Chapter Text
Sirius Black was not doing okay, and honestly, he figured no one could blame him—though, naturally, everyone bloody well did. Fair enough, he supposed. He’d gone and done something monumentally stupid, like letting slip to Snape of all people that Remus was a werewolf. Remus, his boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend now, technically. Sirius had no clue what had possessed him to do it. He chalked it up to his gloriously fucked-up genetics, courtesy of the noble and most ancient House of Black. But the damage was done, and Remus had dumped him faster than you could say "Expelliarmus." Sirius had been a complete mess ever since.
His brain was stuck on a loop, replaying every single good moment he and Remus had shared—and there were a lot of good moments, so it was practically a full-time job. He’d lie awake at night, thinking about how Remus used to touch him, kiss him, look at him like he was the only person in all of Hogwarts—hell, maybe the whole damn world. Back then, Remus’s amber eyes would soften just for him, and Sirius felt like he could conquer anything. But that was then. Now? Remus wouldn’t even glance his way. It was like Sirius had been erased from existence.
They still shared a dorm, though, which was its own special kind of torture. Sirius had clung to this tiny, pathetic shred of hope that after the summer break, Remus might thaw out a bit. Maybe not forgive him—Sirius wasn’t that delusional—but at least acknowledge his presence. Instead, Remus had doubled down on the silent treatment, and Sirius spent the entire summer sulking in his room at the Potters’ estate.
The Potters had taken him and Regulus in as if they were their own sons, and Sirius was grateful, don’t get him wrong. Ever since James’s parents had opened their home to them, Sirius had been thriving—or at least, as much as someone could thrive after escaping a household where his mother doled out Cruciatus curses like other mums handed out hugs and cookies. The Potters’ place was warm, chaotic, and full of love, and Sirius had never felt more free.
Sometimes, James and Regulus would barge into his room to cheer him up, which usually meant cracking open a few muggle beers—stolen from Mr. Potter’s stash—and watching absolute rubbish on Netflix. They’d sprawl across the bed, laughing at some reality show where people screamed about nothing, and for a little while, Sirius could pretend he wasn’t falling apart. But then James and Regulus would start doing that couple-y thing—stealing glances, brushing hands, whispering stupid inside jokes—and Sirius would feel like a third wheel in his own bloody misery.
See, James and Regulus had gotten together at the start of sixth year, and Sirius… well, he felt a bit left out. Regulus was his twin, but they were opposites in every way. Where Sirius was loud, reckless, and a bit of a disaster, Regulus was smarter, wittier, calmer, steadier. Better looking, too, in Sirius’s opinion, with those sharp cheekbones and sad, soulful eyes that made him look like a tragic prince instead of the menace Sirius often was. Regulus was every inch a Black, but somehow, he wore it like royalty, not a curse.
And James? Merlin’s beard, James was his best mate since their first day at Hogwarts, when they’d bonded over a shared hatred of Snape and a love for causing chaos. James was also, embarrassingly, Sirius’s first crush. Because, come on, who wouldn’t fall for James Potter? Egyptian, tanned, with a wide, dazzling smile full of perfect teeth, messy brown hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and warm hazel eyes framed by those round glasses. He was effortlessly charming, the kind of guy who could make anyone feel like they were the center of the universe.
Now, the only two people who hadn’t turned their backs on Sirius were head-over-heels in love, disgustingly happy, and Sirius was jealous as all hell. Not because he wanted James or Regulus—gross, no—but because he wanted what they had. He wanted to be that stupidly, obnoxiously in love with Remus again. He wanted the late-night talks, the stolen kisses in empty corridors, the way Remus’s laugh could make his whole day better.
But Remus wasn’t having it. The whole Remus-almost-killed-Snape fiasco had gone down in May, and since then, Remus hadn’t spoken to him. Well, except for that one time when he’d looked Sirius dead in the eye and said, “I don’t want to look at you ever again, Sirius.” And he’d meant it. Remus didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t say his name. It was like Sirius was a ghost haunting their dorm.
Sirius knew he deserved it. He’d screwed up, big time. But he also wanted to fix it—God, he’d do anything to fix it—if only Remus would give him a chance. But Remus wouldn’t. They’d spent the summer apart, and the only scraps of information Sirius got about Remus came from James. Apparently, Remus had spent the whole summer with Lily, Mary, and Marlene, which made Sirius snort. He didn’t give a toss about them, especially since James had ditched Lily to be with Regulus. The thought of Remus hanging out with the girls was almost funny, but it also stung. Because they weren’t talking to Sirius either.
Whatever. Screw them all, honestly.
Sirius had spent a few full moons after the breakup staring at the sky from his bedroom window, wondering how Remus was handling it. Was he okay? In pain? Had he broken any bones? But Sirius had no way of knowing. All James would say the next day was something like, “He’s fine, mate. We went to some forest outside London, chased rabbits. Wormy nearly lost it when he saw a stray cat, though.” And Sirius wanted to press for more—God, he was dying to—but he didn’t want to seem as desperate as he felt.
By August, it hit him like a Bludger to the chest: Remus was never going to forgive him. So Sirius decided to say, “Fuck it.” Just… fuck it all. He’d move on. He’d be the Sirius Black he was before Remus—charming, reckless, untouchable.
When they got back to Hogwarts for seventh year, it was almost comical how he and Remus avoided each other. They’d been inseparable before, practically glued at the hip, and now they couldn’t even be in the same room. They didn’t even sleep in their dorm at the same time. Remus would crash in the girls’ dorm, or Sirius would bunk with Regulus and Evan, who had a spare bed in their room. It was like they were playing some elaborate game of hide-and-seek, except no one was seeking.
Now it was October, and Sirius was on a mission to forget how Remus Lupin had made him feel. He’d distract himself with someone new, go back to being the Sirius Black who flirted with everyone, pranked anyone, drank too much, and slacked off in class. He’d hook up, have fun, live a little.
There was just one problem: Remus had ruined girls for him. Completely. How was he supposed to go back to long hair, curves, and painted nails when he’d had a guy in his bed? Not just any guy, but Remus—tall, lanky, with those soft curls and scarred hands that Sirius could still feel if he closed his eyes. No, girls weren’t going to cut it anymore. And the thought of flirting with some random bloke felt… weird. Wrong, somehow. Like he was trying to replace Remus, and nobody could.
So here he was, stuck in this weird, lonely limbo, trying to move on but failing spectacularly. He’d catch glimpses of Remus in the common room, in the Great Hall, and his heart would do that stupid flip-flop thing. Remus would laugh with Lily or nudge Peter during a joke, and Sirius would feel like an idiot for still caring so much.
One night, sprawled on the couch in the Gryffindor common room with a bottle of Butterbeer he’d charmed to taste a bit more like Firewhisky, Sirius decided he needed a new plan. If he couldn’t have Remus, he’d at least have fun. He’d pull the biggest prank of the year, something so epic it would make Filch cry and McGonagall secretly proud. He’d rope James in—Regulus would roll his eyes but probably help with the charms—and they’d remind everyone why the Marauders were legends.
He didn’t need Remus Lupin. He didn’t need anyone. He was Black, Sirius Black, and he’d shine brighter than the bloody moon if it was last the thing he did.
Still, as he stared at the fire crackling in the common room, a small part of him—a quiet, traitorous part—wondered if Remus was okay. If he was happy. And if, maybe, one day, he’d look at Sirius again.
Crashing at Regulus’s dorm had its perks, no question about it. First off, there was Regulus himself, who still, every now and then, would crawl into Sirius’s bed in the middle of the night when a nightmare hit. It was just like when they were kids, back when their mother’s shrieks echoed through Grimmauld Place, and they’d huddle together to block out the world. Sirius would stir, half-asleep, shove over to make room, and they’d start talking absolute nonsense—quidditch stats, the worst potions ingredients, whether Hagrid’s rock cakes could be classified as weapons—to avoid the real reason Regulus was shaking. They’d share a cigarette or two, charmed by Regulus to be odorless, maybe throw on a comfort movie like The Princess Bride. Regulus would always mutter, “Don’t tell James I had a nightmare, he’d lose his mind,” before conking out next to Sirius, hogging the blanket like always.
Then there was Evan Rosier. Evan fucking Rosier, who turned out to be the most chaotic, hilarious twink Sirius had ever met. They’d hung out before, sure, but now it was next-level bromance. Evan was the kind of guy who fell head-over-heels for a new celebrity every week—Pedro Pascal one day, Troye Sivan the next, then Harry Styles, Jude Law, or some random TikToker with a jawline sharper than a wand. He’d shove his phone in Sirius’s face, cackling, “Look at this edit, mate, it’s art,” while some slow-motion montage of his latest crush played to a cheesy pop song. Evan had this perfect balance of unhinged energy and unexpected cuteness—like when he’d pout over losing at Exploding Snap or sneak extra treacle tarts from the kitchens for everyone. Laughing with Evan felt like the old days, before Sirius’s heart got stomped on. Like he was on top of the world, untouchable, with nothing to weigh him down.
The dorm was supposed to house just Regulus and Evan. Mulciber used to live there too, until he got expelled for hitting Snape with Sectumsempra —Snape’s own curse, which was just chef’s kiss poetic justice. Sirius had laughed for a solid ten minutes when he heard, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice. But even though it was meant to be a two-person setup, it had become a revolving door of chaos. Sirius was there most nights, James popped in when he wasn’t sneaking off to snog Regulus in some broom cupboard, and then there was Barty Crouch Jr.
Oh, boy.
Barty was… something else, alright? Sirius had to give him that. Tall, slender but not scrawny, with this wiry strength that made him look like he could outrun a hippogriff. He had mismatched eyes—one green, one blue—that seemed to see right through you, and brown hair with a streak he dyed green whenever he felt like it. Add in a nose piercing, a tiny silver loop in one ear, and—get this—a tongue piercing that he’d flick out mid-conversation just to mess with people. Sirius was low-key jealous of that one. He’d always meant to get his tongue pierced but chickened out, though his nipple piercings (charmed to stay hidden during quidditch) kept him feeling pretty damn cool.
Barty had a handful of tattoos, all done purely to piss off his father, which Sirius respected on a spiritual level. A snake coiled around his forearm, a constellation on his ribs, and some runic script on his ankle that he claimed meant “freedom” but could’ve been gibberish for all Sirius knew. The guy was annoyingly smart—not in the bookish, Remus-and-Regulus way, but like some mad genius who’d invent spells on a whim or brew a poison so tricky it could knock out a dragon, all while acting like it was no big deal. He’d once turned Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris, bright purple for a week, and somehow avoided detention. Legend.
Sirius couldn’t decide if he hated Barty or liked him. They were constantly at each other’s throats, trading insults for no reason at all. Barty would call Sirius a “posh prat with a hero complex,” and Sirius would fire back with, “At least I don’t look like a discount potion experiment.” But then they’d pass a joint back and forth like old mates, sprawled out on the dorm floor, laughing about how they’d nearly blown up the potions classroom last week. It was weirdly comfortable, like they were destined to be frenemies.
One night, after a particularly brutal quidditch practice, Sirius flopped onto the spare bed in Regulus’s dorm, his hair still damp from the showers. Evan was sprawled on the floor, scrolling through TikTok, muttering about how Zayn Malik was “definitely a Ravenclaw.” Regulus was at his desk, scribbling in a notebook—probably some ridiculously complicated Arithmancy homework—while Barty lounged on Evan’s bed, tossing a charmed snitch up and catching it without looking.
“Oi, Black,” Barty drawled, his tongue piercing glinting as he grinned. “You look like a wet dog. Rough day?”
Sirius flipped him off without lifting his head. “Sod off, Crouch. At least I don’t dye my hair like a traffic light.”
Barty cackled, unfazed. “Jealousy’s a bad look on you, mate. Green’s my brand.”
Evan glanced up from his phone, smirking. “He’s got a point, Sirius. You could pull off a streak. Maybe blue? Match your moody vibes.”
“Pass,” Sirius said, chucking a pillow at Evan, who dodged it with a squeak. “I’m already too pretty. Don’t need to steal Crouch’s thunder.”
Regulus sighed, not looking up. “Can you lot shut up? Some of us are trying to work.”
“Work?” Barty said, mock-horrified. “In our dorm? Reg, you’re ruining the vibe.”
James chose that moment to burst in, his quidditch robes slung over one shoulder, glasses slightly askew. “What’s this about vibes? Am I late for the party?”
“Always,” Sirius said, grinning despite himself. James had that effect—lighting up a room just by existing. He tossed his bag on the floor and flopped next to Regulus, who immediately softened, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
“Get a room,” Sirius groaned, throwing another pillow, this time at James.
“We’re in one,” James shot back, catching the pillow and tucking it behind his head. “You’re just jealous because you’re single and miserable.”
“Low blow, Potter,” Sirius said, but he was laughing. It felt good, this—being surrounded by people who didn’t hate him, who didn’t make him feel like he was drowning. For a moment, he could almost forget the ache in his chest, the way his eyes still searched for Remus in every crowd.
Evan sat up suddenly, waving his phone. “Wait, wait, you lot have to see this. New Harry Styles edit. It’s spiritual.”
Barty rolled his eyes but leaned over to watch, and soon they were all crowded around Evan’s phone, arguing over whether Harry was more Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. Even Regulus gave in, peering over James’s shoulder, pretending he wasn’t interested.
Sirius leaned back, watching them all, and for the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of something like hope. Maybe he didn’t have Remus. Maybe he’d screwed up beyond repair. But he had this—his brother, his best mate, and a couple of lunatics who made him laugh. It wasn’t everything, but it was enough to keep him going.
For now.
The Ravenclaw common room was practically a nightclub most weekends, thanks to Barty and Xenophilius Lovegood, who were some kind of chaotic party-planning masterminds. Those two could turn a dusty old tower into a full-on rave with charmed lights, enchanted speakers blasting muggle tunes, and enough Firewhisky to make even McGonagall consider joining in. When Barty would sidle up to Sirius with a sly, “You coming, Black?” Sirius was always down. No question. He’d throw on his leather jacket, charm his hair to look effortlessly messy, and dive headfirst into the chaos.
Those nights were a blur of fun—Sirius would get gloriously drunk, flirt with anyone who caught his eye just to mess with them, and inevitably end up by an open window with Barty, passing a late-night joint back and forth. They’d lean against the cool stone, trading snarky comments about the partygoers—like how Pandora was dancing like she was auditioning for a Weird Sisters music video, or how some Hufflepuff kept trying to serenade everyone with a charmed lute. It was easy, carefree, the kind of vibe Sirius needed to drown out the Remus-shaped hole in his chest.
It was all good. Great, even.
Until Sirius, in classic Sirius fashion, went and fucked it up spectacularly by sleeping with Barty.
Yeah. That happened.
He blamed the Firewhisky, obviously. And the weed. And that one Troye Sivan song—“Rush”—blaring through Xeno’s enchanted speakers, all pulsing beats and sultry vibes. Add in the fact that Barty’s dorm was conveniently empty upstairs, and, well, neither of them had any boundaries that night. Zero. Zilch. It was like the universe had conspired to make bad decisions feel like brilliant ones.
And, Jesus Christ, it was… good. A little too good. Raw, intense, all teeth and heat, with Barty’s pierced tongue doing things Sirius didn’t even know were possible. Then there was that moment when Barty, with a wicked grin, flipped him over on the mattress and purred, “Knew you were a bottom, Black.” Sirius had been too caught up to argue, too lost in the rush of it all to care.
Afterward, sprawled on the bed, sweaty and breathless, they’d mutually agreed it was a one-time thing. “This never happened,” Barty had said, pointing a finger at Sirius as he tugged his shirt back on.
“Obviously,” Sirius had shot back, rolling his eyes like it was no big deal, even as his brain screamed, What the actual fuck just happened?
He’d stumbled back to Regulus’s dorm in the early hours, still drunk, still high—not just from the weed—and collapsed onto the spare bed. As he stared at the ceiling, the room spinning slightly, he couldn’t stop thinking: What the hell did I just do? And why did I like it so much?
The next morning, Sirius woke up with a pounding headache and a vague sense of dread. He half-expected Barty to barge in, make some snarky comment, and ruin the fragile truce they’d built. But when he dragged himself to the common room, Barty was already there, lounging with Evan like nothing had happened, arguing about whether Xeno’s latest party playlist was genius or a crime against music. Barty caught Sirius’s eye for a split second, gave him a barely perceptible nod, and that was it. Like they’d agreed: it never happened.
Except it had, and Sirius couldn’t quite shake it. Not because he was catching feelings or anything ridiculous like that—God, no. Barty was still an annoying git with his mismatched eyes and that stupid tongue piercing. But there was something about the way it had felt—free, reckless, like he’d taken a match to all the rules and watched them burn. It was the first time since Remus that Sirius had felt… alive. Not just surviving, but living.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to make a habit of it. Nope. He was Sirius Black, king of bad ideas, but even he had limits. So he threw himself back into the routine—crashing in Regulus’s dorm, dodging Remus’s icy glares in the halls, and letting Evan rope him into late-night TikTok marathons. One night, Evan was ranting about how Tom Holland was “definitely a Gryffindor, fight me,” while Regulus groaned from his desk, muttering about how he was surrounded by idiots.
James, sprawled across Regulus’s bed like he owned it, grinned and said, “You love us, Reggie. Don’t pretend.”
“Speak for yourself,” Regulus shot back, but his lips twitched, betraying him.
