned, he can tell. He increases his potion dosage with the slight warning that Reggie needs to get his sh*t together.
Regulus goes along with that too. He is familiar with wading in the sea of infinite nothingness. He realises his own failures as a husband, a father, a brother, and a human being. A liability instead of a protector. He writes to his son, and his son replies only sporadically. He asks Barty about Harry, and the man’s reports are always the same: ‘Nothing new going on. He’s protected.’
He asks James whether he can visit Harry, and James is hesitant to let Regulus even approach Hogwarts in any varying degrees of proximity, even with his own underling Aurors swarming the place, even with their son attending school there. James tells him the school is technically under a lockdown. It won’t bode well to go there for constant visits. He tells him that even Barty doesn’t commute much to Padfoot’s and Moony’s flat anymore. It’s safer this way, for everyone involved, he tells Reggie. Regulus gets into a halfhearted domestic about it with James, calls him a git and throws a couch pillow at the man, then feels like sh*t because James hasn’t done anything wrong and then he locks himself up in the Orangery to tend to the Mandrakes.
This occurs in more or less the same format in these two months. One day he’s sparring with James, the next pissing over Margery and his stupid therapy, then snapping at his brother because, after five entire months of investigation, he returns empty-handed every time—some f*cking Auror he used to be—and then he gets to brooding about how none of this would have been a problem, had Riddle just f*cking stayed dead. Then he writes a very strongly worded letter to Albus to show his displeasure regarding his idleness in handling the Horcruxes. He writes to Harry a lot and is bemused that Harry doesn’t seem to write much in return. He grows vexed with himself, and the constant restlessness is making him physically sick. He cannot tell whether his paranoia bleeds in his diction, but he feels that it does;
…I expect nothing but diligence when it comes to your safety. Listen to your professors and stay away from the Malfoy boy, I can tell he’s trouble. Report any suspicious behaviours to me. Sirius too. But to me first, preferably. I have been most unfortunate in being currently surrounded by dunderheads who are not efficient or brutal enough in handling safety risks. It is imperative to me that you stay safe, son…
And Harry writes back only once;
All is fine here, Papa. It’s annoying that there are Dad’s Aurors around the castle and we cannot go outside much, but they don’t get in the way or treat me weird, and Professor McGonagall says that Mrs Norris is doing fine because of your Mandrakes. Nothing else to report. I’m safe. Promise.
See, Regulus doesn’t believe him. He believes none of them. He doesn’t believe in nothing or idleness. He doesn’t believe in the beyond and infinity. He got results. Even at his lowest, even drugged out of his f*cking mind, he got results, and it inflicted no one but himself. There are fourteen bodies, his husband running around after a ghost, his son hiding things from him, and Regulus just sitting there, waiting to be rescued. He would have handled this in a single afternoon. He would have gotten to the end of it and would have told Dimmons’ Mother that his son didn’t die for nothing.
Instead, James is in a whole strop about him refusing dinner and Regulus feels irritable enough to chew the man’s head off for a meal instead of actual food.
“I get it,” James tells him for the umpteenth time, “I do. I’m trying, okay?”
Regulus gives him an unimpressed look, they’ve had this dialogue so many times this past week especially, that he is nauseated by it. James looks like a f*cking wreck, he looks crazed, restless. He’s constantly by the floo, talking to Joe and George and Joan and f*cking Jerry or what have you about trails and patrols and cross-referencing a list of people. He talks about the corpses in numbers. In numbers. To spare Regulus’ eavesdropping the grotesque imagery. His kindness is ironically worse than his practicality.
Their current approach is not taking them anywhere.
“Number ten and twelve happened in close proximity but months apart, we need to apply for a warrant from the embassy to search for a safe house or—” he tells Joe and George and Joan and Jerry.
