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Title: First Class
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Genre: Gen/Drama
Pairings: Pre-Regulus/Barty
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Regulus is the lone Slytherin in his Divination class, and quite possibly the only Seer too. Partnering with Barty Crouch Jr is something he both dreads and anticipates.
Author's Notes: Another Seer!Regulus fic - I'm thinking of turning these into an actual series at some point. This is the prequel to Crossroads.
The classroom is cramped, cluttered with low tables and soft, squishy armchairs and overstuffed pouffes. Beaded red veils hang over the windows and the lampshades, tinting the light and scattering the occasional tiny rainbow throughout the room. Incense smoke hangs low in the air, and Regulus covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his robe, bracing himself for a coughing fit that doesn’t come.
He’s the only Slytherin in the room. His dorm mates have enough sense to know that the class is pointless without the natural talent, and too much pride to take it for an easy O, and so Regulus is alone in a sea of Hufflepuffs, watching from the side-lines as they giggle and chatter.
He slinks to the back corner; the darkest corner. He’s tired and a little bit grumpy after a night of uneasy dreams (cold, dead hands clutching, pulling; water everywhere, in his mouth and his lungs and he’s coughing and drowning and drinking – he’s oh so thirsty) and he’s somewhat uncomfortable knowing that he’s the outsider here. Unlike his brother, he’s never really been one for making friends. The ability to see peoples’ futures with a brush of skin on skin tends to unnerve others, and Regulus’ natural shyness has been made all the worse for it.
He sinks awkwardly into an armchair and takes his textbook from his bag, flipping it open and burying his nose in it. It’s a natural barrier; a warding symbol. He knows he’ll need a partner for this class, but hopefully the book – along with the reputation that comes with his green and silver tie – will ward off anyone who might be unbearably flighty. Some of the Hufflepuff girls in his year are downright frightening.
Not that the textbook itself is overly reassuring. He’s read it before, and the standardised symbols are all very twee, but not ones that work for him. He’s taken to marking down the meanings that he interprets next to each one: the margins are black with cramped notations.
The trapdoor opening again catches his eye, and he lifts his head just in case it’s the professor arriving. It’s not. It’s Crouch. Rumour has it, he’s somehow signed up for every elective offered; he certainly looks tired enough for it to be true – the bags under his eyes are almost as big as Regulus’ – and he’s slightly out of breath, as if he’s run from somewhere else.
He starts to look around, searching for a place to sit, and Regulus lowers his gaze quickly before Crouch spots him looking.
He wouldn’t mind pairing with Crouch. He’s certainly a serious enough scholar for it to be appealing. But. But. He’s pretty. He’s got straw blond hair that falls into his bright blue eyes and the freckles scattered across his nose give Regulus butterflies. So while he wouldn’t mind partnering with Crouch, he’s fairly sure that – should it happen – he’ll spend the entire year hiding his blushes in the shadows of his comfortable, darkened corner.
The symbols on the page in front of him seem to swim. (Entwined serpents and a rose – thorned by the spikes of his angular writing, and bittersweet.) He grips the edge of the table and closes his eyes (a hand cradled in his own; dark robes and bone masks; boxes tumbling; gentle fingers on his wrist; screams and bars and screams, screams, screams) because he doesn’t want to See.
Perhaps he should have chosen Care. Pity he’s not overly fond of animals – it would have been less of a headache, he thinks.
A body slips into the armchair opposite him. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
Regulus cracks his eyes open. It’s Crouch. Of course. The concern on his face makes Regulus take as deep a breath as he dares with all the smoke in the air and school his expression into something more dignified. He hopes his blush doesn’t show.
“By all means,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.
Crouch smiles at him. It’s a wide and slightly crooked smile – utterly charming – and Regulus’ stomach flutters in anticipation. “I’m Regulus,” he says, and he offers Crouch a gloved hand to shake.