Barty, who’d been suspiciously quiet, finally piped up from his corner, where he was fiddling with a charmed quill that kept writing rude words in the air. “Oi, Black,” he said, glancing at Sirius. “You up for Xeno’s next party? He’s planning to charm the ceiling to look like a meteor shower.”
Sirius’s stomach did a weird flip, but he played it cool, leaning back in his chair. “Depends. You gonna blast that Troye Sivan song again?”
Barty smirked, just a little too knowing. “Only if you beg for it.”
Evan snorted, oblivious. “Mate, you two are weird. Get a room.”
Regulus’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing like he sensed something was off, but Sirius just laughed, loud and forced, and chucked a cushion at Evan. “Shut it, Rosier. Nobody asked you.”
The moment passed, but Sirius felt Barty’s gaze linger a second too long. He ignored it, focusing instead on Evan’s latest TikTok obsession and James’s terrible impression of Professor Slughorn. But deep down, a tiny part of him wondered if he was in over his head. Parties, Firewhisky, and Barty Crouch Jr. were a dangerous combo, and Sirius had never been great at saying no to danger.
Still, he wasn’t about to let one stupid mistake define him. He was Sirius Black, after all—charming, reckless, and bloody brilliant. If he could survive his mother’s curses and Remus’s heartbreak, he could handle a little dorm-room slip-up. Right?
So he leaned back, stole a sip of James’s Butterbeer, and decided to focus on the next party. Meteor showers sounded cool. And if Barty happened to be there, passing a joint by the window, well… Sirius would just have to keep his wits about him. No big deal.
The next day was Friday, which meant no-uniform day, and Sirius was living for it. It was his chance to flex his style and, more importantly, to continue his ongoing, unspoken fashion war with Barty. Because, Merlin’s beard, they were too similar in too many ways—music taste (punk rock and indie vibes), TV shows (they’d both binged Stranger Things and argued over which season was peak), quidditch (Barty was a Ravenclaw chaser, Sirius a Gryffindor beater, and Sirius made it his personal mission to aim a Bludger at Barty’s head every match), and, of course, their taste in clothes and alcohol. Firewhisky or bust, baby.
Their outfits were practically identical most days, like they were raiding the same closet. Barty went for baggy black jeans that hung low on his hips, flashing a sliver of his always-black boxers (the absolute git), while Sirius preferred straight-fit or carpenter jeans, ripped just right to make his arse look phenomenal. Pair that with a band tee—Sex Pistols for Sirius, something like Papa Roach or My Chemical Romance for Barty—a leather jacket or a black hoodie when Hogwarts’ drafty corridors got too chilly, and, naturally, Doc Martens to seal the deal. They were like mirror images, except Sirius was obviously hotter. No contest.
It was 2024, not 1974, so house tables in the Great Hall weren’t as strict. You could sit wherever you damn well pleased, which meant Sirius was permanently parked with Regulus, Evan, Barty, and James. James had declared there was no point sitting at the Gryffindor table when Remus was glued to Lily, who still hadn’t forgiven James for “humiliating” her—aka dumping her for Regulus. Sirius had to admit, the way James had handled that breakup was iconic.
They’d been on the quidditch pitch, just the two of them, tossing a Quaffle back and forth under a fading sunset. James had shrugged, all casual, and said, “So I told her, ‘I think we don’t work anymore,’ and she was like, ‘What?’ and I was like, ‘Yeah, so I kinda like Regulus, you know.’” Sirius had nearly fallen off his broom, cackling so hard he almost choked. Only James Potter could drop a bomb like that—casually admitting he was into blokes after months of dating Lily Evans—and walk away unscathed. Well, mostly unscathed. Lily’s glares could probably melt steel.
Breakfast that Friday was the usual chaos. James and Evan were locked in a heated debate about who’d win the Quidditch Cup this year. James, Gryffindor’s captain and star chaser, was obviously biased toward his own team, with Sirius as their beater to back him up. Evan, a slytherin in every meaning of that word, was arguing for his house, throwing around stats like he was some kind of quidditch analyst. Regulus, Slytherin’s captain and seeker, just sat there, sipping his tea and rolling his eyes like he was above it all. Sirius knew that look—it was Regulus’s “I’m gonna kick my boyfriend’s arse on the pitch and kiss it better later” face.
Barty, meanwhile, was across from Sirius, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. He was sipping black coffee and nibbling on plain toast, because apparently the guy ate like a picky toddler with an iPad. No vegetables, no fruit, nothing green—just fries, toast, or the occasional chicken nugget smuggled from the kitchens. Sirius had once seen him turn down a perfectly good apple with a look of genuine disgust, like it had personally offended him.
“James, I’m begging you, stop,” Regulus groaned at one point, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Your seeker’s rubbish, and you know it.”
“Every seeker’s rubbish compared to you, love,” James shot back, smooth as anything, winking at Regulus.
Evan choked on his tea, spluttering. “Merlin’s pants, Potter, we’re eating here. Keep it in your robes.”
Sirius propped his chin on his hand, lazily eyeing Barty’s Papa Roach tee. “Cockroach fits you, Crouch,” he said, mostly because he was bored and itching to start something.
“Aw, thanks,” Barty mocked, leaning back with a smirk. “Couldn’t find anything more original than Sex Pistols, though?” He nodded at Sirius’s tee, raising an eyebrow.
“God, not this again,” Regulus muttered, stabbing his eggs like they’d personally wronged him. “Just admit you could share a wardrobe and end this stupid ‘who dressed better’ contest.”
“We could,” Barty hummed, his mismatched eyes glinting with mischief. “But Black’s, like, five foot seven, so it’d be a tight fit.”
Sirius gasped, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m literally six feet, you wanker!”
“Six outta ten, maybe,” Barty fired back, grinning like the absolute git he was.
Sirius shot him a look that screamed, You’re full of shit, but he couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up. Barty’s smirk widened, and for a split second, Sirius’s mind flashed to that night in the Ravenclaw dorm—the Firewhisky, the music, the mistake. He shook it off, focusing on his bacon instead. No way was he letting Barty get under his skin. Not today.
The conversation shifted back to quidditch, with James launching into a passionate rant about Gryffindor’s new training drills. “We’ve got this in the bag,” he said, waving his fork like a conductor. “Sirius is gonna knock you lot out of the sky, and I’ll score so many goals, Ravenclaw won’t know what hit ‘em.”
“Dream on, Potter,” Evan said, tossing a grape at him.
“Wanna bet?” Sirius chimed in, leaning forward. “Ten Galleons says I send a Bludger straight at Crouch’s head next match.”
Barty snorted, unfazed. “Ten Galleons says I dodge it and score while you’re busy tripping over your own ego, Black.”
“Deal,” Sirius said, extending a hand across the table. Barty shook it, his grip just a little too firm, his tongue piercing glinting as he smirked. Sirius ignored the weird flutter in his stomach. Nope. Not going there.
Regulus sighed, looking like he was one step away from disowning them all. “You’re all idiots,” he said, but there was a fond edge to his voice, like he secretly enjoyed the chaos.
As breakfast wound down, Sirius caught sight of Remus across the hall, laughing with Lily and Marlene. His heart did that stupid lurch thing it always did, but he forced himself to look away. He wasn’t going to mope today. Not on a no-uniform day, not when he had a bet to win and a fashion war to dominate.
“Oi, Crouch,” Sirius said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “You’re going down tonight. Xeno’s party. I’m wearing the good leather jacket.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Bring it, Black. But we both know I’m gonna outshine you.”
Sirius grinned, flipping him off as he sauntered out of the Great Hall with James and Regulus in tow. He didn’t need Remus. He didn’t need anyone. He had his mates, his style, and a party to look forward to. And if Barty thought he could win this fashion war—or anything else—Sirius was more than ready to prove him wrong.
Classes that Friday dragged on as usual, especially since Sirius was avoiding Remus like his life depended on it. In every lesson, Sirius made a point of staring out the window, doodling on his parchment, or literally anything to keep his eyes off Remus, who was sitting there being the academic weapon he’d always been—taking meticulous notes, answering questions, and generally making everyone else look like slackers. In Charms, Sirius nailed a new spell on his first try, earning a rare nod of approval from Flitwick and a dramatic eye-roll from Barty across the room. Herbology was a disaster, though—he spent most of it wrestling with a shady, toothy plant that seemed personally offended by his existence, nearly losing a finger before Sprout intervened. By the time they got to Muggle Studies, Sirius was checked out, sprawled in his seat, scrolling through X or reading facts about his favorite bands on his phone. Muggle Studies was a joke anyway—wizards in 2024 knew more about muggles than most muggles knew about themselves, so Sirius didn’t even pretend to pay attention.
Then his phone buzzed with a text, and Sirius glanced down to see a message from “crouch 💀🔫”—the contact name he’d given Barty back in third year, which was still hilariously accurate. Maybe even more so now, considering their… recent history.
crouch 💀🔫: yo black come to my dorm before party
Sirius’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly flew off his face. Was Barty serious? Well, Sirius was Sirius (the joke never got old, thank you very much), but still. What was this about?
sirius: wth crouch
crouch 💀🔫:
to do my eyeliner duh
crouch 💀🔫:
don’t think i wanna fuck you again
Sirius snorted so loud that James, sitting next to him, raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?” James whispered, leaning over.
Sirius waved him off, lowering the brightness on his phone to block James’s nosy arse from snooping. “Nothing, mate. Mind your own.”
sirius: i know you wanna
crouch 💀🔫:
keep dreaming
crouch 💀🔫:
and bring that ysl eyeliner
Sirius snorted again, biting his lip to keep from laughing outright. Of course Barty wanted his fancy YSL eyeliner. The git probably used some cheap muggle brand that smudged after an hour.
sirius: so ur admitting i’m better at eyeliner, wow
crouch 💀🔫: shut up
sirius: u could be nice when u want sth from me
crouch 💀🔫:
i can slap you really nice
crouch 💀🔫:
7 pm
Sirius rolled his eyes, pocketed his phone, and tried to focus on whatever nonsense the Muggle Studies professor was droning on about—something about TikTok trends and their “cultural significance.” Honestly, the class was pointless when half the school was already on X and TikTok, remixing spells into dance challenges. Sirius could’ve taught the lesson himself and done a better job.
When classes finally ended, Sirius headed back to Gryffindor Tower to grab his stuff before the party. He rifled through his trunk, pulling out his good leather jacket—the one with the silver studs—and a fresh band tee (Nirvana, because he wasn’t about to let Barty outdo him with Papa Roach). He found his YSL eyeliner, the sleek black tube that cost him way too many Galleons but made his eyes pop like nobody’s business. Barty wasn’t wrong to want it, but Sirius wasn’t about to let him off easy.
By 6:55, Sirius was climbing the spiral staircase to Ravenclaw Tower, headed for Barty’s dorm. He’d spritzed on just the right amount of cologne—something spicy and expensive that made a gaggle of sixth-year girls turn their heads as he passed. Sirius, ever the attention whore, shot them a wink, his signature grin making one of them blush and giggle. The Ravenclaw common room door loomed ahead, and the knocker’s riddle was laughably easy—something about stars and riddles that Sirius solved in ten seconds flat. He strutted through the common room, where Xeno was chanting at the ceiling, wand waving as he conjured what looked like a meteor shower in progress. A few other Ravenclaws were bustling around, setting up charmed lights and a table piled with snacks and Firewhisky for the party. Xeno gave Sirius a dreamy wave, and Sirius nodded back, too focused on his mission to chat.
He stormed into Barty’s dorm without knocking, only to find Barty sprawled on his bed, scrolling on his phone, and—shockingly—Gilderoy Lockhart preening in front of a mirror, fussing with his perfectly styled blonde shag. Because of course he was.
“Ugh, I’m out,” Gilderoy declared the second Sirius stepped in, tossing his hair dramatically. “I can’t be in the same room as someone who might steal my spotlight.” He flounced out, leaving a trail of overpowering cologne in his wake.
Sirius rolled his eyes so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash and leaned against the desk on Barty’s side of the dorm, arms crossed. “Get up, twat,” he said, tapping his foot impatiently.
Barty smirked, not even looking up from his phone. “You’re too short to reach my face if I stand, Black.”
Sirius sighed, loud and exaggerated, because Merlin’s beard, how many times was Barty going to make a thing out of towering over him like some lanky tree? The guy was at least six-foot-five, and Sirius, at a perfectly respectable six feet, was getting real tired of the jabs.
But he wasn’t here to argue. He wanted to get this over with, get to the party, and get gloriously drunk again. So, ignoring Barty’s smug grin, he sauntered over to the bed. “Don’t get a boner,” he said, climbing onto the mattress and straddling Barty’s hips in one smooth motion, pulling the YSL eyeliner from his jacket pocket.
Barty raised an eyebrow, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement. “I told you I don’t wanna fuck you again, Black.”
“I’m gonna stab your eye with this,” Sirius shot back, brandishing the eyeliner like a wand. “Now close your eyes and don’t grope me, perv.”
He leaned in, steadying himself with one hand on Barty’s shoulder, and started working on the eyeliner like the absolute pro he was. His hand was steady, the black line sharp and flawless as he dragged it along Barty’s lid. Barty, to his credit, stayed still for about fifteen seconds before—predictably—his hands found Sirius’s arse, giving it a cheeky squeeze.
Sirius swatted his hand away, glaring. “Crouch.”
“You’re literally asking for it,” Barty said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“That’s sexual harassment, you know,” Sirius said, raising an eyebrow, but his lips twitched because, honestly, who was he kidding? The banter, the tension—it was all part of whatever weird game they were playing.
“Sure, princess,” Barty drawled, his smirk widening as he looped his fingers through Sirius’s belt loops for good measure, tugging him just a fraction closer.
Sirius rolled his eyes again but got back to work, focusing on the second wing. He was not going to let Barty distract him, no matter how much the git was clearly enjoying this. The dorm was quiet except for the faint hum of Arctic Monkeys still playing from Barty’s speaker, and Sirius couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take for Barty to—yep, there it was. He could feel it. The bastard was definitely getting a boner.
“Really, Crouch?” Sirius said, pausing mid-wing to give him a pointed look. “Already?”
Barty didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. “What? You’re sitting on me, Black. Basic biology.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Sirius muttered, but he was fighting a grin as he finished the eyeliner, flicking it out into a sharp, perfect wing. He leaned back to admire his work, tilting Barty’s chin to check both sides. “Not bad. You almost look presentable.”
“High praise from the king of vanity,” Barty said, sitting up but not pushing Sirius off. Their faces were close now, too close, and Sirius felt that familiar spark of trouble brewing. He slid off Barty’s lap before things could escalate, brushing his hands on his jeans like he was wiping away the tension.
“Save it for the party,” Sirius said, grabbing his jacket from the desk. “You’re not winning this fashion war just because I made your eyes pop.”
Barty stood, stretching like a cat, his Green Day tee riding up to show a sliver of inked skin. “We’ll see, Black. Meteor shower’s got my name on it tonight.”
They headed out together, joining the growing crowd in the Ravenclaw common room. Xeno’s ceiling was a masterpiece—stars streaking across a velvety black sky, sparkling and fading in a hypnotic dance. The music was already thumping, some muggle EDM track that made the floor vibrate, and bottles of Firewhisky were being passed around like candy. Evan appeared out of nowhere, thrusting a cup into Sirius’s hand. “Drink, Black. You look like you need it.”
“Cheers, Rosier,” Sirius said, clinking his cup against Evan’s and taking a swig. The Firewhisky burned just right, warming his chest and loosening the knot of thoughts about Remus that always lingered. He glanced at Barty, who was already charming a group of fourth-years with some ridiculous story, his eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Sirius had to admit, he’d done a damn good job.
James and Regulus showed up a few minutes later, James’s arm slung around Regulus’s shoulders like it was glued there. “Mate,” James said, grinning at Sirius. “You clean up nice. Trying to impress someone?”
“Nah,” Sirius said, leaning against a wall and sipping his drink. “Just reminding everyone who’s the hottest in the room.”
Barty, overhearing, snorted from across the crowd. “Keep telling yourself that, shortstack.”
Sirius flipped him off, but he was laughing, the buzz of the party and the Firewhisky chasing away the last of his earlier tension. Tonight was about fun, about forgetting, about being the Sirius Black who didn’t give a fuck. And if Barty kept looking at him like that, well… he’d just have to deal with it. One mistake was enough. He wasn’t about to make another.
Probably.
Chapter Text
Sirius was on absolute fire that night, and he didn’t give a single flying fuck if he was singing a bit too loud, flirting a bit too much, or dancing like he was auditioning for a Muggle strip club. He and James were a force of nature, as always, tearing up the Ravenclaw common room like it was their personal stage. Regulus, meanwhile, was parked under a window, rolling his eyes so hard they might’ve popped out, sharing a joint with Evan and chatting about whoever Evan’s latest celebrity crush was. Sirius and James, on the other hand, had decided that Kesha was their new religion, belting out “Die young” with such enthusiasm that half the room was either cheering or wincing.
Ravenclaw parties were iconic, always had been, and Sirius—though he’d rather face an Avada Kedavra than admit it out loud—knew they were leagues better than Gryffindor’s. Gryffindor parties were fun, sure, but they could get cliquey, with everyone trying to outdo each other in heroic stupidity. Here, in Ravenclaw Tower, everyone was just unhinged— gloriously, unapologetically mashed, drunk out of their minds, the music never dipping below eardrum-shattering, and the vibes never going south. Xeno’s enchanted ceiling was still putting on a show, meteors streaking across a starry sky, and the charmed speakers blasted a mix of Muggle bangers and wizard remixes that kept the energy electric.