“Numbers one through ten are chronologically aged. Eleven and Thirteen are the only outliers. Preteens. Doesn’t make much sense if the guy’s been working in order—”
He doesn’t join Reggie in bed most nights, and when he does, he holds Regulus like a dragon protecting his gold, with enough force to bruise. Regulus asks him about any developments, and James tells him that there are two living witnesses from numbers three and four and that they described Peter's features and that's how Barty's chase started anyway. But without any other witnesses or profiling…there's not much to do in terms of identification. There are just a bunch of dead bodies. The guy’s melted right into the ground, as if he never existed.
They’re trying, revisiting evidence, trying to match Sirius’ findings with their own investigation and so on. Trying to convince the countries involved to give them some jurisdiction to no avail. They don't want trouble. Or well, they don't want to acknowledge the trouble.
“Dimmons’ death put the case on a map,” James mutters into his neck tiredly at night, “Now Chief Scrimgeor is on it and we have to manually fill in all the paperwork, might as well revisit to see if we’ve missed anything.”
“You know there's a solution to this,” Regulus tells him at dinner the following night. James looks up from his own full plate with narrowed eyes.
“No.”
“If he wants me, we should give him what he wants. Draw him out—”
“No.”
“That bastard was in Hogsmeade! That's less than ten minutes away from where Harry sleeps! Need I remind you—”
James lowers his fork, there's a shadow upon his face, his stubble makes him look ragged and run-down, “You are not talking me into turning you into bait. We're doing an investigation.”
An investigation that yields no results, Regulus bleakley drawls in his head.
“And you have nothing,” he grits his teeth, “Nada. How much longer are you going to ignore the perfectly reasonable solution—”
James keeps on shaking his head, “A solution that harms a single strand of hair on your head is not a solution,” he seethes, “Pettigrew or not, I am getting to the end of this without having to parade you around as bait.”
He regrettably has a point. Technicalities aside, it's just not something that James would do. But how could he not understand? If they dawdle, the next victim may be their son. Harry fits the profile. Regulus has been going crazy about this: He's not biologically his, but he looks like Reggie alright. He's a brunette. He has green eyes. He's the Boy-Who-Lived and that alone should be reason enough to put an end to this, once and for all. He opens his mouth to utter the words, even though it is sickening.
He realises, a large part of his anxiety has to do with Harry. Not himself. That boy who was killed in Hogsmeade was only a few years older than Harry, still a lad himself. Regulus wasn't scared for himself, it was the parent in him, screaming and banging on walls in helplessness. It is an irrational thing to bring up; no threats have been made to their son aside from the demented house elf, no danger awaiting him but other children's cruelty in the presence of James' men, and Albus Dumbledore most importantly.
Harry is not harmed.
But Regulus cannot remove the image from his mind. Lately, when he starts thinking about his youth, he doesn't see himself, the younger version of him is eerily similar to his son instead.
Regulus gave James his word or else, he would have taken matters into his own hands ages ago.
“Harry is safe,” James tells him like he knows. Of course, he knows. He always knows what Regulus is thinking.
“I know,” Reg lies, “I'm just saying, there's a quicker and more efficient way—”
“Yeah, quick and efficient because you might end up dead. Regulus, love…I know. I know, trust me.”
But does he? Does he feel dread sinking into his body through every pore? When he holds Regulus at night, does he think about the face of those poor f*cking boys who died for no crime other than their looks? Does he worry about Harry deep down? About irony? Revenge?
Regulus remembers years ago, in his brother's bathroom, he told James that Tom Riddle was an obsessive man. He got what he wanted, and with the prophecy…
It's all becoming so tangled together. Regulus wants to tear the fabric of reality apart and sew it back together properly. He wants their lives to be quiet and uneventful again. He wants to love James without having to worry about the man getting himself killed because of Reggie.
The old Regulus would have turned himself in so that his child could be spared. He would've kissed James goodbye and sauntered back into darkness. A terrifying part of him is still gripped by the idea. With each passing day, he feels himself understanding Lily Evans more and more.
James stands and pulls him against his body, his hand on Reggie’s head, he says, “I'll fix this. Harry will be fine. We're fine.”
“I'm not mad at you,” Regulus mutters into the man's shirt, fiddling with his ring, “You know that.”