“I’m Barty,” Crouch replies, and even through the leather of his gloves, Regulus can feel that his hands are warm.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: G
Genre: Gen/Drama
Pairings: Pre-Regulus/Barty
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Regulus is the lone Slytherin in his Divination class, and quite possibly the only Seer too. Partnering with Barty Crouch Jr is something he both dreads and anticipates.
Author's Notes: Another Seer!Regulus fic - I'm thinking of turning these into an actual series at some point. This is the prequel to Crossroads.
The classroom is cramped, cluttered with low tables and soft, squishy armchairs and overstuffed pouffes. Beaded red veils hang over the windows and the lampshades, tinting the light and scattering the occasional tiny rainbow throughout the room. Incense smoke hangs low in the air, and Regulus covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his robe, bracing himself for a coughing fit that doesn’t come.
He’s the only Slytherin in the room. His dorm mates have enough sense to know that the class is pointless without the natural talent, and too much pride to take it for an easy O, and so Regulus is alone in a sea of Hufflepuffs, watching from the side-lines as they giggle and chatter.
He slinks to the back corner; the darkest corner. He’s tired and a little bit grumpy after a night of uneasy dreams (cold, dead hands clutching, pulling; water everywhere, in his mouth and his lungs and he’s coughing and drowning and drinking – he’s oh so thirsty) and he’s somewhat uncomfortable knowing that he’s the outsider here. Unlike his brother, he’s never really been one for making friends. The ability to see peoples’ futures with a brush of skin on skin tends to unnerve others, and Regulus’ natural shyness has been made all the worse for it.
He sinks awkwardly into an armchair and takes his textbook from his bag, flipping it open and burying his nose in it. It’s a natural barrier; a warding symbol. He knows he’ll need a partner for this class, but hopefully the book – along with the reputation that comes with his green and silver tie – will ward off anyone who might be unbearably flighty. Some of the Hufflepuff girls in his year are downright frightening.
Not that the textbook itself is overly reassuring. He’s read it before, and the standardised symbols are all very twee, but not ones that work for him. He’s taken to marking down the meanings that he interprets next to each one: the margins are black with cramped notations.
The trapdoor opening again catches his eye, and he lifts his head just in case it’s the professor arriving. It’s not. It’s Crouch. Rumour has it, he’s somehow signed up for every elective offered; he certainly looks tired enough for it to be true – the bags under his eyes are almost as big as Regulus’ – and he’s slightly out of breath, as if he’s run from somewhere else.
He starts to look around, searching for a place to sit, and Regulus lowers his gaze quickly before Crouch spots him looking.
He wouldn’t mind pairing with Crouch. He’s certainly a serious enough scholar for it to be appealing. But. But. He’s pretty. He’s got straw blond hair that falls into his bright blue eyes and the freckles scattered across his nose give Regulus butterflies. So while he wouldn’t mind partnering with Crouch, he’s fairly sure that – should it happen – he’ll spend the entire year hiding his blushes in the shadows of his comfortable, darkened corner.
The symbols on the page in front of him seem to swim. (Entwined serpents and a rose – thorned by the spikes of his angular writing, and bittersweet.) He grips the edge of the table and closes his eyes (a hand cradled in his own; dark robes and bone masks; boxes tumbling; gentle fingers on his wrist; screams and bars and screams, screams, screams) because he doesn’t want to See.
Perhaps he should have chosen Care. Pity he’s not overly fond of animals – it would have been less of a headache, he thinks.
A body slips into the armchair opposite him. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
Regulus cracks his eyes open. It’s Crouch. Of course. The concern on his face makes Regulus take as deep a breath as he dares with all the smoke in the air and school his expression into something more dignified. He hopes his blush doesn’t show.
“By all means,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake.
Crouch smiles at him. It’s a wide and slightly crooked smile – utterly charming – and Regulus’ stomach flutters in anticipation. “I’m Regulus,” he says, and he offers Crouch a gloved hand to shake.
“I’m Barty,” Crouch replies, and even through the leather of his gloves, Regulus can feel that his hands are warm.