Sirius was in his element, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, Nirvana tee clinging just right, and a cup of Firewhisky in hand. He and James had already commandeered the dance floor, pulling off some ridiculous synchronized moves they’d made up in third year during a particularly boring detention. A group of fourth-years were gawking, and Sirius shot them a wink, thriving on the attention. James, meanwhile, was trying to moonwalk—badly—and laughing so hard he nearly spilled his drink.
“Mate, you’re embarrassing yourself!” Sirius shouted over the music, dodging a flailing arm as James attempted a spin.
“Says the bloke dancing like he’s in a Muggle music video!” James shot back, grinning. “What is this, MTV?”
“Jealous of my moves, Potter?” Sirius said, throwing in an exaggerated hip thrust just to make James cackle.
Across the room, Regulus caught Sirius’s eye and mimed gagging, but there was a fond smirk on his face. Evan, next to him, was gesturing wildly, probably ranting about how Paul Mescal was “a cultural reset” or some nonsense. Sirius didn’t care—he was too busy living his best life, the Firewhisky buzzing through his veins, drowning out the usual ache in his chest.
Then, around midnight, Barty strolled up, weaving through the crowd with that lazy, cocky swagger of his. He was holding a small Ziploc bag with something white inside, waving it like a trophy. His Green Day tee was rumpled, his eyeliner still perfect (thanks to Sirius), and his mismatched eyes glinted with mischief. Sirius didn’t even think twice.
“What kind of shit is this?” he asked, following Barty to a small, cluttered table tucked by a bookshelf in the corner of the room, away from the main chaos.
“Crank, princess,” Barty said, flashing a grin that was way too wide for someone pretending to be a nonchalant arsehole. He was clearly already three sheets to the wind, his usual sharp edges softened by Firewhisky and whatever else he’d been indulging in.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, leaning against the bookshelf and crossing his arms. “Crank? What are we, in a Muggle crime drama? You gonna start calling me ‘mate’ and dealing out of a van next?”
Barty snorted, dumping the bag’s contents onto the table and expertly dividing it into lines with a charmed galleon. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Black. This stuff’s like a Pepper-Up Potion, but it makes you feel like you could hex someone and snog him after.”
Sirius laughed, loud and sharp, because only Barty would say something that deranged. “You’re unhinged, Crouch. Gimme that.”
He didn’t hesitate, leaning down to take a hit, the rush hitting him like a Bludger to the skull. It was sharp, electric, like someone had cranked his senses to eleven. The music sounded louder, the lights brighter, and the grin on his face felt like it might split his face in half. “Fuck, that’s good,” he said, straightening up and wiping his nose.
“Told you,” Barty said, taking his own hit with a practiced ease that made Sirius wonder how often he did this. “Stick with me, Black. I’ve got the good stuff.”
They leaned against the bookshelf, passing a fresh joint to chase the high, the party swirling around them like a fever dream. Sirius’s head was buzzing, his body thrumming with energy, and for once, he wasn’t thinking about Remus or the mess he’d made of everything. He was just here, laughing at Barty’s terrible impression of Professor Slughorn, who apparently “looked like a walrus in a wig” when he danced.
“Oi, Crouch,” Sirius said, nudging him with his elbow. “You ever think about, like, not being a complete menace for one night?”
Barty smirked, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. I-Dance-Like-A-Stripper.”
“Jealousy’s a bad look, mate,” Sirius shot back, mimicking Barty’s drawl. “Don’t hate me ‘cause you can’t keep up.”
Barty laughed, low and rough, and for a second, their eyes locked, the air between them crackling with that same dangerous spark from the other night. Sirius broke the gaze first, taking a swig of Firewhisky to distract himself. Nope. Not going there. They’d agreed— one-time thing. No repeats, no feelings, no complications.
“Yo, Pads!” James’s voice cut through the haze, and Sirius turned to see him weaving through the crowd, Regulus trailing behind with an exasperated look. “You two plotting to blow up the castle or what?”
“Just blowing up Crouch’s ego,” Sirius said, tossing the joint to Barty. “It’s a full-time job.”
Regulus snorted, stealing the joint from Barty and taking a drag. “You’re both idiots. And this party’s getting out of hand—Xeno just charmed the punch bowl to sing ABBA.”
“Genius,” Evan declared, appearing out of nowhere with a cup of said punch, which was indeed warbling “Dancing Queen” in a tinny voice. “This is why Ravenclaw’s the best.”
“Debatable,” James said, slinging an arm around Regulus. “But I’ll let you have it for tonight.”
Sirius grinned, the crank and Firewhisky making everything feel sharper, brighter, better. He wasn’t thinking about Remus, or the dorm he was avoiding, or the way his heart still twisted when he saw a certain lanky figure in the halls. He was just Sirius Black, king of the party, surrounded by his mates and ready to burn the night down. And if Barty kept looking at him like that, well… he’d deal with it later. For now, he was going to dance, drink, and maybe—just maybe—cause a little chaos.
He was high as a bloody kite, dancing with Barty way too close to pretend he didn’t want to rip the git’s clothes off right there in the Ravenclaw common room. Their bodies were practically pressed together, the thumping bass of some Muggle club banger syncing with the buzz in Sirius’s veins. Barty’s hands were on his hips, just light enough to be plausible deniability, but the smirk on his face said he knew exactly what he was doing. Sirius was this close to making another monumentally stupid decision when a drunk fifteen-year-old saved him from himself—for now, at least.
Felix Rosier, Evan’s chaotic younger brother from Ravenclaw, stumbled over, looking like a carbon copy of Evan with his striking blue eyes, freckled cheeks, and that light red hair the Rosiers insisted on calling “strawberry blonde.” Strawberry blonde, my arse, Sirius thought, mentally rolling his eyes. Felix had the same small nose and sharp cheekbones as Evan and his twin sister, Pandora, but with an extra dose of reckless energy that made him a walking disaster. He grabbed Barty’s arm with zero hesitation.
“Crouch!” Felix slurred, yanking Barty’s arm down like he owned him.
Sirius froze, baffled. What the hell did Felix want with Barty? Barty, though, didn’t even blink, like this was just another Tuesday.
“What?” Barty asked, his voice slurred and infuriatingly deep, that tongue piercing glinting as he spoke.
“Come on,” Felix said, dragging Barty through the crowd to Merlin-knows-where. Sirius stood there, blinking at their disappearing silhouettes for a solid thirty seconds, his brain struggling to catch up through the haze of crank, Firewhisky, and whatever else was coursing through him.
Before he could overthink it, some Hufflepuff girl with glittery eyeshadow sidled up, waving a bottle of dodgy tequila. “Shot?” she offered, grinning like she’d just found the best prize at a carnival.
Who was Sirius to say no? “Hell yeah,” he said, snatching the bottle and taking a swig that burned all the way down. The tequila was cheap and tasted like regret, but it did the job. He danced with her for a while, their moves so shameless that a few people gave them double takes. Sirius didn’t care—he was in too deep, all wild hair and sweaty skin, his moves more provocative than strictly necessary. But he didn’t make a move or even ask her name. She was cute, sure, but she was distinctly cock-less, so what was the point? His tastes had shifted, and there was no going back.
An hour later—maybe more, time was a blur—Barty found him again, and true to their tradition, they ended up by an open window, passing a joint back and forth. Sirius’s leather jacket was long gone, probably draped over some random chair, and his Nirvana tee was soaked with gin from some clumsy git’s spill. He hadn’t bothered to dry it with a spell, so the fabric clung to his chest, his nipple piercing painfully visible. His hair was a wild mess, sticking to his forehead, but he was too buzzed to care. The cool night air felt like heaven against his skin.
Barty leaned against the wall, arms crossed in a way that made Sirius’s mouth go dry, his snake tattoo flexing on his bicep. That damn eyeliner Sirius had applied was still on point, sharp and smudge-free, making Barty’s mismatched eyes pop even in the dim light. The git looked annoyingly good, and he knew it.
“So, you done being a slut for one night?” Barty asked, smirking down at him.
“It’s a full-time job, Crouch,” Sirius said, blowing a cloud of smoke right into Barty’s stupidly symmetrical face. “You should know, considering you’ve banged half the school.”
Barty snorted, snatching the joint back and taking a drag. “Bold words from someone who was begging me to bang him, too.”
Sirius barked a laugh, leaning back against the windowsill, tipping his head to let the cold air hit his neck. “Please, you were all over me that night.”
“Keep dreaming,” Barty said, but his smirk was too smug, like he was enjoying this way too much.
Sirius cracked one eye open, grinning. “I’d say you’re the one dreaming, since you popped a boner the second I sat on you, wanker.”
“Dreaming’s a big word, princess,” Barty said, flicking ash out the window. “You’re just… not terrible.”
“Not terrible? Please,” Sirius scoffed, stealing the joint back. “I’m a bloody revelation, and you know it.”
Barty laughed, low and rough, and the sound sent a shiver down Sirius’s spine that had nothing to do with the night air. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the party still raging behind them—Xeno’s enchanted punch bowl was now belting out “Mamma Mia,” and someone was trying to crowd-surf on a levitating cushion. Sirius took another drag, letting the smoke curl out of his mouth as he studied Barty’s profile. The guy was a mess—arrogant, reckless, and way too comfortable breaking rules—but there was something about him that kept pulling Sirius in, like a moth to a hexed flame.
“So, what was with Felix?” Sirius asked, mostly to distract himself from the way Barty’s tattooed arm was making his brain short-circuit. “He drag you off to start a cult or something?”
Barty snorted, shaking his head. “Nah, kid wanted me to charm his broom to go faster. Thinks he’s gonna make the Ravenclaw team next year. I told him he’s got about as much chance as a Flobberworm, but he’s persistent.”
Sirius grinned, imagining Felix’s earnest face as he begged Barty for quidditch tips. “He’s got Rosier energy, that’s for sure. Bet he’s already planning his victory speech.”
“Probably,” Barty said, stealing the joint back. “Runs in the family. Evan’s just as bad, but at least he’s got Pandora to keep him in check.”
“Pandora’s the only sane one,” Sirius said, chuckling. “Which is saying something, considering she’s out there convincing people her tarot cards predict quidditch scores.”
They both laughed, the sound mingling with the music and the hum of the party. Sirius felt loose, weightless, like the world couldn’t touch him. For once, he wasn’t thinking about Remus or the way his heart still twisted at the sight of him. He was just here, trading barbs with Barty, the joint warm between his fingers, the night stretching out like it could go on forever.
“Oi, Black,” Barty said, nudging him with his elbow. “You planning to dance like that all night, or you gonna save some energy for the next stupid thing we’re definitely doing?”
Sirius smirked, blowing out a final cloud of smoke. “Depends, Crouch. You got something stupider in mind?”
“Always,” Barty said, his grin sharp and dangerous. “Stick around, princess. Night’s young.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, because yeah, he was sticking around.
They stumbled back to the dance floor in the now less crowded Ravenclaw common room, bodies pressed too close, hands way too grabby to pass as innocent. Sirius sent a silent prayer of thanks to every deity that Regulus and James had vanished ages ago—probably off snogging in some dark corner—and Evan was passed out in an armchair, snoring loud enough to rival a troll. Because, fuck, if any of them saw this, they’d never let Sirius live it down.
When the familiar pulsing beat of “Rush” by Troye Sivan kicked in, Sirius cackled at the irony, the sound bubbling out of him like champagne. The song brought back vivid, vivid memories of that night with Barty—tangled sheets, desperate hands, and way too much Firewhisky. By the way Barty laughed too, unguarded and louder than his usual sharp snicker, Sirius knew he was thinking the exact same thing. Their eyes locked, and the air crackled with that dangerous, stupid energy that always seemed to spark between them.
Sirius ran his fingers through his long, sweaty curls, telling himself it was because the room was stifling, not because he’d been dancing for hours or because Barty’s gaze was burning holes into him. His tee was still damp from the gin spill, clinging to his chest, nipple piercing glinting in the low light. He felt reckless, alive, and way too aware of Barty’s presence.
Then Barty grabbed his wrist, his grip firm and warm, and tugged him toward the staircase leading to the dorms. Sirius didn’t protest, didn’t even think about their “one-time thing” rule. Because, fuck, he was drunk, high as a bloody hippogriff, and horny as hell. His sex life had been a barren wasteland since Remus dumped him, and Barty—annoying, cocky, infuriating Barty—was right there, looking like sin in a ripped Green Day tee.
They stumbled into Barty’s thankfully empty dorm, Barty kicking the door shut and locking it with a flick of his wrist. Their lips crashed together, all teeth and heat, hands tugging at t-shirts with zero finesse. Barty’s tongue piercing was doing things —sliding against Sirius’s lips, teasing in a way that made his knees weak. Sirius panted as Barty yanked his tee off, tossing it to the floor.
“This is fucking stupid,” Sirius gasped, but there was no conviction in his voice.
“Shut up,” Barty said, pushing him onto the bed and straddling him in one smooth, practiced move. He pulled his own t-shirt off, revealing that snake tattoo coiling around his bicep and the lean, inked lines of his torso. The sight made Sirius’s mouth go dry.
“You’re so fucking cocky,” Sirius snapped, but Barty was already leaning down, kissing him hard—either to shut him up or because he couldn’t resist, it was hard to tell.
Sirius let out a whimper he’d deny to his grave when Barty’s thumbs brushed over his nipple piercing, the sensation shooting straight to his groin. Barty grinned into the kiss, smug as hell, like he’d just won a quidditch match.
“Look at that,” Barty murmured, pulling back to smirk down at him, his fingers circling the piercing with deliberate slowness.
“Fuck off,” Sirius growled, his hands trembling as he fumbled with Barty’s zipper, desperate to level the playing field.
Their jeans and boxers came off in a frantic, slightly clumsy tangle of limbs, both of them too worked up to care about grace. Barty, ever the show-off, flicked his wrist to cast a wandless cleaning spell on Sirius, just like last time, the magic tingling across his skin. Sirius had a fleeting thought about how much he pitied Muggles who had to deal with enemas and all that nonsense when wizards had spells for this exact situation. Another quick spell from Barty slicked Sirius up, the lube spell cool and smooth, and Barty’s hands were on him, spreading his legs with a confidence that made Sirius’s head spin.
Barty’s fingers slid down, working him open with practiced ease, slow at first, then faster as Sirius arched into the touch, biting his lip to keep from moaning too loud. “God, you’re impatient,” Barty teased, his voice low and rough, his free hand pinning Sirius’s hip to the mattress.
“Like you’re any better,” Sirius shot back, his voice hitching as Barty curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind his eyes. “Fucking— do something, Crouch.”
Barty laughed, dark and filthy, and pulled his fingers out, leaving Sirius gasping at the loss. He didn’t have to wait long—Barty lined himself up, slick and ready, and pushed in slow, giving Sirius just enough time to adjust before setting a rhythm that was anything but gentle. Sirius’s hands scrambled for purchase, gripping Barty’s shoulders, nails digging into inked skin as he rocked up to meet every thrust.
“Fuck, Black,” Barty groaned, his forehead dropping to Sirius’s, breath hot and ragged. “You’re so bloody tight.”
Sirius would’ve snapped something witty, but all that came out was a choked moan as Barty shifted, hitting that spot again and again, relentless. The bed creaked under them, the dorm filled with the sounds of skin on skin, panted curses, and the occasional thud as Sirius’s head hit the headboard. He didn’t care—he was too far gone, chasing the heat pooling in his gut.
“Turn over,” Barty said suddenly, pulling out and flipping Sirius onto his stomach before he could protest. Sirius scrambled onto his knees, palms pressed into the mattress, and Barty was back, thrusting in deep, one hand gripping Sirius’s hip, the other sliding up his spine to tangle in his curls, tugging just hard enough to make Sirius whine.
“You like that, don’t you?” Barty said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction as he leaned down, lips brushing Sirius’s ear. “Knew you were a slut for this.”
“Fuck—you,” Sirius gasped, but it came out more like a plea, his body betraying him as he pushed back against Barty, desperate for more. Barty’s hand slid around, finding Sirius’s cock and stroking in time with his thrusts, rough and fast, until Sirius was trembling, barely holding it together.
“Gonna—fuck, Barty,” Sirius panted, his voice breaking as the pleasure built to a breaking point.
“Not yet,” Barty said, slowing just enough to make Sirius growl in frustration. He pulled out again, ignoring Sirius’s protests, and manhandled him onto his back, hooking Sirius’s legs over his shoulders. “Wanna see your face when you lose it.”
Sirius didn’t have time to snap back before Barty was pushing back in, deeper this time, the angle fucking perfect. Sirius’s hands fisted in the sheets, his head thrown back as Barty fucked him like it was a competition, all raw energy and filthy precision. Barty’s hand was back on him, stroking fast, and Sirius was done for—his vision whited out, a broken moan ripping from his throat as he came hard, spilling over Barty’s hand and his own stomach.
Barty wasn’t far behind, his rhythm faltering as he groaned, low and guttural, thrusting through his own release before collapsing onto Sirius, both of them sweaty and breathless. They lay there for a moment, chests heaving, the dorm quiet except for their ragged breathing and the faint thump of music still drifting up from the common room.
“Fuck,” Sirius said finally, his voice hoarse. “That was…”
“Stupid?” Barty supplied, rolling off him and sprawling on the bed, one arm flung over his eyes. “Yeah, you said that already.”
Sirius laughed, weak and shaky, swiping a hand through his sweat-damp curls. “You’re such a prick.”