“Of course, I do, darling,” James tilts Reggie's chin up, “I promise the second he's arrested, I'll make sure he never sees the light of day. Might get him a kiss at the trial, hopefully. But let’s do this the right way.”
The right way? As opposed to what? Reggie's way?
Regulus pulls out of the embrace and stands from the chair, “Well, what if the right way isn’t the right way? Just arrest Lucius at least!”
“We don’t have any evidence—”
“You don’t need evidence,” he hisses, plagued by a sudden urgency, “Lock him in a room with me for an hour and I’ll get it out of him.”
He knows he can. James might not approve, but if it means the safety of their son, would it even matter? Regulus swallows thickly, watching as James' hazel eyes soften and his hands drop.
“You’re tired of waiting.”
“I’m tired of children being killed on my account,” Reg counters, “If torturing Lucius Malfoy is what it takes…I’ll say we can even take his brat! Keep him hostage until he reveals his accomplice or gives us something. He knows something. That elf knew something!”
They won't need Aurors. They won't need patrol or evidence or witnesses. Regulus knows that pain is one great motivator. He's been on the receiving end of it more times than he could count. He's been pain’s puppet. He knows if he gets Lucius alone he will get to the end of this. He knows Draco himself would not pose that much of a leverage, but Lucius is a patriarchal douche if nothing else. Pride or pain, either or both will loosen him up.
“So,” James pinches the bridge of his nose, “we should kidnap a child and torture his father?”
Regulus squares his shoulders, “Wouldn’t you do it for me?”
A look flicks past James' eyes and the man sighs, looking at him. His shoulders slump, “That’s different,” he says, “You know it is. The law can go f*ck itself when it comes to your safety, But Reggie…we should do this the right way.”
Regulus flinches, “I'm sorry I'm not morally clean—”
James snorts, his posture suddenly shifting stances, “No. It's not about that. I don't mean right as in…well, light. I mean right as in I don't want any trails leading back to us anyhow.”
Regulus pauses and James smiles at him softly, “Your plans are efficient and brutal, and subtle and they get results quickly. But the endgame for the executor of the plan is just as extreme. I don't want this to hurt you.”
He's…he has a point. Regulus nods curtly. He is somewhat convinced by this logic. James has always managed to make him believe the most unbelievable thing with his words only. He wouldn't want this blowing up in their faces later. Not for his own sake, but he has a family now. His husband, son, and brother.
He has to consider the price he's willing to pay for the sake of putting a stop to things.
“One more body, James,” he wags a finger at his husband, “If there is one more body, then we’re doing what I say. We’re not prey, we shouldn’t be cowering.”
“One more body,” James walks over to kiss him again, “But we’ll get to the end of this before that happens.”
They kiss, and James nips at his lips a bit playfully, this is the most intimate they've been lately. Regulus eases his arms around the man's neck and pulls him closer, his fingers curling into James' hair. It is so bewildering that James is here, right here. It makes it all better.
“You have no idea,” James breathes into his jaw, “No idea, what you do to me.”
Regulus huffs, tugging at the man's shirt as he presses small kisses all over the man's neck, “Show me.”
James was waiting for this it seemed. His arms circle around him and Regulus is swept off his feet, his legs closing around the man's waist as they kiss like starved men. It may be true, that part of his frustration lately was not having physical access to his husband like this. James carries him to the nearest empty counter and pushes into the space between his legs, his eyes are half-lidded and his grip firm.
It may also be true that a large part of James' abrasive behaviour is because of not having access to Regulus in return. Marital life sometimes makes it so difficult to distinguish between needs and routines. They've had a good balance before, but Regulus won't be the first to admit that lately, external pressures have been testing them. James needed to pay more attention to him, and Reggie too, should be more towards his husband.
“You should order me around more often,” James growls into his lips, his hands ducking underneath Reggie's shirt, “It's such a turn-on.”
Reggie smirks, pinching the shell of the man's left ear with his nails, feeling the stubble with his other. He doesn't mind the stubble, honestly. He might have minded it a few years ago, but it's… nice. His eyes dart down to the bulge in James' pants, and just like an anxiety-ridden Quidditch player before his first game, he flexes his muscles.
