evandar

Title: Divergent
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Regulus/Barty
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Differences in opinion and accidents when they move in together draw Barty and Regulus closer than ever before - and only Regulus knows how much this will change everything.
AN: This was inspired - very spontaneously - by a comment

disapparater made in the recent

hd_writers Word War. It then mutated into part of a forever-unwritten AU where Regulus is a Seer. I don't even know.

“Will you just – oh for fuck’s sake - Reg! Help!”

He’d never noticed until they were moving in together just how foul-mouthed Barty could be. But, then again, he’d never seen Barty trapped under a pile of boxes before; such things were Elf-work, but his mother had forbidden Kreacher from helping him in this and Barty hated asking his father for anything, and neither of them could quite afford an Elf of their own yet. Not without making significant budgetary sacrifices first.

Regulus picked up the topmost box and immediately wished he hadn’t. His wrist – weak ever since he’d sprained it in a Quidditch match – gave a familiar, pained twinge. He set the box back down and Barty – still stuck – gave him a baleful look.

“Black,” he said, and Regulus immediately knew that a lecture was forthcoming. Barty’s voice was low and dangerous, and he never, ever called Regulus ‘Black’ unless he was seriously upset. It was a name he usually reserved for Sirius, after all, and he hated Regulus’ brother more than Regulus himself did.

“Have you somehow managed to forget that you are a fucking Wizard?”

Flushing, Regulus drew his wand from his sleeve and flicked it. The boxes, filled with gods-knew-what (how had the two of them, in only eighteen years of life, managed to collect so much detritus?) flew off Barty and into a neat stack at the other end of the room. “Sorry,” Regulus said, and offered his uninjured hand to help Barty up.

His best friend blew a lock of straw-blond hair out of his eyes, and shook his head despairingly. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered.

“I thought the appropriate response for saving you from the attack of boxes was ‘thanks’”, Regulus replied in the artful drawl he’d picked up from his grandfather, “at the very least. Your firstborn, if you’re feeling particularly grateful.”

Barty snorted, but sketched a mocking bow. “Many thanks, milord,” he said. He then plucked Regulus’ injured wrist from where he’d curled it protectively by his belly and raised it to eye-level, feeling the delicate bones through the skin with gentle fingers. “Playing up again?” he asked. “See, this is what happens when you insist on doing things like a Muggle.”

The words were teasing, but Regulus flushed at the insinuation anyway, and looked away. He was a Black; he shouldn’t be doing anything like a Muggle – but there was something just so satisfying about not using magic for the slightest little thing.

Barty – along with most of their friends – hadn’t quite grasped that yet. He was rooted in the philosophy that ‘Magic is Might’, while Regulus – having grown up in the splendorous, incestuous decay of the House of Black – had his doubts sometimes.

(He was Sirius’ brother more than anyone – especially Sirius – wanted to admit.)

Barty’s fingers lingered on his wrist – gentle probings turning into a massage. Warmth began to flutter in Regulus’ belly and he kept his gaze averted; hyper-aware of the flush in his cheeks and the feel of Barty’s fingers on his skin. He had the strangest feeling that something was about to change; that moving in together was going to alter everything. He could feel his breath growing shorter.

Regulus had gained an O in his NEWT Divination exam for a reason. In his mind’s eye, he could see a teacup filled with promises of death and a palm – Barty’s palm, in third year, back when they first met – draped in Hufflepuff yellow and filled with tragedy; its lines twisting and lengthening and shortening with every breath he takes.

“So, apparently you’ll die young but nobly,” third year Barty told him, tracing his fingers over Regulus’ lifeline. “Are you sure you’re a Slytherin?”

He’d not told him that he was only a Slytherin because he’d begged the Hat not to put him in Gryffindor like his brother.

He turned his head slowly to take in Barty, standing with him, massaging his wrist in their new living room and watching him carefully.

“Reg?” he asked, his tongue darting out to lick at the corner of his mouth.

When Regulus kissed him, his lips were dry and he tasted of dust. And when Barty kissed back, slipping an arm around Regulus’ waist to draw him closer, Regulus felt the future shift – lines lengthened and tangled together; a noble death slipped away, drowning in the cold water of improbability, and tragedy faded into shadow.

And when Barty pulled away, his smile was the most beautiful thing Regulus had ever Seen.