“And you love it,” Barty said, smirking without even looking at him. He reached for his wand, casting a quick cleaning spell to deal with the mess, then tossed it aside and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. He lit one with a snap of his fingers—show-off—and offered it to Sirius.
Sirius took it, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “We’re not doing this again,” he said, more to himself than Barty.
“Sure, princess,” Barty said, stealing the cigarette back. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Sirius glared at him, but there was no heat in it. He was too wrung out, too buzzed from the high and the sex to care. They passed the cigarette back and forth in silence, the party downstairs fading into a distant hum. Sirius knew he should get up, find his clothes, and get the hell out before this got any messier. But for now, he stayed, sprawled on Barty’s bed, the night air cool against his skin, wondering how the fuck he kept ending up here—and why he didn’t hate it as much as he should.
After they finished the cigarette, Sirius sat up slowly, his thighs still trembling from the absolute madness they’d just gotten up to. He scanned the room with bleary eyes, trying to spot his boxers in the chaos of discarded clothes littering the floor. The dorm was a wreck—jeans, t-shirts, and God-knows-what-else strewn about like a tornado had hit. He was about to slide off the bed when Barty’s voice cut through the haze.
“Just stay the night,” Barty said, and Sirius could practically hear the eye-roll in his tone.
Sirius whipped his head around, his long curls flying around him like a messy halo, and stared at Barty in disbelief. “Excuse me?” he said, raising an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline.
Barty shrugged, sprawled out on the bed like he owned the damn place, one arm tucked behind his head. “Lockhart’s off fucking Pettigrew or some shit, and Xeno’s probably doing the same with some random bloke. And you, princess, would have to do a walk of shame all the way to Archie’s dorm.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, both at how annoyingly accurate that was and at the fact that Barty and Evan insisted on calling Regulus “Archie” like it was some cute inside joke. It was equal parts infuriating and endearing, not that Sirius would ever admit the latter. The thought of stumbling through Hogwarts at this hour, half-dressed and reeking of Firewhisky, only to crash in Regulus’s dorm and face his brother’s judgmental stare? Yeah, hard pass.
“Fine,” Sirius muttered, spotting his boxers tangled in the sheets and yanking them on. “But don’t fucking touch me, Crouch.” He flopped back onto the mattress, sprawling out as far from Barty as he could without tumbling off the edge.
Barty snorted, pulling on his own boxers with a lazy grace that was unfairly attractive. “What, you think I’m gonna snog you in your sleep?”
“Who the fuck knows what’s going on in that deranged head of yours,” Sirius shot back, flipping him off before rolling onto his stomach, hugging the edge of the bed like it was a lifeline. “And stop being so fucking smug.”
“Yes, princess,” Barty said, his smirk practically audible as he settled back against the pillows.
Sirius wanted to scream into the pillow at that damn “princess” nickname Barty had been throwing around for weeks now. It was infuriating, mostly because it got under his skin in a way he couldn’t quite shake. But reacting would only give Barty more power, so Sirius bit his tongue and didn’t dignify it with a response, opting for a dramatic huff instead. Graceful restraint, that was his vibe.
As he lay there, the faint thump of electro music still blaring from the speakers downstairs, Sirius inhaled the aggressive, stupidly sexy scent of Barty’s cologne—something woodsy and sharp that clung to the sheets. His head was spinning, not just from the Firewhisky, crank, and joint, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. For once, as he teetered on the edge of sleep, his mind wasn’t stuck on Remus—on the way they used to curl up together, Remus’s warm breath against his neck, or the soft way he’d mumble Sirius’s name in his sleep. No, tonight, all Sirius could think about was the fact that he was falling asleep in Barty fucking Crouch’s bed, and that was a problem he’d regret tomorrow. But right now? He was too knackered to care.
He drifted off to the hum of the party below, the mattress dipping slightly as Barty shifted, muttering something about “bloody parties” before his breathing evened out. Sirius’s last coherent thought was that he really needed to stop making decisions this dumb. But then again, where was the fun in that?
Morning came way too soon, and with it, a headache that felt like a herd of hippogriffs had tap-danced on his skull. Sirius groaned, burying his face in the pillow, which—fuck—still smelled like Barty’s cologne. He cracked one eye open, the dorm bathed in the soft grey light of early dawn filtering through the window. Barty was sprawled on the other side of the bed, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. His snake tattoo looked almost alive in the dim light, and Sirius quickly averted his gaze before his brain could start wandering somewhere dangerous.
He sat up, wincing as every muscle in his body protested. His thighs were sore, his back ached, and there was a suspicious bruise on his hip that he didn’t remember getting. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. The dorm was still a disaster zone, clothes and empty Firewhisky bottles scattered like evidence of a crime scene. His Nirvana tee was crumpled in a corner, and his leather jacket was—where the hell was his jacket? Probably still downstairs, knowing his luck.
Barty stirred, cracking one eye open. “You look like shit, Black,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.
“Says the bloke who looks like he got dragged through a hedge backwards,” Sirius shot back, but there was no real venom in it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his jeans from the floor and tugging them on. “I’m out.”
“Not even a goodbye kiss?” Barty teased, propping himself up on one elbow, his smirk as infuriating as ever.
Sirius flipped him off, snatching his tee and pulling it on, grimacing at the faint smell of gin still clinging to it. “In your dreams, prick.”
Barty laughed, loud and unapologetic, and Sirius ignored the way it made his chest do something stupid. He needed to get out of here, find his jacket, and maybe drown himself in the Black Lake to wash away the evidence of last night. He unlocked the door and slipped out, the Ravenclaw common room mercifully quiet now, littered with cups and passed-out partygoers. Xeno’s enchanted ceiling was still flickering with faint meteors, but the magic was starting to fade.
Sirius found his jacket draped over a couch, thank God, and shrugged it on as he headed for the door. The castle was silent as he made his way to Gryffindor Tower, the cold stone corridors a stark contrast to the heat of last night. His head was a mess—part hangover, part regret, part something he didn’t want to name. Barty was trouble, plain and simple, and Sirius kept diving headfirst into it like an idiot.
When he finally reached the Fat Lady’s portrait, he muttered the password and slipped into the common room, hoping to sneak up to his dorm without running into anyone. No such luck—James was already there, sprawled on a couch with a cup of tea, looking disgustingly awake for someone who’d probably been up half the night with Regulus.
“Rough night, mate?” James asked, his grin way too knowing.
“Piss off,” Sirius muttered, collapsing into an armchair and rubbing his face. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
James raised an eyebrow but didn’t push, just tossed him a biscuit from a nearby plate. “You owe me details later, Padfoot.”
Sirius caught the biscuit, taking a bite and glaring. “Not a chance, Prongs.”
But as he leaned back, munching on the biscuit and letting the warmth of the common room sink in, Sirius couldn’t shake the memory of Barty’s smirk, the feel of his hands, or the way “princess” sounded when he said it.
Just as Sirius was about to haul himself out of the armchair, head upstairs, and collapse onto his bed to sleep through the entire day, someone stepped out from the staircase leading to the dorms.
Remus.
Sirius’s heart did that infuriating flip-flop it always did at the sight of him, because, bloody hell, Remus looked soft —all pre-full moon vulnerability that Sirius used to know so well. His brown, wavy hair was a bit messy, falling into his eyes in that effortlessly endearing way. His oversized brown sweater looked stupidly cozy, like it was begging to be stolen and worn, and his dark jeans hung on his lanky frame just right, loose but fitted in a way that made Sirius’s traitor brain stutter. Remus probably couldn’t sleep, as usual before a transformation, and Sirius’s mind flooded with memories of all those nights they’d spent curled up together in times like this. They’d talk about anything—quidditch, Muggle bands, the best way to sneak past Filch—anything to keep Remus’s mind off the looming full moon. Sirius could still feel the ghost of Remus’s warmth against him, the way his quiet laughs would vibrate through the mattress.
But, like always, Remus didn’t even glance his way. It was Oscar-worthy, honestly, the way he ignored Sirius—like he’d cast some advanced invisibility charm that only worked on him. Sirius wondered if it was a spell or just sheer stubbornness, because, fuck, nobody could blank someone that thoroughly without effort.
“Hi, Prongs,” Remus said, his Welsh accent curling around the words in that soft, familiar way that made Sirius’s chest ache. “You good for tonight?”
James grinned, stretching out on the couch like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Yep, but Reg says he’ll murder me if I chase thestrals again.”
Remus chuckled, a low, warm sound, and tossed back, “Told you he’s too good for you.” Then he was gone, slipping out through the portrait hole, probably headed to the library. Sirius knew all too well that Remus never had an appetite before a full moon, so breakfast was out of the question. He’d bury himself in books instead, pretending the world didn’t exist.
Sirius rubbed his jaw, the stubble rough under his fingers, and pushed himself up from the armchair. At least now he was sure Remus wouldn’t come back to the dorm while Sirius was there. Small mercies, right?
“You alright, Pads?” James asked, his voice softer now, his eyes flicking over with that annoying best-mate intuition.
Sirius waved him off, already halfway to the stairs. “Peachy, Prongs. Just need a nap and a shower to wash off last night’s sins.”
James snorted but didn’t press, which Sirius was grateful for. He climbed the stairs to the dorm, each step feeling heavier than the last. His body was screaming for rest—his thighs still ached, his head throbbed from the hangover, and that bruise on his hip was definitely going to be a problem later. What a fucking hell.
The dorm was mercifully empty when he got there, the familiar mess of his and Remus’s things a stark reminder of how things used to be. Remus’s side was neat, books stacked precisely, his quill resting on a half-written essay. Sirius’s side was chaos—clothes spilling out of his trunk, a half-eaten chocolate frog wrapper on the nightstand, and his wand tossed carelessly on the bed. He kicked off his boots and flopped onto the mattress, not even bothering to change out of his gin-soaked tee. The scent of Barty’s cologne still clung to him, mixing with the stale party air, and Sirius groaned into his pillow.
What the hell was he doing? Last night had been a mistake—another one to add to the growing list of Sirius Black’s Greatest Hits. Barty was trouble, with his stupid smirk and that bloody tongue piercing, and Sirius kept diving in headfirst like a moth to a cursed flame. And yet, as much as he wanted to blame the Firewhisky, the crank, or that damn Troye Sivan song, he couldn’t deny the thrill of it. Barty was chaos, sure, but he was the kind of chaos that made Sirius feel alive, like he could outrun his own heartbreak for a few hours.
He rolled onto his back, staring at the canopy of his four-poster bed. The full moon was tonight, which meant James, Peter, and probably Regulus would be out in the Shrieking Shack, keeping Remus company. Sirius used to be part of that—Padfoot running alongside Moony, chasing rabbits, nipping at his heels to make him laugh in that wolfy way. Now? He was stuck here, nursing a hangover and a bruised ego, while Remus acted like he didn’t exist.
His mind wandered back to Barty’s dorm, to the way they’d laughed and bickered even after… everything. Staying the night had been a terrible idea, but there was something almost comforting about it—falling asleep to Barty’s steady breathing, the faint hum of the party downstairs, the knowledge that, for once, he wasn’t alone with his thoughts. Not that he’d ever admit that to Barty. The git would never let him live it down.
Sirius sighed, dragging a hand through his curls. He needed to get his shit together. No more hooking up with Barty. No more letting his guard down. He was Sirius Black, for fucks’ sake—charming, reckless, untouchable. He didn’t need Remus, and he definitely didn’t need whatever the hell was going on with Crouch. He just needed a nap, a shower, and maybe a plan to pull off the prank of the century to remind everyone who he was.
His eyes drifted to Remus’s side of the room again, landing on a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye on the nightstand. Sirius’s chest tightened. He could still hear Remus reading passages aloud to him late at night, his voice soft and warm, pausing to argue about whether Holden Caulfield was a prat or just misunderstood. Sirius had always leaned toward prat, but he’d let Remus ramble because it made him happy.
“Fuck it,” Sirius muttered, forcing himself to look away. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. Tonight, Remus would transform, James would be there, and Sirius would stay here, far away from it all. Tomorrow, he’d face Barty, dodge James’s questions, and pretend everything was fine. For now, though, he let the exhaustion pull him under, hoping his dreams would be kinder than his reality.
Chapter Text
Sirius slept through the entirety of Saturday, only stirring when it was well past dinner time and the moon was creeping high in the sky, its silvery glow spilling through the dorm window. He tried to ignore the familiar pang in his chest—the one that always hit during a full moon, when he knew Remus was out there, transforming. Sirius dragged himself out of bed, his body still aching from the previous night’s chaos, and took a much-needed shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering scent of gin and Barty’s stupidly potent cologne. He packed a few things into his bag—his wand, a change of clothes, and a fresh pack of cigs—because there was no way he was staying in the Gryffindor dorm tonight.
He couldn’t risk running into Remus in the morning, all bruised and tired from the full moon, and doing something colossally stupid like asking, “You okay, Moony?” Remus would ignore him, obviously, and Sirius would be left feeling like a humiliated idiot. Hard pass. Besides, he needed a distraction, and crashing in Regulus’s dorm with Evan and his endless TikTok scrolls would be a blessing right now.
But when Sirius slipped into the Slytherin dorms, using the password Regulus had given him, the place was empty. No Evan, no Regulus, no one. Just silence and the faint smell of Evan’s lavender-scented candles (because apparently, he was that guy now). With a dramatic groan, Sirius flopped onto the spare bed, his leather jacket still on, and pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen, wondering if texting Barty was the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas. Spoiler: it absolutely was. But fuck if Barty wasn’t the perfect distraction—annoying, chaotic, and dangerously good at pulling Sirius out of his own head.
sirius: wyd
He tossed his phone onto the bed, trying to play it cool, but ended up checking it every thirty seconds like a total loser. Twenty minutes later—because of course Barty would keep him hanging just to make him look desperate—the reply finally came through.
crouch 💀🔫: why, miss me?
Sirius rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained something.
sirius: ur deluded
crouch 💀🔫: and you texted back right away lmao
Sirius cursed under his breath, because, shit, he had, hadn’t he? Caught red-handed. He could practically hear Barty’s smug laugh through the screen.
crouch 💀🔫: feelin left out by your little friends, huh?
Sirius wanted to scream. Or maybe chuck his phone across the room. Barty had a knack for hitting every single one of his buttons, and it was infuriating how well he read him.
sirius: fuck you
crouch 💀🔫: calm down, princess
Sirius was this close to yeeting his phone into the nearest wall, cursing himself for even texting Barty in the first place. Why did he do this to himself? He knew better. But then—
crouch 💀🔫: meet me in the room of requirement, i have a few joints left
Sirius frowned at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. Fuck, that was tempting. So tempting. Exactly the kind of reckless distraction he was craving right now—weed, Barty’s infuriating banter, and a chance to forget the full moon and everything it meant. His brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, but his body was already halfway out the door.
sirius: fine, 10 min
crouch 💀🔫: bring your stupid lips
Sirius gasped at the screen, his cheeks flushing despite himself. What, did Barty think he wanted to hook up again? The audacity of this git. But… well, maybe he did. Who knew at this point? His judgment was clearly on holiday.
sirius: shut up, i just want weed
crouch 💀🔫: ofc princess
Sirius groaned, shoving his phone into his pocket. He checked himself in the mirror—his curls were a mess, his Sex Pistols tee was wrinkled, but his leather jacket and ripped jeans still made him look like he had his shit together. Good enough. He slipped out of the Slytherin dorms, dodging a couple of first-years who were sneaking around past curfew, and made his way to the seventh floor.
The Room of Requirement was always a gamble—you never knew what you’d get until you paced in front of it three times and made your request. Sirius thought somewhere to chill with a mate as he paced, hoping the room wouldn’t get too creative. The door appeared, and he pushed it open to find a cozy, dimly lit space that looked like a cross between a Muggle loft and a wizard’s hideout. There was a plush couch littered with mismatched cushions, a low table with a charmed ashtray that vanished ash, and a record player spinning some slow, moody Tame Impala track. Fairy lights twinkled along the walls, casting a warm glow, and the air smelled faintly of incense.
Barty was already there, sprawled on the couch like he owned it, a joint dangling between his fingers. His Green Day tee was swapped for a black tank top that showed off his snake tattoo, and his baggy jeans hung low enough to reveal a sliver of black boxers. His eyeliner was smudged just enough to look intentional, and that damn tongue piercing glinted as he grinned.
“Took you long enough, princess,” Barty said, patting the couch next to him. “Thought you’d chickened out.”
“Keep dreaming, Crouch,” Sirius said, flopping onto the couch, snatching the joint from Barty’s hand. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl in his lungs before blowing it out in a slow, deliberate stream. “You’re lucky I showed up at all.”
“Lucky?” Barty snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms, his bicep flexing in a way that Sirius definitely didn’t notice. “You’re the one who texted me, desperate for a hit.”
“Desperate’s a strong word,” Sirius said, passing the joint back. “I just didn’t feel like dying of boredom in an empty dorm.”
Barty’s smirk widened, but he didn’t push it, just took a drag and handed the joint back. They settled into an easy rhythm, passing it back and forth, the music filling the silence. Sirius felt the weed start to work its magic, smoothing out the edges of his thoughts, dulling the ache of knowing Remus was out there without him. He leaned his head back against the couch, staring at the fairy lights, which seemed to pulse in time with the music.
“So,” Barty said after a while, his voice low and lazy. “You gonna mope about your ex all night, or you actually gonna have fun?”
Sirius shot him a glare. “I’m not moping, wanker. I’m chilling.”