They've done this a few times. He's not too good at it, but they've had their fun without Regulus losing his sh*t. It helps that James is never the person who initiates anything. It's nice that Regulus gets to decide what to do, when to do it, and how to do it. And James enjoys it either way.
He kisses the man more deeply as a reward and apology, and James groans when Reg’s tongue slips into his mouth, flicking over his own tongue, a bit teasingly, just to torment him a little.
Regulus pulls back a little, “Undress.”
James' eyes prune in delight and the man reels back like a schoolboy. Regulus cannot help laughing as James kicks his shoes off and just as Regulus is about to hop off the counter to help his husband with his clothes, there is a tap on their window. James is in front of him before Reggie can even blink, his wand out and pointed at their curtained window.
Regulus rolls his eyes as he catches a glimpse of white, “At ease, soldier,” he darts around James to open the latch for the white owl, “That should be Harry. I've been waiting since last Thursday for a reply.”
It’s Monday now. What is up with that boy? He would need to start writing to Ronald and Hermione soon, if this trend keeps on. Regulus is by no means an overprotective parent, but he knows deep down, there's something going on with his son.
“I'm sure he's fine,” James regards Hedwig with narrowed eyes as if blaming her for the interruption, “You know kids his age…well, we gotta worry about puberty soon.”
They both make a face at each other and Regulus turns to stroke Hedwig's ruffled feathers. It's a windy night, surely the flight must have been a bit stressful. He'd have to let her rest till morning, even if his heart was crying that he ought to answer the letter immediately.
“Puberty,” James says again, shuddering.
“That's when he'll hate us for sure—” Regulus mutters distractedly, his fingers shaking as he unties the letter from Hedwig’s talon. The owl chirps and flaps her wings in protest.
Regulus takes the note and immediately he feels that something is wrong. When buying stationary this year, he bought the stack of letter parchments for his son himself. The folded note in his hands is heavy, cream-coloured. Not the parchment brand he bought. It is ostensibly standing out. Regulus turns it over in his hands and opens the fold, his heart is in his bloody throat.
That's not Harry's handwriting. Reg should know. He taught Harry how to write. The loopy cursive is not his son's chicken scratch.
James is perturbed by his silence, and looks over Reggie's shoulder, “What is it?”
“This is not Harry's handwriting,” Reg says, strangely in a steady voice, “It's a note.”
James reads over his shoulder and Regulus curses himself. He wants nothingness now too, because somehow this is worse than the void:
Here’s a clue, Black. It's a family matter.
...
Sirius is shaking him and he comes to himself to look up at the man.
“Padfoot?”
“Harry?” Sirius’ panicked eyes widen, “It's okay, you're okay.”
Harry looks around them. He was in bed, wasn’t he? And now he’s not. They’re not even in the dorms or the common room. He looks down, he is still in pyjamas, and it’s dark, and he’s barefoot, he can feel the cold carpet under his toes. His hands feel moist, but he cannot tell what they’re covered with in the dark. Sirius is calling his name, his lit wand by Harry’s face, but enough to illuminate his whole body. Harry’s eyes catch the hand, forlorn and upturned by his right foot. On the floor. The hand is attached to an arm. A body.
Sirius grabs his face, “Harry, don’t look.”
Is this a dream? Harry swallows, looking at Sirius with panic, he feels his stomach twist, “Paddie—”
Sirius tugs him away from the body in the dark, his arms circling around Harry and dragging him away, “We're leaving, come on.”
Harry raises his hands to his face, stumbling along and leaning against Sirius. Blood. That’s why his palms were so damp, they’re covered in blood. Harry’s breath hitches. He doesn’t think this is a dream. He cannot feel people touching him in his dreams. His heart beats so loudly that his throat starts vibrating.
“Blood,” he whimpers, more loudly than he intends to, “there's blood—”
“Hush, hurry,” Sirius drags him out of the corridor, they’re almost running. Harry doesn’t even know which floor they’re on, “Are you hurt?” Sirius asks, dragging him up the stairs that are thankfully not moving, “Is this your blood?”
Harry stumbles with the man, his round eyes stitched to his shaking hands. The blood is so dark on his hands, it looks black, like ink. Sirius’ breathing is loud, rattling along with Harry’s whimpers as they quickly run up the stairs.
“Harry? Are you hurt?” Sirius repeats himself in a harsh whisper, out of breath.
Harry feels his cheeks dampen too. That’s not blood, surely. Tears, he begs them to be tears, “No.”
“How did you get it, kiddo?” Sirius asks, they’re walking down another corridor now, the second floor with the classrooms and staff offices. Harry feels like he wants to throw up, “Whose blood is that?”
“I don't know how,” he mutters, barely audible as Sirius shepherds him inside his own office, racing to the oil lamps to light the room, the door closes behind them, “I don't,” Harry whimpers, “I want my dads. Please! Please, it wasn't me! I—blood!”
He starts hyperventilating, and his eyes cannot see! Did he kill the person? Is that their blood? Why cannot he remember!? He wants Dad and Papa. He needs Dad and Papa! He wants to scream but his voice isn’t working. Sirius is hugging him, rubbing his back, telling him something. Pushing him towards the couch.
“Shh, calm down, Harry. Sit down,” he sits Harry down and joins him, holding Harry with a tight grip, “Listen to me… no one saw you but me, I made sure. I need you to be honest with me—”
Harry shakes his head, trembling as he stares down at his hands in horror, “I want my dads!”
Sirius shakes him, “Listen to me!” he snaps. His voice is loud and stern enough to startle Harry out of his hysteria, for a moment, “Did you do something to the kid we just left petrified?”
Harry shakes his head numbly, “No.”
“Did you find him like that?”
“I don't know.”
Sirius purses his lips with narrowed eyes. His hands clench on Harry’s shoulders, “What's the last thing you remember?”
Nothing. He cannot remember anything. This could be a dream, he’s been having these dreams lately. Maybe this is a more elaborate one. He shakes his head, curls his hands into fists and his nails dig half-moons into his bloodied palms. The pain doesn’t wake him. It’s dark…it was dark. He must have been in bed.
“I was…I was in my bed.”
He was with Papa? And there were pancakes? But no. That was years ago, Papa could still pick him up then. He wasn’t the heir of Slytherin, then.
Sirius huffs, looking down at Harry’s confusion with a strange expression on his face, “That must have been hours ago.”
He doesn’t trust Harry. Harry realises with mounting horror. He thinks Harry did it. Oh, God. Harry shoots from his seat with the speed of light, backing away from Sirius.
“Don't tell anyone! Please, please!” he sobs, “I want my dads! Paddie, please!”
They’re not just going to expel him, they’ll take him away to Azkaban! Because the last time that girl died when the chamber was open…a girl died! What if the person they just left is dead!? They’ll know it’s Harry. Expulsion would be the least of his worries. He cannot bear it. He cannot breathe.
“Hush,” Sirius envelopes him in another hug, “They're gonna find the body. This isn't looking good, kid. I believe you, I do…but I'm not sure we can trust your body. This place is swarming with Aurors. We need to see if the blood…”
“Call Dad. Please.”
“I don't know,” Sirius draws away, his eyes still narrowed, “I—I need to test something, first. Okay?” he timidly returns to his desk for his wand, “Your dad would kill me if he knew I tried it, but I need to test something.”
Harry looks at the wand, nervously shuffling on his feet. He trusts Sirius, Sirius knows what to do. Sirius loves him. Sirius will call Dad and Papa eventually. He’ll hide a body for Harry, he will, “Is it gonna hurt?”
“No. Well, maybe,” Sirius lowers Harry on the couch again, “But it'll be over soon. I just need to see, okay? Then I'll get your dads. It'll be fine.”
Harry leans back against the couch cushions, his head swimming and his lungs fluttering, struggling to draw in air.
“Okay.”
“Alright, just calm down,” Sirius breathes next to him, “Relax. Imperio.”