“Sure you are,” Barty said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why you look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Sirius flipped him off but didn’t argue, because, yeah, maybe he was a little mopey. Instead, he grabbed the joint again, taking a deeper drag this time. “What’s your deal, anyway? Why’re you hiding out here instead of causing chaos somewhere?”
Barty shrugged, stealing the joint back and twirling it between his fingers. “Sometimes chaos is better one-on-one. Plus, I figured you’d need a babysitter tonight, what with your mates off playing werewolf wranglers.”
Sirius snorted, the weed making the comment funnier than it should’ve been. “Babysitter? Please, I’m the one keeping you out of trouble.”
Barty laughed, loud and sharp, and the sound sent a stupid little thrill through Sirius’s chest. “Keep telling yourself that, Black. You’re a walking disaster.”
“Takes one to know one,” Sirius shot back, grinning despite himself. He shifted on the couch, their knees brushing, and he ignored the spark that shot through him. This was just weed and banter. Nothing more. Definitely not a repeat of last night.
Barty seemed to sense the shift, his eyes flicking to Sirius’s lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned back, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Says the guy who literally offered me drugs,” Sirius said, stealing the joint again. “You’re not exactly a saint, Crouch.”
“Never claimed to be,” Barty said, his smirk returning. “But you like it, don’t you?”
Sirius opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, because—fuck—he didn’t have a good comeback for that. Instead, he took another drag, letting the smoke curl out of his mouth as he leaned closer, just to mess with Barty. “Maybe I do. What’re you gonna do about it?”
Barty’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, the air between them felt charged, like the second before a spell goes off. Then Barty laughed, breaking the tension, and shoved Sirius’s shoulder. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, princess.”
Sirius grinned, the weed making him bold. “Who says I can’t finish?”
They stared at each other, the challenge hanging in the air, and Sirius knew he was playing with fire. But tonight, with the moon high and his head fuzzy, he didn’t care. He was here, Barty was here, and for once, he wasn’t thinking about Remus.
He had no clue who leaned in first, but he’d deny to his grave that it was him. The kiss was slow, a little lazy thanks to the weed, but Barty’s tongue piercing was doing its damn job, sending sparks through Sirius’s foggy brain. Barty’s hands found his hips, pulling him onto his lap, and Sirius straddled him without a hint of protest because, apparently, snogging his brother’s best mate was the distraction he needed right now. The joint lay forgotten in the charmed ashtray, its embers fading as Barty’s hands burned hot against Sirius’s skin, gripping his hips like they belonged there. Sirius’s curls fell into Barty’s face, tickling his cheeks, and everything felt good —blurry, warm, and just right.
Until Barty opened his stupid mouth.
“You didn’t deny the werewolf part,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
Sirius froze, his hands tangled in Barty’s hair, the kiss forgotten.
Fuck.
He hadn’t denied it. He’d just—completely unplanned, like a bloody idiot—spilled Remus’s secret. Again. Jesus fucking Christ, someone should ship him off to Azkaban for sheer stupidity.
“Relax, princess,” Barty said, smirking up at him, clearly enjoying Sirius’s panic. “I’ve known since fourth year.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his weed-slowed brain struggling to process. “What the hell? How?” he asked, baffled, his hands still hovering in Barty’s hair like he wasn’t sure whether to pull or punch.
Barty shrugged, casual as if he were discussing quidditch scores. “I’m not dumb, Black. Lupin’s pretty obvious if you pay attention. Scars, vanishing every full moon, all that jazz.”
Sirius blinked at him, the room spinning slightly from the weed and the sheer shock. “You know?” he repeated, his voice cracking a little.
Barty tipped his head back, his hands sliding shamelessly to Sirius’s arse like they’d done this a thousand times. “Duh. Rosie knows too. Archie knew long before Potter told him, though.” He smirked, his mismatched eyes glinting. “You lot aren’t exactly subtle.”
Sirius’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. His brain was short-circuiting, trying to keep up. Evan knew? Regulus knew before James spilled? God, was their whole secret just… not a secret? He was about to ask, to demand how deep this went, when Barty dropped another bomb.
“But the dog suits you,” Barty hummed, his smirk turning positively wicked. “Explains why you’re so good in doggy style.”
“Oh my fucking God,” Sirius groaned, burying his face in his hands, mortified. “How the fuck do you know that?”
Barty’s laugh was low and filthy, vibrating through Sirius’s chest. “That one I’ll keep to myself,” he said, his smirk maddeningly cryptic. “Now c’mon, kiss me more.”
“I’m going to fucking strangle you,” Sirius snapped, but there was no real heat in it, his hands dropping to Barty’s shoulders.
“Kinky,” Barty shot back, completely unbothered.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius said, but he was already leaning in, because—fuck it—Barty’s smugness was infuriatingly hot.
Barty’s hand slid up to Sirius’s hair, tugging him into another kiss, and this one was less lazy, more urgent, like they were picking up where they’d left off last night. The weed made everything soft around the edges, but Barty’s piercing and the press of his lips were sharp, grounding Sirius in the moment. He melted into it, his hands roaming Barty’s chest, fingers brushing the edge of that snake tattoo. Barty’s grip on his arse tightened, pulling him closer, and Sirius let out a quiet moan he’d deny later, because, fuck, this was stupid, but it felt so damn good.
They broke apart for air, foreheads pressed together, both breathing hard. Sirius’s brain was a mess—half reeling from Barty’s bombshell about knowing their secrets, half drowning in the heat of the moment. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?” he asked, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “About Remus. Or… the other stuff.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, his hands still firmly on Sirius’s hips. “What, you think I’m gonna run to the Daily Prophet? Ravenclaw Git Outs Gryffindor’s Werewolf and Animagus Pals’? Nah, princess, I’m not that bored.”
Sirius snorted, relaxing slightly. “You’re still a git, though.”
“Guilty,” Barty said, grinning as he leaned in to nip at Sirius’s jaw, making him shiver. “But you like it.”
“Shut up,” Sirius muttered, but he tilted his head to give Barty better access, because apparently, he had zero self-control tonight. Barty’s lips trailed down his neck, teasing, and Sirius’s hands fisted in Barty’s tank top, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
“How’d you figure out the dog thing?” Sirius asked, partly to distract himself from the way Barty’s teeth were grazing his collarbone. “Seriously, Crouch, spill.”
Barty pulled back, smirking like the cat who got the cream. “Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for noticing things. Like how you, Potter, and Pettigrew always disappear with Lupin during full moons. And the way you move—too graceful for a human, too wild for anything but a dog. Plus, I saw you sniffing around the Forbidden Forest once in fifth year. Not subtle, Black.”
Sirius gaped at him, torn between outrage and grudging respect. “You’re a bloody stalker.”
“Observant,” Barty corrected, his hands sliding up Sirius’s back, tugging him closer. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Sirius said, but he was laughing now, the weed and Barty’s audacity loosening the knot in his chest. He shoved Barty’s shoulder playfully. “What else do you know, then? You gonna tell me you’ve cracked the Map or something?”
Barty’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I have. Maybe I know all your little secrets, princess.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, but his heart skipped a beat. Barty was dangerous—not just because of his stupid piercing or his hands that knew exactly where to touch, but because he saw things. Too much, maybe. And yet, Sirius couldn’t bring himself to care. Not tonight, with the moon high and the Room of Requirement wrapping them in its cozy haze.
“Whatever,” Sirius said, leaning in to kiss him again, because talking was overrated, and Barty’s lips were a better use of his time. This kiss was slower, deeper, the weed making every touch feel like it was in slow motion. Barty’s hands roamed, one slipping under Sirius’s tee to trace the lines of his ribs, the other tangling in his curls, tugging just enough to make Sirius gasp into his mouth.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, Crouch,” Sirius murmured against his lips, his hands sliding down to Barty’s waist, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans.
“Good way to go, though,” Barty said, his voice rough with want as he pulled Sirius closer, their bodies pressed tight. “Admit it, Black. You’re having fun.”
Sirius didn’t answer, just kissed him harder, because yeah, he was having fun—too much fun, probably.
The kiss deepened, all teeth and heat, the weed making every sensation sharper, like the world had dialed itself up to eleven. Sirius was still straddling Barty’s lap, his hands gripping the back of Barty’s neck, fingers tangled in the short, dark hair at his nape. Barty’s tongue piercing flicked against Sirius’s lips, a maddening tease that sent a jolt straight to his core. He could feel Barty’s hands, hot and possessive, sliding under his tee, tracing the curve of his spine before settling on his hips, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
Sirius broke the kiss, gasping for air, his head spinning from the weed and the sheer intensity of Barty. “You’re such a fucking menace,” he panted, but his hands were already tugging at Barty’s tank top, yanking it up and over his head in one impatient move. The fabric hit the floor somewhere, revealing the lean lines of Barty’s torso, the snake tattoo coiling around his bicep like it was alive. Sirius’s eyes lingered, his fingers itching to trace the ink, but he didn’t—because that felt too intimate, too much like admitting something he wasn’t ready to face.
Barty smirked, clearly catching the way Sirius’s gaze lingered. “Like what you see, princess?” he drawled, his voice low and rough, that damn piercing glinting as he spoke.
“Shut it,” Sirius snapped, but his hands betrayed him, sliding down Barty’s chest, feeling the heat of his skin under his palms. He shoved Barty back against the couch, taking control—or at least pretending to. Barty let him, his smirk never fading, his hands gripping Sirius’s thighs as Sirius leaned down to kiss him again, hard and messy, all teeth and desperation.
Barty’s fingers fumbled with the hem of Sirius’s tee, pulling it off and tossing it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The cool air of the Room of Requirement hit Sirius’s skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning through him. Barty’s hands were everywhere—on his hips, his back, brushing over his nipple piercing with a deliberate slowness that made Sirius hiss, the sensation shooting straight to his groin.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” Barty murmured against his lips, his thumb circling the piercing again, teasing until Sirius arched into the touch, a low moan slipping out before he could stop it.
“Fuck you,” Sirius gasped, but it came out more like a plea, his hands already working on Barty’s jeans, tugging at the zipper with shaky fingers. Barty laughed, low and filthy, and helped him, kicking off his jeans and boxers in one go. Sirius followed suit, shedding his own clothes with a reckless urgency, the weed making every move feel both frantic and dreamlike.
Barty’s wand was on the table, and with a lazy flick, he cast a cleaning spell, the familiar tingle of magic washing over Sirius’s skin. Another quick spell slicked him up, the lube spell cool and smooth, and Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and a little delirious. “God, I love magic,” he muttered, thinking of how much easier this was than the Muggle alternative.
“Perks of being a wizard,” Barty said, his voice dripping with smug amusement as he pulled Sirius back onto his lap, hands spreading his thighs with a confidence that made Sirius’s head spin. “Now stop talking and let me ruin you.”
Sirius didn’t have a comeback for that, not when Barty’s fingers were already sliding down, working him open with a practiced ease that had Sirius biting his lip to keep from moaning too loud. Barty’s touch was deliberate, teasing, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that made Sirius’s vision blur. “Fuck, Crouch,” he gasped, his hands gripping Barty’s shoulders, nails digging into inked skin as he rocked against him.
“Patience, princess,” Barty teased, but his own voice was strained, his eyes dark with want as he watched Sirius fall apart. He added another finger, stretching him slow and thorough, until Sirius was trembling, his thighs shaking with the effort of holding himself together.
“Get on with it,” Sirius growled, his voice rough, his patience long gone. He shoved at Barty’s chest, pushing him flat onto the couch and climbing over him, taking control. Barty’s smirk was infuriatingly smug, but he let Sirius take the lead, his hands settling on Sirius’s hips as Sirius lined himself up and sank down, slow and deliberate, a low groan tearing from his throat at the stretch.
“Fuck,” Barty hissed, his head tipping back, his hands tightening on Sirius’s hips as he fought to stay still. “You’re gonna kill me, Black.”
“Good,” Sirius managed, his voice shaky as he started to move, setting a rhythm that was slow at first, then faster, harder, chasing the heat building in his gut. The couch creaked under them, the fairy lights casting flickering shadows across their skin, and Sirius lost himself in it—the slick slide, the burn, the way Barty’s eyes locked onto his like he was the only thing in the room.
Barty wasn’t one to stay passive for long. With a sudden move, he flipped them, pinning Sirius to the couch, one hand braced beside his head, the other gripping his thigh as he thrust in deep, setting a relentless pace. Sirius’s back arched, a choked moan spilling out as Barty hit that spot again and again, merciless. “God, you’re—fuck,” Sirius panted, his hands scrambling for purchase, one tangling in Barty’s hair, the other clawing at his back.
“Thought you wanted to strangle me,” Barty said, his voice rough with effort, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear. “This is better, yeah?”
“Shut—fuck—up,” Sirius gasped, but he was grinning, his head thrown back as Barty’s hand slid between them, stroking him in time with his thrusts, fast and rough, until Sirius was trembling, right on the edge.
“Gonna come for me, princess?” Barty murmured, his voice low and filthy, and that was it—Sirius’s vision whited out, a broken moan ripping from his throat as he came, spilling over Barty’s hand and his own stomach. Barty followed a moment later, his rhythm faltering, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he thrust through his release, collapsing onto Sirius in a sweaty, breathless heap.
They lay there, panting, the Tame Impala track still spinning in the background, the fairy lights painting their skin in soft gold. Sirius’s heart was pounding, his body buzzing with the aftershocks, and he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him, half-delirious from the weed and the intensity.
“What’s so funny?” Barty mumbled, his face buried in Sirius’s neck, his breath hot against his skin.
“This,” Sirius said, gesturing vaguely at the two of them, tangled together on the couch. “We’re so fucking stupid.”
Barty snorted, rolling off him but staying close. “Speak for yourself, Black. I’m a genius.”
Sirius laughed again, swiping a hand through his sweat-damp curls. “Genius at being a prick, maybe.”
Barty grinned, grabbing his wand to cast another cleaning spell, the magic tingling over their skin. He reached for a fresh joint from the table, lighting it with a snap of his fingers and taking a drag before passing it to Sirius. “You’re not complaining, though.”
Sirius took the joint, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Don’t get cocky, Crouch. This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure, princess,” Barty said, his smirk back in full force. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, because what was the point? He was too wrung out, too high, too caught up in the moment to care. They passed the joint back and forth, the Room of Requirement cocooning them in its warm glow, the music a soft hum in the background.
“Stay here tonight,” Barty said after a while, his voice quieter, almost serious. “No point dragging your arse back to Slytherin.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but he was too comfortable to move. “You just want me to stay so you can call me princess again.”
Barty laughed, low and warm. “Guilty.”
Sirius flipped him off but didn’t get up, sinking deeper into the couch, the weed and Barty’s warmth lulling him toward sleep. He knew he’d regret this tomorrow—hell, he was already regretting it—but for now, he let himself drift, the chaos of the night fading into a hazy, reckless kind of peace.
Sirius stirred awake, still sprawled in the Room of Requirement, blinking groggily at the fairy lights twinkling above. He was dressed—jeans and his crumpled Sex Pistols tee—which he definitely didn’t remember pulling on himself. That meant Barty, in some rare act of mercy or whatever the hell it was, had cast a spell to clothe him while he was passed out. The thought made Sirius’s lips twitch, half-annoyed, half-amused. Barty Crouch Jr., playing nursemaid? The world was truly upside down.
The couch they’d been on had transformed overnight—courtesy of the Room of Requirement’s knack for giving you exactly what you needed. It was now massive, practically a bed, piled with soft cushions and draped in a mismatched array of blankets. The room itself was still cozy, the Tame Impala record long since stopped, leaving only the faint hum of magic in the air. The charmed ashtray on the coffee table was still dutifully vanishing ash, and the incense scent lingered, mixing with the faint trace of Barty’s cologne.
Speaking of Barty, he was tucked into the opposite corner of the couch, looking stupidly soft in his sleep. His dark hair was mussed, falling into his face, and his usual smirk was gone, replaced by a relaxed expression that made him look… almost human. For once, he wasn’t pissing Sirius off, which was honestly a miracle. Barty drove him up the bloody wall—especially in bed, with that infuriating tongue piercing and those hands that knew exactly what they were doing. But now, curled up with one arm slung over a cushion, he looked almost tolerable. Almost.
Sirius groaned inwardly, rubbing his face with both hands. He was a mess. A complete, catastrophic mess. Sleeping with Crouch? C r o u c h? Staying the night first in his dorm and now here, in this magical den of bad decisions? Thank God they hadn’t woken up cuddling, because Sirius would’ve committed a felony and signed himself up for a straitjacket faster than you could say “Azkaban.” He wasn’t about to add “cuddling with Barty Crouch Jr.” to his list of sins.
He reached down, fishing his phone from where it had somehow ended up under the coffee table, and muttered a quiet request to the room for a blanket. Seconds later, a fluffy blue one appeared, soft and warm, like it had been plucked from a Hufflepuff’s dreams. Sirius wrapped himself in it like a burrito, tucking his knees up and settling back against the couch. It was past 4 a.m., still too early to sneak back to Regulus’ dorm without risking Filch or his nosy cat, so he decided to stay put and scroll through TikTok until curfew lifted.
His body was still sore—Barty had definitely left bruises on his thighs, the bastard—but he also felt… satisfied, for lack of a better word. Loose, relaxed, like the tension he’d been carrying for weeks had finally eased. He wasn’t about to dwell on that, though. Or on Barty, or Remus, or the mess of his love life. Instead, he lit up a fresh joint from the stash on the table, took a long drag, and opened TikTok, diving into a rabbit hole of Kurt Cobain edits set to Nirvana’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” and Robert Downey Jr. clips from his Iron Man days. Say what you want about Sirius’s taste in men, but he had range —grunge rock gods and charming Muggle actors were his vibe.
He glanced at Barty, still passed out, and was relieved to note the git didn’t snore. Small mercies. The last thing Sirius needed was Barty’s obnoxiousness following him into sleep. He took another drag, the weed smoothing out the edges of his thoughts, and scrolled through another edit, this one of Kurt Cobain brooding in a flannel shirt. His mind wandered, but not to Remus, for once. Instead, it kept circling back to Barty—the way he’d looked last night, all sharp edges and smug grins, the way his hands had felt, the way he’d called him “princess” like it was a challenge. Sirius shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He was not catching feelings for Barty Crouch Jr. That was a one-way ticket to disaster.
Still, as he sat there, cocooned in his blanket, the joint warm between his fingers, he couldn’t help but steal another glance at Barty. The guy looked almost… peaceful, his chest rising and falling steadily, one hand curled loosely around a cushion. It was weirdly disarming, seeing him like this, without the usual arrogance or that damn smirk. Sirius’s stomach did a stupid little flip, and he immediately blamed the weed.
His phone buzzed, pulling him out of his thoughts. A text from Evan, of all people, popped up on the screen.
evan 🌟: where tf are u? archie is back and losing his mind that ur not here
Sirius snorted, typing back a quick reply.
sirius: chill, I’m alive. just chilling. tell reggie to calm his tits
evan 🌟: u better not be with crouch again. arch will hex u into next week
Sirius’s fingers froze over the screen, his heart doing that annoying skip thing again. How the hell did Evan know? Was he that obvious? He glanced at Barty, still asleep, and typed back, playing it cool.
sirius: nah, just vibing. be back soon
He locked his phone, tossing it onto the couch, and took another drag of the joint. The room was still cozy, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over everything, and Sirius felt a strange sort of calm settle over him. He wasn’t ready to face Regulus’s inevitable interrogation or James’s knowing grins, and he definitely wasn’t ready to deal with Remus, who’d probably be recovering in the hospital wing by now, all pale and tired and heartbreakingly untouchable.
For now, he was content to stay here, wrapped in his blanket, scrolling through TikTok and pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Barty shifted in his sleep, muttering something incoherent, and Sirius’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. The git was trouble, no question, but he was the kind of trouble Sirius couldn’t seem to stay away from.
He leaned back, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and decided to let himself enjoy the moment. The full moon was over, the night was quiet, and he was still buzzing from the weed and the memory of last night’s chaos.
Sirius dozed off again, lulled by the soft glow of the fairy lights and a Paul Mescal TikTok edit still looping on his phone, the actor’s brooding eyes and Irish accent playing on repeat. When he woke up, his phone had slid onto the couch, battery probably half-dead, and Barty was already awake, sprawled across the other end of the massive couch like he owned it. Surprise, surprise, he was smoking a joint, the familiar scent of weed curling through the air. His dark hair was a mess, his black tank top wrinkled, and that damn snake tattoo looked almost smug in the morning light filtering through the Room of Requirement’s conjured windows.
“Morning, princess,” Barty said, his voice all sleepy and rough, hoarse in a way that was unfairly hot. It was the kind of morning voice that could make anyone weak, and Sirius hated him for it.
“Fuck off, prick,” Sirius muttered, yanking the fluffy blue blanket higher around his shoulders like a shield. His curls were a disaster, sticking to his face, and he was pretty sure he still smelled like smoke and bad decisions.
Barty just snorted, unfazed, and offered him a drag, holding the joint out with a lazy grin. Sirius hesitated for half a second before snatching it, taking a long pull and letting the smoke settle in his lungs. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, and wondered when the hell he and Barty had become… what, weed buddies? Weedenemies? Whatever this was, it was weirdly comfortable, and that was a problem in itself.
“So, you still gonna pretend this is a one-time thing?” Barty asked, his tone light but his mismatched eyes sharp, watching Sirius like he could see right through him.
“It is,” Sirius said firmly, tipping the ash into the charmed ashtray that swallowed it instantly. “And we’re not telling anyone shit. This—” he gestured vaguely between them, “—is literally my downfall.”
Barty took the joint back, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Your downfall was when you started dating Lupin,” he said, smooth as anything, like he was commenting on the weather.
Sirius almost snorted. Almost. The audacity of this git. “Fuck off,” he said instead, shooting Barty a glare that lacked any real heat.
Barty leaned back, taking a drag and blowing out a perfect smoke ring, because of course he could do that. “Why’d you two break up, anyway?” he asked after a beat, casual as hell, like he wasn’t poking at the biggest bruise in Sirius’s life.
Sirius snorted, louder this time, because no fucking way was he spilling his guts to Barty Crouch Jr. “Like I’m gonna tell you,” he said, crossing his arms under the blanket.
“Come on, Black,” Barty said, nudging Sirius’s leg with his foot, his smirk growing. “What’d he do? Forget your anniversary? Tell you your hair looks like a bird’s nest?” He paused, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a teasing drawl. “Or did he catch you checking out someone else’s arse?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, torn between disbelief and amusement. Was Barty seriously thinking Sirius was the one who’d ended things with Remus? Did the whole school think that? The idea was almost hilarious, in a twisted sort of way. “Keep guessing, prick,” he said, leaning back against the couch, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’m not telling you shit.”
Barty laughed, low and rough, the sound vibrating through the cozy room. “Fair enough. But I’ll figure it out eventually. I’m good at sniffing out secrets, remember?” He tapped his temple, his piercing glinting as he grinned.
“Yeah, you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes but fighting a grin of his own. He snatched the joint back, taking another drag to avoid meeting Barty’s gaze. The weed was doing its job, smoothing out the edges of his hangover and the lingering ache of seeing Remus earlier. But Barty’s question had stirred something up, a flicker of the old hurt that Sirius had been trying to drown in Firewhisky and bad decisions.
He wasn’t about to tell Barty the truth—that Remus had been the one to walk away, that Sirius had fucked it all up with his reckless mouth and his inability to keep his temper in check. The fight had been stupid, like most of their fights, but it had snowballed into something bigger, something Sirius couldn’t fix with a charming grin or a whispered apology. And now Remus acted like Sirius didn’t exist, and Sirius was left picking up the pieces with people like Barty, who were dangerous in a whole different way.
“Oi, princess,” Barty said, snapping Sirius out of his thoughts. He was holding out a fresh joint, already lit, because apparently, he had an endless supply. “Stop brooding. You’re harshing the vibe.”
“I’m not brooding,” Sirius lied, taking the joint and inhaling deeply. “I’m just… plotting your demise.”
Barty’s laugh was sharp and bright, cutting through the haze. “Good luck with that. I’m unkillable.” He stretched out, his tank top riding up to show a sliver of inked skin, and Sirius had to force himself to look away before his brain wandered somewhere stupid.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, passing the joint back and forth, the room still cocooning them in its warm glow. Sirius’s phone buzzed again, and he glanced at it to see another text from Evan.
evan 🌟: arch is pacing like a caged niffler. u alive or what?
Sirius snorted, typing back a quick reply.
sirius: tell reggie to chill. I’m fine. just vibing
evan 🌟: vibing with crouch? u r so fucked, mate
Sirius groaned, locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch. Evan was too perceptive for his own good, and Regulus was probably going to hex him into next week when he found out where Sirius had been. But for now, he didn’t care. The weed was keeping him loose, and Barty’s presence—annoying as it was—felt like an anchor, keeping him from spiraling into thoughts of Remus and the full moon.
“So,” Barty said after a while, his voice lazy and teasing. “You sticking around, or you gonna do the walk of shame back to Slytherin?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, taking a drag and blowing the smoke toward Barty’s face just to be a prick. “What, you want me to stay so you can keep calling me princess?”
“Obviously,” Barty said, snatching the joint back with a grin. “It’s growing on you, admit it.”
“In your dreams, Crouch,” Sirius said, but he was smiling, the weed and Barty’s banter pulling him out of his own head. He leaned back, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and decided he wasn’t in a rush to leave. The Room of Requirement was too cozy, the joint was too good, and Barty—well, Barty was trouble, but he was the kind of trouble Sirius couldn’t seem to resist.
“Wanna watch something?” Barty asked, gesturing to a conjured TV screen that had appeared on the wall, because of course the Room of Requirement could do that. “I’m thinking Stranger Things. You look like you’d vibe with Eddie Munson.”
Sirius snorted, because yeah, he totally would. “Fine, but only if we skip to season four. No way I’m sitting through the slow bits.”
“Deal,” Barty said, waving his wand to start the show, the screen flickering to life. They settled in, passing the joint back and forth, the room filled with the sound of synth music and Barty’s occasional commentary about how he’d “totally pull off Eddie’s hair.” Sirius laughed, letting himself sink into the moment, the weed and Barty’s presence keeping the world at bay.
Chapter Text
The rest of the weekend was a blur of dodging Regulus’s pointed questions, Evan’s infuriatingly knowing smirks (Sirius was definitely going to confront Barty about that—if that prick was blabbing about their hookups, Sirius would hex his balls off, no question), and James’s relentless attempts to make Remus’s latest transformation sound like a grand adventure. Total bullshit, and Sirius could see right through it the second he spotted Remus at the Gryffindor table during dinner on Saturday.
Remus looked rough—worse than usual. Paler, smaller, like he’d shrunk into his own skin, his eyes shadowed and his shoulders hunched. Lily was glued to his side, murmuring something in that soft, soothing voice of hers, probably trying to coax him into eating. Sirius’s fingers twitched, his body itching to waltz over there and ask, “You okay, Moony?” like he used to. But he didn’t. Maybe he’d left the last scraps of his dignity in Barty’s bed, but he wasn’t about to make an even bigger idiot of himself in front of the entire Great Hall.
Besides, he had bigger things to focus on—like avoiding the fact that his birthday was looming. Sunday, November 3rd, right after the Halloween party, was his and Regulus’s birthday, and usually, Sirius was all in for making sure the whole damn school knew it was the day. He’d throw parties, charm the common room with fireworks, and generally act like the world revolved around him (because, duh, it did). This year, though? He’d rather crawl into a hole and vanish. The idea of celebrating without Remus, with everyone’s eyes on him, felt like a punch to the gut. So, much to James’s absolute delight, Sirius threw himself into quidditch practice instead, channeling all his energy into perfecting his Beater skills for their upcoming match against Ravenclaw in a few weeks.
And, Merlin’s beard, he was good. Like, scary good. He was already a menace with a bat, but now? He was smashing Bludgers with pinpoint accuracy, sending them screaming across the pitch like they’d personally offended him. James, with his obsession for practicing at every possible moment, was practically glowing with pride, shouting, “That’s my boy, Pads!” every time Sirius nailed a shot. Maybe James was onto something with all this training nonsense, because Sirius felt unstoppable—on the pitch, at least.
And okay, fine— fine —he and Barty might’ve… gotten carried away a couple of times during the week. Like on Monday, when they ended up making out in an empty Charms classroom during lunch break, Barty’s hands in Sirius’s hair and that damn tongue piercing doing unspeakable things. Or Wednesday, when—God help him—Barty got on his knees in a dusty broom cupboard, and Sirius was pretty sure he’d be smug about it for the rest of his life. Because, fuck, having Barty Crouch Jr. looking up at him with that pierced tongue and those mismatched eyes? It was a religious experience, plain and simple. Sirius had to bite his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot every time he thought about it.
Sirius was doing his best to keep things under wraps, dodging Evan’s smug, knowing smirks that made him want to hex the git into next week. He was almost certain Evan had figured out what was going on with him and Barty—probably because Barty couldn’t keep his big mouth shut, the absolute prick. Sirius was just waiting for the day James, Peter, or— God forbid —Remus spotted them on the Marauders’ Map, tangled up in some empty classroom like a pair of reckless idiots. That would be a disaster of apocalyptic proportions, and Sirius was not ready for that conversation. Not now, not ever.
For now, he was keeping his head down, throwing himself into quidditch like it was his lifeline and avoiding birthday plans like they were a contagious disease. By Thursday, Sirius was seriously (ha, ha) considering running away from Hogwarts for the weekend. Maybe he’d lock himself in that flat Uncle Alphard had left him in Camden, blast some Nirvana, and pretend the world didn’t exist. No birthday cake, no James trying to charm the Great Hall’s chandeliers to sing “Happy Birthday,” no Regulus giving him that judgy side-eye. Just him, some takeaway curry, and blissful solitude.
And, okay, fine —he was also distracting himself with Barty and, uh, some meth, because apparently Barty was a first-class junkie with a seemingly endless supply of chaos. Sirius couldn’t really say no when Barty offered, especially when the git casually mentioned he’d charmed every batch with a spell to make it non-addictive, so they wouldn’t end up like those Muggle horror stories about fentanyl overdoses. Sirius had to admit—grudgingly, and never out loud—that Barty was a fucking genius. A reckless, infuriating genius, but a genius nonetheless. He wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of saying it, though. Not in a million years.
They were back in the Room of Requirement again, because—thank God—it was unplottable, meaning it didn’t show up on the Marauders’ Map, and neither did they. The room had transformed completely from their last visit, and Sirius was living for it. Gone was the cozy loft vibe; now it was a full-on hookup den, like something straight out of a Muggle club fantasy. A massive bed with crisp white sheets dominated the space, bathed in the glow of red UV lights that made everything feel sultry and dangerous. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall, currently dormant, and Barty’s phone was connected to a speaker, blasting a sex playlist—think The Weeknd and Chase Atlantic, all slow beats and suggestive lyrics. The air smelled faintly of incense and weed, with a hint of Barty’s stupidly sexy cologne.
The sex was still more I-hate-you than anything else, all sharp edges and biting kisses, which was exactly how Sirius wanted it. The last thing he needed was sappy thrusts, soft whispers, or—God forbid—legs tangled under the sheets afterward like some lovesick couple. This was raw, messy, and gloriously uncomplicated, and Sirius was more than fine with that.
They’d barely made it through the door before Barty had him pinned against the wall, lips crashing together, hands already tugging at Sirius’s jacket. “Eager, are we?” Sirius teased, his voice rough as he shoved Barty back, just to regain some control.
“Says the bloke who’s been eye-fucking me all week,” Barty shot back, his smirk infuriatingly smug as he yanked Sirius’s tee over his head, tossing it onto the floor. That damn tongue piercing glinted in the red light, and Sirius hated how much it got to him.
“Shut up,” Sirius growled, but he was already pulling Barty’s tee off. He pushed Barty toward the bed, their kisses all teeth and heat, hands fumbling with zippers and belts in a frantic race to get rid of clothes. Jeans and boxers hit the floor, and Barty, ever the show-off, flicked his wand to cast a wandless cleaning spell, the magic tingling across Sirius’s skin. A second spell slicked him up, and Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, breathless and a little delirious. “You’re such a prick,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Barty grinned, pushing Sirius onto the bed and climbing over him, straddling his hips. “You love it, princess.” His hands were everywhere—gripping Sirius’s thighs, tracing the lines of his hips, brushing over his nipple piercing with a deliberate slowness that made Sirius hiss, the sensation shooting straight to his groin.
“Fuck you,” Sirius gasped, but he was already arching into Barty’s touch, his hands fisting in the white sheets as Barty leaned down, kissing and biting along his neck, leaving marks Sirius would have to glamour later. Barty’s piercing grazed his skin, and Sirius let out a moan he’d deny to his grave, his head tipping back to give Barty better access.
“Keep making those noises, Black,” Barty murmured, his voice low and filthy, “and I’m gonna lose it.”
“Then fucking do something about it,” Sirius snapped, impatient, his hands tugging at Barty’s hair to pull him closer. Barty laughed, dark and rough, and slid down, his hands spreading Sirius’s thighs with a confidence that made his head spin. He worked Sirius open with his fingers, slow and teasing at first, then faster, curling just right to hit that spot that had Sirius cursing and gripping the sheets like a lifeline.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking needy,” Barty teased, but his own voice was strained, his eyes dark with want as he watched Sirius fall apart. He didn’t give Sirius time to snap back, lining himself up and pushing in, slow and deliberate, until Sirius was gasping, his nails digging into Barty’s shoulders.
“Fuck—move, Crouch,” Sirius demanded, his voice rough, and Barty didn’t need telling twice. He set a rhythm that was relentless, hard and fast, the bed creaking under them as the red lights cast their bodies in a surreal glow. Sirius rocked up to meet every thrust, his hands roaming Barty’s back, tracing the ink of his tattoo, the heat building in his gut until it was almost too much.
“Flip over,” Barty said suddenly, pulling out and manhandling Sirius onto his stomach before he could protest. Sirius scrambled onto his knees, palms pressed into the mattress, and Barty was back, thrusting in deep, one hand gripping Sirius’s hip, the other sliding up to tug at his curls, just hard enough to make him whine.
“You’re such a slut for this,” Barty said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear.
“Fuck—off,” Sirius gasped, but he was pushing back against Barty, desperate for more, his body betraying every ounce of his bravado. Barty’s hand slid around, finding Sirius’s cock and stroking in time with his thrusts, rough and fast, until Sirius was trembling, barely holding it together.
“Gonna come, princess?” Barty murmured, his voice all heat and challenge, and that was it—Sirius’s vision whited out, a broken moan ripping from his throat as he came hard, spilling over Barty’s hand and the sheets. Barty followed moments later, his rhythm faltering, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he thrust through his release, collapsing onto Sirius in a sweaty, breathless heap.