A painful fog clouds Harry’s head all of a sudden. Harry cries softly, his hand travelling to his forehead, his head pounds. And there’s…there’s something inside his head. A voice. It is telling Harry to hop on one leg. Harry frowns, disoriented, and the voice repeats itself. It’s different from that other voice. It’s not external. It’s coming from inside his head. It’s not craving blood or murder. It’s softly spoken, kind of familiar.
Hop on one leg? He’s not well enough to do that. He just wants his parents. He wants Papa to make this okay.
“Why?” he asks loudly and the cloud is immediately lifted. He groans in pain and Sirius stands, looking at Harry with a confused frown.
“sh*t. Good news, and bad news,” the man runs a hand through his hair, “There is something wrong with you. But you're not being Imperiused.”
Harry holds his pulsating head with both hands, and he can feel the blood now on his forehead, “What's wrong with me?”
“Nothing,” Sirius is quick to say, sounding unconvinced himself, “Well, something. But not the something that I thought.”
Harry shrinks on the couch, burying his head in his knees. What happened before he went to bed? Did he hear that voice again? He’s been hearing it a lot lately. He’s never been Imperiused before. He is not exactly even sure what that is. He’s heard it from Dad once, he was talking to Papa privately. But his head all jumbled, he cannot remember now.
He looks at Sirius, swallowing his panic. Sirius would help him. Harry needs to tell the man everything. Even if he’s guilty…his parents and godfathers will have to know. What if he’s under some other spell? And that spell was the reason behind that voice? They could fix it then, and Harry won’t be to blame surely. He watches his Godfather walking back to his desk and going through his drawers. Withdrawing a vial that he sets on the desk.
“I…There's a scary voice,” he stutters. Sirius’ eyes dart over to him immediately.
“Scary voice?” he repeats loudly, abandoning the vial to stride to the couch, “What is it saying? Harry.”
Harry buries his head in his knees again, his shoulders shake and he wants to sob like a baby, but he’s too numb, “That they should die. To kill.”
“What?” he hears Sirius say, astonished.
“And it's there even when I want to sleep—”
Sirius’ hands are on his shoulders, forcing Harry’s head up, “Why didn't you—does your Papa know!?”
“No!” Harry yells in panic, “I cannot! I cannot tell them, I promised! They'll pull me from school like Dobby wants! And Papa…last time Papa was so scared!”
Would he be afraid of Harry now too? He’d said before that being bad is what someone does with their abilities. If Harry’s the one behind all this, then he’s done it. He’s bad. A bad son. Would Papa and Dad even still want him?
That breaks his dam and he starts wailing in earnest, “I thought it'll go away on its own!”
“Okay, calm down…” Sirius hushes him, holding him, “Calm down. We need to tell them. You've been the one dropping bodies “
“No!” Harry grips Sirius with an inhumane force, “It wasn’t me! I’m not the heir—”
“Kid,” Sirius grunts, “You gotta let me go for a second.”
He tries to detach Harry from him, probably to go over to the floo! Harry doesn’t want his parents here and now anymore. He’s been the one found over the bodies, Justin was right! Harry is the heir! Harry is a monster! Sirius tries but Harry shakes his head, holding the man down desperately as he cries, “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!”
“Harry, let go.”
“You have to believe me!”
“I do,” Sirius groans, pushing at Harry with an abnormal amount of insistence, dragging Harry along the floor as he starts walking, “I just need to do something—”
“Papa and Dad will hate me!” Harry cries and topples the man over, burying his face in Sirius’ robe and crying. The man curses rather loudly in his ear, and Harry blinks his bleary eyes open. Something is…shifting underneath his body.
He scrambles off of Sirius with a cry as the man’s bones start clicking and his face contorts. Harry crawls away on his bum, his breath catching and his hands shaking as Sirius fades away. His body…changes. And his face…Harry’s body hits the door.
That’s not Sirius.
“Before you panic…” Barty Crouch groans, rubbing at his jaw, “Well, panic more… Hi.”
Harry stops breathing. He scrambles to his feet, scuttling back until his body is flush with the door, his hand, slick with blood and sweat fumbles behind him as he tries to twist the handle.
“Listen,” Barty…Crouch starts approaching him with his hands held up in surrender, “I understand that this is confusing, but you’re a smart lad—Harry!” Harry wrenches the door open and bolts.
He runs in the dark and the last thing he hears is Crouch huffing behind him, cursing, “God f*cking dammit!”
...
Oh, yeah, cosplay as your boyfriend, they said, Barty drawls in his head because he is too winded to whine aloud, it’ll be fun, they said. Take Polyjuice every ten hours, they said, Spying is easier that way, they f*cking said.
He cannot find Harry on his own. He tried chasing the kid and immediately failed. He tried running to the dorms and then realised that he hadn’t taken his potion after all, and he was not about to expose himself to the entire house of Gryffindor.
He runs to Albus’ office, and his lungs burn to such an extent that he merely manages to breathe the password. And stairs. More stairs. Because of course, there are more stairs to the man’s office. Regulus will owe him one. More than one, actually. The effort Barty is putting into keeping his brat alive does not equate to the merits of f*cking Reggie’s brother. Well, that’s not true. But still.
He runs up the stairs, feeling like death and as he bursts into the office, he sees that not only is the headmaster awake, he’s not alone.
“Mister Crouch,” Dumbledore rises from his seat, “I thought we agreed on your disguise—”
“Harry's missing!” Barty pants, bending down to catch his damn breath as Snape stands too, “He ran off, and I couldn't find him!”
Snape’s robes rustle as the man sweeps his way over to him, exchanging a look with Albus. Barty groans, “What?”
“Draco is also missing,” Snape tells him curtly, “There's a bloody writing on the wall, and they found another boy petrified.”
Well, great, Barty closes his eyes. Just great. Of all the nights for sh*t to go down, it has to be Monday night.
“Harry was…” he gulps, taking Severus’ offered hand as the man helps him to a chair, “I found Harry over the boy. No idea about Draco. We need to get to the bottom of this—”
“Shall we all settle down for a moment, dear boys?” Albus cuts in, shuffling some papers on his desk with a frown. Severus purses his lips at the Headmaster.
“Albus, we don't have time,” he says, “Lucius is bound to find out about his son—”
“I think—” Barty takes another large breath, “I think he's been taken into the chamber.”
Neither man looks surprised. Snape crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow at him, “Yes, but where is it? How could he be taken? There are four Aurors in this castle right now!”
Barty shakes his head, “Harry may be able to find it,” he says, “He was saying something about hearing voices, and no it wasn't the Imperius, I tried and the kid is immune—”
“You Imperiused the Potters’ child?” Severus demands.
Barty ignores him, “He's a Parselmouth. The only voice that he can hear and we cannot, is a f*cking snake. Harry may be the heir of Slytherin. The only reason we cannot find the entrance is because we don't f*cking speak the language—”
Of course, he should have known. They all should have. It has to be a snake. Whether Harry is in control of it or not is another matter, but it’s the only thing that makes sense in this context. That’s the reason why they couldn’t find the connection, why the Aurors couldn’t find anything in the castle. A human is not responsible for the petrifications, a creature is. And the only snake capable of doing such a thing…is a f*cking Basilisk.
He and Snape seem to be reaching this conclusion at the same time, because the moment Barty thinks of the word Basilisk, Snape hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan, “That boy will be the death of me, awaking a damn Basilisk—”
“That's not it,” Barty looks at Dumbledore and the man nods along, “Something awakened that snake and it wasn't Harry. I have a hunch but I need to talk to Reggie—”
He thinks of the conversation he had with Sirius over the weekend. About the missing body. About the lack of graves or bodies or evidence. He thinks of the fact that Orion Black was just enough of a fanatic to be hunting his own son for the Dark Lord, to be pushing his agenda within the school, meaning to capture Harry too for all Barty knows. They need to find the kid, and they need to find him fast.
He and Severus stare at each other, and Snape says to the headmaster, “Albus, Lucius will be coming with the intention to apprehend you and possibly Hagrid before dawn. Having the Potters here…well it'll certainly not help.”