They lay there for a moment, panting, the playlist still thumping in the background, Chase Atlantic’s “Swim” filling the room with its sultry beat. Sirius’s heart was pounding, his body buzzing with the aftershocks, and he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him, half-delirious from the meth and the intensity.
“What’s so funny?” Barty mumbled, rolling off him.
“This,” Sirius said, gesturing vaguely at the two of them. “We’re fucking idiots.”
Barty snorted, grabbing his wand to cast a quick cleaning spell, the magic tingling over their skin. “Speak for yourself, Black. I’m a mastermind.” He reached for a fresh joint from the table, lighting it with a snap of his fingers and taking a drag before passing it to Sirius.
Sirius took it, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Mastermind of chaos, maybe.” He leaned back against the headboard, the sheets pooling around his waist, and glanced at Barty, who was sprawled out like he owned the place, his snake tattoo gleaming in the UV light. “We’re not doing this again,” Sirius said, more to himself than Barty.
“Sure, princess,” Barty said, his smirk back in full force. “You said that last time.”
Sirius flipped him off but didn’t argue, because what was the point? He was too buzzed, too wrung out, too caught up in the moment to care.
“So,” Barty said, side-eyeing Sirius from his spot on the massive bed, sprawled at a safe distance so their skin wouldn’t touch, like they’d silently agreed to keep it casual. “You gonna sulk through your entire birthday?”
“Fuck you,” Sirius fired back without missing a beat, his voice muffled by the white sheets tangled around his waist. He was still buzzed from the meth and weed, his body loose but his mind just sharp enough to be annoyed.
Barty snorted, taking a drag and blowing a perfect smoke ring. “Come on, you’re such an attention whore, I’m shocked you haven’t been yapping about it for weeks.”
Sirius rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain, because—fair. Normally, he’d be charming the pants off everyone in Hogwarts, making sure the entire castle knew November 3rd was Sirius Black Day (and Regulus’s, but whatever). But this year? The thought of strutting around, demanding attention, made his stomach twist.
“Yeah, well, fuck that,” he said, his tone flat. “I’m a disowned twink in my own family, and all my friends are shitting on me.”
Barty slowly raised an eyebrow, his mismatched eyes glinting with curiosity. “Eh?”
“You think I started hanging out with you lot because I wanted to?” Sirius shot back, raising his own eyebrow as he snatched the joint from Barty’s fingers. He took a long drag, letting the smoke burn his lungs before exhaling. “No offense, Crouch, but you’re not exactly my first choice for company.”
Barty smirked, unbothered, and leaned back against the headboard. “I thought you were just bored of the Gryffindor goodie-goodies,” he said, his tone teasing, like he was tossing Sirius a lifeline to keep it light.
Sirius snorted, blowing smoke right into Barty’s face just to be a prick. “I mean, kinda. But that’s beside the point.”
Barty studied him for a long moment, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful, which was honestly unnerving. “Wait, you’re telling me your friends picked sides after you dumped Lupin?”
“I’m not telling you shit,” Sirius said, his voice sharp as he blew another cloud of smoke at Barty, mostly to hide the way his chest tightened at the mention of Remus. The idea that everyone thought he’d dumped Remus was still fucking hilarious in the worst way possible. He wasn’t about to correct Barty, though—no way was he spilling that mess.
Barty didn’t push, just stole the joint back and took a drag, his eyes still fixed on Sirius like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Alright, keep your secrets, princess,” he said, his smirk creeping back. “But you can’t sulk forever. It’s your birthday. You’re supposed to be, like, blowing up the Great Hall with fireworks.”
Sirius laughed, a short, bitter sound, and leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the red-tinted ceiling. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m over the whole thing. Disowned, remember? Family’s a write-off, mates are… complicated, and I’m not exactly in the mood to play the Sirius Black Show.”
Barty tilted his head, his piercing catching the light as he passed the joint back. “Boo-hoo, Black. Cry me a river. You’ve still got me, Rosie, and Archie with Potter. We’re not exactly boring.”
Sirius snorted again, taking the joint and inhaling deeply. “You’re a lot of things, Crouch, but boring ain’t one of them.” He paused, glancing at Barty, who was watching him with that infuriating mix of amusement and something else. “Doesn’t mean I’m throwing a party, though.”
“Fine, be a miserable git,” Barty said, shrugging as he stretched out, his long legs sprawling across the bed. “But you’re not spending your birthday alone in some dingy Camden flat. That’s pathetic, even for you.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped. “How the fuck do you know about my flat?”
Barty grinned, all teeth and mischief. “I know things, princess. Told you, I’m observant.”
“You’re a bloody stalker,” Sirius muttered, but he was fighting a grin, the weed and Barty’s sheer audacity loosening the knot in his chest. He took another drag, letting the smoke curl out of his mouth as he studied Barty. The git looked annoyingly good, even post-hookup, with his mussed hair and that stupid smirk on his face. Sirius hated how much he noticed.
“Alright, genius,” Sirius said, passing the joint back. “What’s your big plan, then? You gonna throw me a secret birthday bash in here? Conjure a cake and sing me a song?”
Barty laughed, loud and sharp, the sound bouncing off the walls of the Room of Requirement. “Fuck no. I don’t do sappy. But I’ve got more meth, more weed, and—” he gestured to the TV, where the screen flickered to life, now playing Stranger Things season four, “—Eddie Munson to keep you entertained. Plus, you know, I’m not bad company.” He winked, and Sirius wanted to hex him just for existing.
“Low bar, Crouch,” Sirius said, but he was already settling back against the pillows, the joint warm between his fingers.
They passed the joint back and forth, the conversation drifting to safer territory—quidditch, music, and whether Eddie Munson could take Sirius in a fight (Barty said yes, Sirius called him delusional). Sirius’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it to see a text from James.
prongs 🦌: where u at, birthday boy?
Sirius groaned, locking his phone without replying. “James is gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “He’s probably got the whole Gryffindor house ready to ambush me with confetti.”
Barty snorted, stealing the joint back. “Sounds like Potter. You want me to hex him for you? I know a good one that’ll make his hair turn pink for a week.”
“Tempting,” Sirius said, laughing despite himself. “But he’d probably rock it.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the weed and the music wrapping them in a hazy bubble. Sirius’s mind wandered, but for once, it didn’t linger on Remus or the mess of his birthday. Instead, it kept circling back to Barty—the way he sprawled on the bed like he owned it, the way his morning voice had sounded, the way he kept pushing Sirius’s buttons just to see what he’d do. It was infuriating, but it was also… fun. More fun than Sirius wanted to admit.
“Oi, princess,” Barty said, nudging Sirius’s leg with his foot. “You’re zoning out again. If you’re gonna sulk, at least do it with style.”
Sirius flipped him off, but he was grinning, the weed making everything feel lighter. “Keep talking, Crouch, and I’ll charm your tongue piercing to stick to your teeth.”
Barty laughed, loud and unapologetic, and Sirius felt that stupid spark in his chest again. He ignored it, focusing on the joint and the TV, where Eddie Munson was shredding a guitar in the Upside Down.
“But you’re coming to the Halloween party tomorrow, yeah?” Barty asked after a beat, his tone casual but his mismatched eyes flicking to Sirius with a challenge. “I mean, you’re not that pathetic to hide, right?”
Sirius laughed, a sharp, bright sound that cut through the hazy air. “Fuck off, prick. I’m going.”
Barty’s smirk widened, and he leaned back against the headboard, the red UV lights catching the glint of his tongue piercing. “Gonna dress as a slut?”
“Yep,” Sirius said, popping the ‘p’ with a grin, smug as hell. Because no matter how much of a mess this whole thing was—his birthday, Remus, his life—at least he had someone infuriatingly hot and stupidly good in bed to hook up with.
“Hot,” Barty drawled, his gaze raking over Sirius in a way that made his skin prickle, even though they were both still sprawled at a safe, no-touching distance on the massive bed.
Sirius smirked, leaning back on his elbows, his curls falling into his face. “Maybe you’ll rip off my little mesh top if you’re lucky, though,” he hummed, his voice all tease and bravado.
Barty laughed, low and rough, stubbing out the joint in the charmed ashtray that vanished the ash instantly. “If you ask nicely.”
“You won’t catch me dead asking,” Sirius shot back, his eyes narrowing, but the grin on his face gave him away.
Barty just gave him a ‘you’re full of shit’ look, one eyebrow raised, and Sirius rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The git had a knack for calling his bluff, and it was equal parts annoying and… well, thrilling, if Sirius was being honest. Not that he’d ever admit it.
“Who’s throwing it, anyway?” Sirius asked, steering the conversation somewhere safer before Barty could push his buttons any further. “You and Xeno, as usual?”
Barty nodded, stretching out with a lazy grace. “Yep. Ravenclaw’s finest, at your service.”
Sirius snorted, grabbing a fresh joint from the table and lighting it with a snap of his fingers, because he could be a show-off too. “You aspiring to be a party planner in the future or what?”
Barty grinned, all teeth, and propped his arm behind his head, his gaze drifting to the TV screen. “Nah, aiming for the Twenty-Seven Club,” he said, not missing a beat.
Sirius cackled, nearly choking on the smoke he’d just inhaled. “You fucker,” he said, laughing so hard he had to sit up straighter, the joint dangling from his fingers.
Barty’s grin was pure mischief, unapologetic and infuriatingly charming. “Gotta aim high, princess.” He leaned back, looking way too pleased with himself, and Sirius couldn’t help but shake his head, still chuckling.
“So, what’s the deal with this party?” Sirius asked, passing the joint to Barty. “You and Xeno gonna outdo last year’s chaos? Because I’m pretty sure half the school’s still talking about the charmed pumpkins that sang Queen on a loop.”
Barty took the joint, inhaling deeply before blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Oh, we’re going bigger. Xeno’s got this idea for a fog spell that makes you see your worst fear in the mist, but, like, in a fun way. And I’m working on a charm to make the drinks glow different colors based on your mood. You know, blue for sad, red for horny, that kinda shit.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “That’s actually kinda cool. You’re such a nerd under all that eyeliner, Crouch.”
“Fuck off,” Barty said, but he was grinning. “You’ll be thanking me when you’re sipping a red drink and eyeing me in your slutty mesh top.”
Sirius laughed, loud and unfiltered, the weed making everything funnier. “Keep dreaming, prick. I’m not that easy.”
“Says the guy who’s been hooking up with me all week,” Barty shot back, his smirk so smug Sirius wanted to hex it off his face.
“Temporary insanity,” Sirius said, stealing the joint back and taking a drag to hide his grin. “Don’t get used to it.”
Barty just gave him that ‘you’re full of shit’ look again, and Sirius ignored the spark in his chest, focusing instead on the TV. They settled into a comfortable silence, passing the joint back and forth, the music and the weed wrapping them in a hazy bubble. Sirius’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it to see another text from James.
prongs 🦌: pads, u can’t hide forever, get ur arse back here
Sirius groaned, tossing his phone onto the bed. “Prongs is relentless,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “He’s gonna drag me back to Gryffindor Tower if I don’t show up soon.”
Barty snorted, stealing the joint back. “Sounds like a you problem. Should’ve stayed here with me. I don’t do cakes, but I’ve got more weed and better company.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re so full of yourself, Crouch.”
“Admit it, Black. I’m your favorite bad decision.” Barty said, winking as he leaned back, the joint dangling from his lips.
Sirius flipped him off, but he didn’t deny it, because—fuck—Barty wasn’t entirely wrong. He was a bad decision, no question, but he was the kind that kept Sirius’s head above water, at least for now. The thought of the Halloween party, with its charmed fog and glowing drinks, was actually kind of exciting, and Sirius knew he’d show up in something outrageously hot, just to mess with Barty. A mesh top, maybe some leather trousers, eyeliner sharp enough to kill—yeah, he could work with that.
“Alright, I’m out,” Sirius said, pushing himself off the bed and grabbing his clothes from the floor. “Gotta face the music before Prongs sends a search party.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, still sprawled like a king on his throne. “You sure you don’t wanna stay? I could make it worth your while, princess.”
“Tempting,” Sirius said, pulling on his jacket and running a hand through his curls. “But I’ve got a birthday to survive and a brother to dodge. Catch you at the party.”
Barty grinned, blowing a smoke ring in his direction. “Wear that mesh top, Black. I’ll be waiting.”
Sirius laughed, shaking his head as he headed for the door, the room’s sultry vibe lingering on his skin.
He fished his phone out of his pocket, his mind already scrambling for an excuse good enough to keep Regulus and James from digging into where he’d been. He wasn’t about to admit he’d just spent the last few hours getting thoroughly wrecked by Barty in the Room of Requirement. No way in hell.
sirius: where r u
James replied at the speed of light, because of course he did.
prongs 🦌: reg’s dorm, c’mon
sirius: omw
He pocketed his phone, muttering a quick spell to smooth his wild curls, because Barty seemed to be on a personal mission to ruin his hair every damn time they hooked up. Another flick of his wand cast a glamour to hide the bite marks and—God knows what else—dotting his neck and chest. He wasn’t about to walk into Slytherin looking like he’d been mauled by a hippogriff.
After muttering the password to the Slytherin common room, Sirius strode in, ignoring the curious glances from a couple of second-years playing Exploding Snap by the fireplace. He headed straight for Regulus’s dorm, pushing the door open to find Regulus and James sprawled on the bed, passing a bottle of Muggle whiskey back and forth like it was water. Regulus’s MacBook was propped on the nightstand, Breaking Bad playing softly, Walter White mid-rant about chemistry or some shit.
“Hi,” Sirius said, shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it onto the spare bed before flopping down at the foot of Regulus’s bed, hijacking the whiskey bottle in one smooth move. He took a swig, the burn grounding him as he tried to act like he hadn’t just stumbled out of a hookup den.
“Where the hell were you?” Regulus asked, squinting at him with that annoying twin brother stare that could see right through bullshit.
“Crying my eyes out,” Sirius replied, not missing a beat, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Pretending he was still grieving over Remus was way less humiliating than admitting Barty had just fucked him into the mattress—and that he’d enjoyed every second of it. And that was saying something.
Besides, it was the perfect excuse. James and Regulus always softened when they thought he was moping about Remus, and Sirius was sly enough to milk it for all it was worth. Predictably, Regulus rolled his eyes, and James winced, their reactions so perfectly synchronized Sirius had to bite back a grin.
“You sure you don’t wanna do anything for your birthday?” James asked for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice gentle but persistent.
“Prongs,” Sirius groaned theatrically, slumping deeper into the mattress, the whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. “I’m begging you, let it go.”
“I mean,” James added quickly, holding up his hands like he was negotiating a hostage situation, “I know you don’t want a party, and fair enough. But since Reggie doesn’t want one either, we were thinking we could just go out. Sneak to Hogsmeade, Apparate to London, or whatever, and get absolutely wasted.”
A slow grin spread across Sirius’s face, the idea sparking something in his chest. “Hell yeah,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter. Getting pissed in some grimy London pub sounded like the perfect way to drown out the birthday blues—and avoid any awkward run-ins with Remus.
Regulus grinned too, looking way too smug as he turned to James. “See? Told you.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re always right,” James said, rolling his eyes fondly, his arm brushing against Regulus’s in a way that was so disgustingly cute Sirius pretended not to notice.
“Rosier and Crouch coming too?” Sirius asked, keeping his voice casual even though his pulse kicked up at the mention of Barty. He took another sip of whiskey to cover it.
“Haven’t asked them yet,” Regulus said, shrugging as he fished his phone from the tangled sheets. “Gimme a sec.” His thumbs flew over the screen, texting the group chat, his face lit by the soft glow of the phone.
Sirius leaned back, propping himself on his elbows, and launched into his usual quidditch banter with James, arguing about whether Ravenclaw’s new Seeker had any chance against Gryffindor’s offense. “Mate, I’m gonna send a Bludger their way so fast they’ll think it’s a comet,” Sirius said, grinning.
James laughed, his eyes sparkling. “That’s the spirit, Pads. We’re gonna crush ‘em.”
A few minutes later, Sirius’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, keeping his face carefully neutral as he saw the text from Barty.
crouch 💀🔫: aww, so ur throwing a birthday after all
Sirius snorted inwardly but kept his expression unreadable, a skill honed from years of surviving the Black family’s mind games. If living in that forsaken household had given him anything besides scars and trauma, it was the ability to keep his feelings locked down tight, face included.
sirius: i’m not throwing, i’m planning to get wasted
crouch 💀🔫: well i’m planning something too
sirius: if that’s not a blowjob for me you can stop
crouch 💀🔫: woah, i gave you one and you think ur getting another one?
sirius : pretty much, yeah
crouch 💀🔫: we’ll see, princess
Sirius rolled his eyes as he pocketed his phone and leaned back, taking another swig of whiskey.
“They’re in,” Regulus said, still texting, his voice pulling Sirius back to the room. “Evan’s already planning his outfit, and Crouch is going on about who he’s gonna shag.”
Sirius snorted, ostensibly at the idea but really at the fact that—well, it was probably him. Hopefully. Not that he’d admit that, even to himself. He covered it with another sip of whiskey, letting the conversation shift back to quidditch and birthday plans.
“So, London, yeah?” James said, sitting up and looking way too excited. “We could hit that Muggle club in Soho, the one with the dodgy DJ and cheap shots. Or maybe Camden, since you’ve got that flat now, Pads.”
“Yeah, Camden sounds good. We can pregame there, then hit the pubs. Evan’ll probably want to drag us to some hipster bar with overpriced cocktails.” Regulus said, smirking.