Albus strokes his beard, he rounds his desk slowly and nods, “I see. Well, Lucius won't come alone. My request is that you empty my office at once and find the boys discreetly. We mustn't alert Cornelius or Lucius just yet.”
Barty curses the fact that he’s gonna run around again and stumbles to a stand. He really needs to exercise more if this is going to be a recurring thing. Since he is currently physically involved with both of the boy’s godfathers and is his adoptive father’s best friend, he’s got a good guess that yes indeed, he is about to run around and save this boy from certain death until the foreseeable future.
Oh, bang Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, they said, Barty rolls his eyes, it’ll be an easy fling, they said, rekindle your broken friendship with your best friend, they said…God. From living in the bloody woods to running around saving a twelve-year-old.
“Got it,” he stretches his arms, watching as Dumbledore starts looking around his office with a pensive look on his face, “Snape, you're coming with me—”
“We shall inform the Potters as well,” Snape sneers.
Albus Dumbledore heads to one of his shelves and rummages about the messy piles of books, magical artefacts and whirring gadgets. He re-emerges with a…a f*cking sword.
“Barty, do take this with you,” he gestures at Barty to take the engraved sword, “Give it to the person who manages to break into the chamber first. I am not sure about the exact location inside the castle… but there…may be a sealed entrance by the lake. The pipes end there.”
Barty steps forward to take the sword and hysterically he wonders in what world does this man expect anyone to attack a damn Basilisk with a sword. Granted, he grunts when holding it, it is heavier than he thought but bloody still. Did Gryffindors have any brains at all?
“Regulus will find it,” Barty shuffles the sword from one hand to another, and it awkwardly dangles without a holster, “Thanks. Come on, Snape.”
Regulus is going to skin him with a butter knife, he thinks as he and Snape race back down the spiral stairs towards his office. Regulus gave Barty one job, and Barty f*cked up that one job, not to mention, the man’s Father is lurking about somewhere. It is only a matter of time.
“Draco was taken,” Snape says as they hasten in the dark, “A basilisk cannot kidnap people.”
“What was the writing on the wall?”
Snape purses his lips, “His skeletons will lie in the chambers forever.”
Barty shifts the sword to his other hand again, “Are you sure it's Draco?”
“We had a head count with all the other Heads of Houses,” they turn a corner, about close enough to Barty’s office now, “The only ones missing are Potter and Draco.”
It doesn’t make any sense. Barty shakes his head. Draco Malfoy is a pureblood, he is under suspicion already, and Regulus is adamant that the boy’s father is behind all this. Why would Lucius allow his son to be kidnapped? Draco Malfoy himself is a damn suspect, Harry was too distraught to have kidnapped the kid, and he wouldn’t have had any time to kidnap Malfoy, and run back to help a Basilisk petrify Creevy.
His hands were bloody though.
“Harry was with me. Then he saw me like this and flipped out,” In the dark, he hears harsh breathing and clicks from afar, and as they run closer, he asks, “Is that Reggie?”
The figure standing right outside his office whips around in the dark, and Regulus raises his illuminated wand over his pallid face, “Barty, where were you!” he runs ahead, “Where is my son? Why are you not—”
“We don't have time,” Snape cuts him off, sneering as James Potter also bursts out of Barty’s empty office with his wand held out, “They're coming for Albus, and a bloody Basilisk has been behind the petrification.”
Barty looks at James and then at his friend, “Harry and Draco are missing.”
“We got a note,” Regulus says faintly, “It wasn't Harry's handwriting.”
An orchestrated charade? Barty’s frown deepens. They are in a race against time. f*ck. If Malfoy’s abduction was a plan, then Harry’s would be too.
“You can tell me on the way,” he tells Reggie and hurries past the Potters into his office, “I think I know where your son is.”
“On the way to where?” James asks, his eyes dangerously narrowed.
Barty looks at the man and his husband and feels hot coals churning in his stomach, “To the Chamber of Secrets.”
Should’ve stayed in the woods, he thinks.