Sirius laughed, the idea of Evan in his element—probably wearing some ridiculous velvet jacket and ordering a lavender-infused martini—cracking him up. “As long as Crouch doesn’t start a fight with the bartender,” he said, keeping his tone light even as his mind flicked back to Barty’s text.
“Bold of you to assume he won’t,” Regulus said, finally setting his phone down and stealing the whiskey bottle back. “You know Crouch. Chaos follows him like a shadow.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one,” James said, nudging Sirius with his foot, his grin teasing. “You two are like a walking disaster zone when you’re together.”
Sirius flipped him off, but his heart did a stupid little skip. James didn’t know the half of it, and Sirius planned to keep it that way. “Keep talking, Prongs, and I’ll charm your broom to buck you off mid-match.”
James laughed, undeterred, and the conversation flowed easily, the whiskey loosening their tongues as they planned their London escapade. Sirius let himself sink into it—the warmth of the dorm, the familiarity of James and Regulus’s banter, the promise of a night out with mates. It wasn’t perfect—Remus was still a ghost in his head, and the birthday thing still felt like a weight—but it was enough. A night of getting pissed with his brother, James, Evan, and Barty’s inevitable chaos was exactly what he needed to survive turning eighteen.
His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at it to see another text from Barty.
crouch 💀🔫: wear something slutty for the london trip. i’m cashing in that mesh top promise
Sirius smirked, typing back quickly.
sirius: only if u beg, prick
He pocketed his phone, leaning back against the bedframe, the whiskey bottle now back in his hand. The Breaking Bad episode was still playing, Regulus and James were bickering about whether Jesse Pinkman was a better character than Walt, and Sirius felt a flicker of something like hope.
Chapter 5
Notes:
let's spice it up 😌😌
Chapter Text
On non-uniform Fridays, Sirius dressed to kill, naturally. He might’ve felt like absolute shit inside, but no way was he letting that show. Sirius Black looking anything less than devastating? Not a chance. Plus, he was on a mission to outshine Barty, as always. Even after a week of sneaking around and hooking up in every shadowy corner of Hogwarts, Sirius was determined to prove he was the hotter one.
And honestly? It was a cakewalk. Barty’s growled “you’re so fuckin’ hot” in his ear during their latest romp, all rough and desperate, was all the evidence Sirius needed. So, yeah, he was feeling smug as hell that Friday, strutting into the Great Hall in his best black jeans, a ripped Joy Division tee that flashed just a hint of his nipple piercing, and his studded leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His curls were artfully tousled, and a quick wand flick had sharpened his eyeliner to lethal precision.
Eat your heart out, Crouch.
That smugness held strong until lunch, when Sirius spotted Remus at the Hufflepuff table, chatting with—correction, flirting with—fucking Gabriel Truman.
Sirius knew Remus’s flirting like the back of his hand. That soft, lopsided smile, the crinkle in his amber eyes, the way he leaned in just a touch too close, all relaxed and open—it used to be aimed at Sirius, back when things were good. Now, he was watching his ex turn that charm on Gabriel bloody Truman, a Hufflepuff prefect with floppy blond hair and a do-gooder vibe that made Sirius want to hurl a hex. Remus laughed at something Gabriel said, head tilting back, and Sirius’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might lose his breakfast.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, stabbing his eggs with enough force to splatter yolk across his plate like a crime scene.
“What?” Regulus asked, frowning from across the table, fork paused mid-air.
Sirius ignored him with the grace of a seasoned diva and locked eyes with Barty, who was sipping his black coffee like the picky git he was. Barty’s mismatched eyes gleamed with amusement, his smirk screaming he’d clocked exactly why Sirius was in a mood. Bastard was loving this.
“I’m going for a smoke,” Sirius said, their not-so-subtle code for “let’s make out.”
“Same,” Barty drawled, standing and grabbing his backpack with that infuriatingly lazy swagger. His baggy jeans hung low, flashing a strip of black boxers, and his My Chemical Romance tee clung just right to his lean frame. Git.
Barty was a vault when he wanted to be, and nobody could accuse them of being obvious about their hookups. James and Regulus didn’t even blink as they left, too caught up in some quidditch debate. Evan, though, shot Sirius a look—like he knew, or at least suspected, something was up. Those Rosier eyes missed nothing, and Sirius mentally noted to dodge any grilling later.
They slipped out of the Great Hall, weaving through the sea of students, and headed for their new favorite spot: a hidden room on the second floor behind a portrait of a knight and a princess in a meadow. Touch the tiny yellow daisy in the corner, and the portrait swung open to reveal a small balcony with a killer view of the lake. Perfect for a smoke, a snog, or… well, whatever else they got up to.
“You’re so—” Barty started as the portrait closed behind them with a soft thud, but Sirius’s lips were already on his, shutting him up. Barty didn’t miss a beat, dropping his backpack and backing Sirius against the balcony railing, hands finding his hips like they were drawn there. The kiss was hot and messy, all teeth and tongue, Barty’s piercing working its usual magic. Sirius tangled his fingers in Barty’s hair, tugging just hard enough to earn a groan into the kiss.
“Jealous much?” Barty murmured, pulling back just enough to smirk, hands sliding under Sirius’s tee to graze the skin above his waistband.
“Shut it, Crouch,” Sirius snapped, voice too breathy to have bite. He yanked Barty closer, kissing him harder, because fuck Remus and his flirting, and fuck Gabriel Truman’s stupid hair.
Barty chuckled, low and filthy, and spun them so Sirius’s back was against the stone wall, the cold seeping through his thin tee. “You’re so easy to rile up,” he said, nipping at Sirius’s jaw, hands roaming, one slipping to squeeze his arse through his jeans. “Saw Lupin with that Hufflepuff and lost your shit, didn’t you?”
“I said shut it,” Sirius growled, but he arched into Barty’s touch, because yeah, he was riled. He slid his hands under Barty’s tee, fingers tracing the snake tattoo on his bicep, and kissed him again, pouring all his anger and hurt into it. Barty met him with equal fire, one hand cupping Sirius’s face, the other tugging his belt loops to pull their hips flush.
They were a tangle of hands and bruising kisses, the lake sparkling below, the distant hum of students fading away. Sirius’s head spun, Remus’s smile burning in his mind, but Barty’s touch grounded him, kept him here. He hated needing this, but fuck, it felt good.
“Fuck, you’re hot when you’re pissed,” Barty said, pulling back to breathe, forehead pressed against Sirius’s. His lips were swollen, eyeliner smudged, and Sirius felt a smug thrill at the sight.
“Better than you,” Sirius shot back, grinning as he tugged Barty’s tee up, exposing more inked skin.
Barty laughed, shoving Sirius’s jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “Keep telling yourself that, princess.”
“Deluded,” Sirius said, but he was laughing too, the knot in his chest loosening. He leaned in, nipping at Barty’s lower lip, and Barty groaned, hands sliding to Sirius’s thighs, hitching them up so Sirius’s legs wrapped around his waist. The wall was cold against his back, but Barty’s body was warm, pressing him into the stone, and for a moment, everything—Remus, Gabriel, the world—didn’t matter.
When they finally pulled apart, Barty looked way too smug for someone who’d popped a boner the second Sirius touched him. Sirius was too pissed to tease him about it, though—mostly because he was just as bad, heart still racing from the kiss. The moment his feet hit the ground, he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one with a snap of his wand, and offered one to Barty.
“You’re not subtle, you know,” Barty hummed, lighting his cigarette with a casual finger-snap, the flame sparking in his mismatched eyes.
“I’m gonna push you off this balcony,” Sirius shot back, leaning against the railing, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the crisp lake air.
Barty, the absolute smacktard, just smirked and took a drag, looking infuriatingly unbothered. They smoked in silence, the only sound the faint rustle of wind and the distant chatter from the castle. Sirius’s mind was already racing, plotting his outfit for the Halloween party tonight—something slutty enough to make Remus regret ever looking at anyone else. That mesh top, definitely, the one that clung to his chest and left little to the imagination. Pair it with those carpenter black jeans that made his V-line look like a crime and his arse positively illegal. Maybe some silver chains, a studded choker, and eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Yeah, he’d have the whole party eating out of his hand—and Remus would see what he’d lost.
“You gonna mope all day?” Barty asked, breaking the silence as they flicked their cigarette butts over the railing, watching them vanish into the lake below.
“I don’t mope,” Sirius snapped, but oh, he was.
And he was also planning to stalk Remus on the Marauders’ Map like a man possessed, just to see if he was hooking up with that twat Truman. The thought made his stomach churn, but he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to know.
“Let’s go before you cream your pants,” Sirius said, grabbing his backpack and heading for the portrait exit, his boots scuffing the stone floor.
Barty rolled his eyes but followed, muttering something about Sirius being dramatic. They split up in the corridor, Barty sauntering off to whatever class he was pretending to attend, while Sirius headed to his own, his mind anywhere but on the lesson. He was useless through all his classes, not even bothering to fake attention. During Muggle Studies, he slumped in his seat, doodling a charmed skull that smoked tiny cartoon cigarettes on his parchment, and leaned toward James, keeping his voice low.
“Who’s got the Map now?” he asked, eyes flicking to the professor, who was droning on about Muggle electricity.
“Wormy,” James whispered back, adjusting his glasses. “He’s using it to check if Lockhart’s banging anyone else besides him.”
Sirius forced a quiet snort, though it felt hollow. “He’s pathetic.”
James shrugged, a fond grin tugging at his lips. “Obsessed, more like. You need the Map?”
“Yeah, I wanna check something,” Sirius said, nodding, then wincing as he added, “Can you, y’know, grab it from him?”
Because, oh, Peter was James’s loyal little shadow, but the bastard had picked Remus’s side after the breakup, and that made him dead to Sirius. Fucking traitor. The sting of it still burned, and Sirius wasn’t about to grovel to Peter for anything, Map or otherwise.
“Yeah, sure,” James said easily, already pulling out his phone to text Peter—and probably Regulus too, since he was glued to his phone half the time, sending sappy messages to his boyfriend. Sirius rolled his eyes but was grateful James didn’t ask why he needed the Map. He had a knack for knowing when to let things slide.
Meanwhile, a text from Barty was burning a hole in Sirius’s phone: ror before party? Sirius was all in for letting Barty fuck him into the mattress in the Room of Requirement—God, the idea alone was enough to make his jeans feel tight—but he needed to know what was going on with Remus and Gabriel first. He could just ask James, sure, but that would mean admitting he cared, and Sirius wasn’t that pathetic. Not yet, anyway.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket, ignoring Barty’s text for now, and tried to focus on the lesson. Fat chance. His mind kept looping back to Remus’s smile, Gabriel’s stupid hair, and the way Barty’s hands had felt on that balcony. By the time class ended, Sirius was itching to get his hands on the Map, his fingers drumming on his desk as James shot him a quick thumbs-up, signaling he’d gotten through to Peter.
“Meet me in the common room after last class,” James said as they packed up. “I’ll have it.”
“Cheers, mate,” Sirius said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading out, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread. He had no idea what he’d do if he saw Remus and Gabriel’s names together on the Map, tucked away in some corner of the castle. Probably something stupid, like storming in and making a scene, which would only prove Remus’s point about him being a reckless mess. But he couldn’t not look. It was like picking at a scab—painful, but impossible to resist.
The second Sirius’s hands closed around the Marauders’ Map in the Gryffindor common room, he bolted, muttering a quick “Cheers, Prongs” to James before making a beeline for the Astronomy Tower. He’d camp out there until the Halloween party started if that’s what it took to stalk Remus. Fine, maybe it was unhinged, but he was a Black, and unhinged was practically his birthright. Literally—considering the Black family tree was more like a twisted knot, with Regulus being not just his brother but, like, a third cousin or something equally messed up. Sirius tried not to dwell on how fucked up that was, or how it probably explained half his issues. Nope, not today.
He took the tower stairs two at a time, boots echoing in the spiral staircase, and the second he reached the top, he flopped onto the cold stone floor, back against the wall, the sky sprawling above through the open roof. He pulled out the Map, heart pounding, and tapped it with his wand, muttering, “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good” under his breath.
The parchment sprang to life, ink swirling into the familiar layout of Hogwarts. Sirius scanned it furiously, eyes darting across the castle. First, Gryffindor Tower. James was still in the common room, chatting with Peter and Marlene—probably about quidditch, since Marlene was the second Beater and Peter, the pathetic little rat, always wormed his way into every conversation like he was owed a spot. Lily and Mary were in their dorm, their names neatly labeled. No sign of Remus.
His stomach twisted, but he kept looking. The library—nothing. Just a cluster of names he didn’t know and didn’t care to know, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs cramming for some exam he’d already forgotten about. He checked the Great Hall, the kitchens, even the bloody greenhouses. Zilch.
The knot in his gut tightened, and he switched tactics, searching for Gabriel’s name. Same fucking luck— nowhere.
His heart sank like a stone, and then it hit him like a Bludger to the face: they were in the Room of Requirement. You didn’t go there unless you were banging someone. Sirius knew that better than anyone—pre-Remus, he’d hooked up with girls there; with Remus, it was their secret spot for stolen moments; and now, well, he was sneaking off there with Barty. The Room’s unplottable nature was a dead giveaway, and Sirius wanted to scream.
He fished a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a shaky snap of his wand, and took a long drag, staring at the blank spot on the Map where the Room should’ve been. The smoke curled into the chilly air, and he chain-smoked, one cigarette after another, eyes fixed on the parchment as if he could will Remus’s name to appear somewhere else. His mind was a mess—images of Remus and Gabriel tangled together, Gabriel’s stupid floppy hair, Remus’s lopsided smile. It made him want to hex something, or maybe just cry, but he’d rather die than admit that.
Hours ticked by, the sky darkening, stars popping out like they were mocking him. He kept smoking, kept staring, until finally—fucking finally —Remus’s name appeared on the Map, right after dinner. And, yep, there was Gabriel fucking Truman’s name beside him. Sirius’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
He tapped the Map with his wand, muttering, “Mischief managed,” and watched the ink fade. Shoving the parchment into his backpack, he stood, brushing off his jeans, and made a mental note: he was not giving the Map back. If he could figure out Remus was hooking up with Gabriel in the Room of Requirement, then James, Peter, or Regulus could just as easily clock him and Barty doing the same. And that? Not fucking happening.
He stormed down the tower stairs, a feral urge bubbling in his chest to march into the Halloween party and make out with Barty right in front of Remus, just to twist the knife. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.
But he wasn’t that desperate to make Remus jealous, even if the thought of shoving his tongue down Barty’s throat in front of him was stupidly tempting. But outing himself and Barty like that? Hard pass. As far as Sirius was concerned, this thing with Barty was just a fling—a convenient, mind-numbing distraction from the shitshow of his life. No way was he letting the whole school in on it. So, instead of causing a scene, he stormed to Regulus’s dorm in Slytherin, his boots stomping loud enough to drown out the feral urge to do something reckless.
Inside, Regulus and James were sprawled on Regulus’s bed, the picture of cozy coupledom. Regulus had his nose in a book—probably some pretentious novel—while James scrolled through his phone, glasses sliding down his nose. Sirius tossed his backpack to the floor with a thud and beelined for his dresser, rifling through it for that mesh top he’d been planning to wear. The one that screamed “fuck you, Remus” and “fuck me, Barty” in equal measure.
“You not at the party yet?” James asked, raising an eyebrow at Sirius’s chaotic energy as he yanked open drawers.
“Going there,” Sirius muttered, digging through a pile of band tees. “Where the fuck is it?”
Regulus lowered his book, peering over the top with that annoying twin-brother stare that saw right through him. “You good, Siri?”
Because nobody knew you better than your literal twin, right?
“No,” Sirius snapped, finally spotting the mesh top and yanking it out along with his carpenter jeans. “But I will be.” He tossed the clothes onto the bed and started stripping, kicking off his boots and peeling off his Joy Division tee without a shred of modesty.
James and Regulus exchanged a look—the kind that said they were having a whole silent conversation about him. Sirius ignored it, tugging on the jeans, the low waistband showing off his V-line like it was a weapon.
“So, uh, you saw Moony and Gabe, huh?” James ventured, voice cautious like he was poking a sleeping dragon.
“Gabe,” Sirius muttered, venom dripping as he zipped up the jeans. “What the fuck kind of name is that?”
Regulus set his book aside and sat up straighter, his tone slow and way too accurate. “You’ve been flirting with people since we got back to school, you know.”
“But I don’t fuck ‘em,” Sirius snapped, pulling the mesh top over his head, the sheer fabric clinging to his chest, nipple piercing glinting through it.
And, okay, fine—he was fucking with Barty like they were auditioning for some X-rated Quidditch match, but that wasn’t flirting. It was… stress relief. Totally different. So, technically, he hadn’t lied.
“Right,” James drawled, clearly not buying it but too smart to push. “But you and Moony haven’t been together for, like, half a year.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Sirius bit out, grabbing his cologne and spritzing it on like it was armor. The sharp, cedar scent filled the air, and he ran a hand through his curls, checking his reflection in the mirror. Mesh top, jeans hugging his arse, eyeliner still sharp from earlier—yeah, he looked like trouble, and that was the point.
Without another word, he grabbed his leather jacket and stormed out, leaving James and Regulus to their cozy little world. He headed for Ravenclaw Tower, the castle buzzing with pre-party energy, students darting around in costumes ranging from charmed pumpkins to Muggle superheroes. Sirius didn’t bother with the riddle—some fifth-year Ravenclaw let him in, too starry-eyed at his outfit to question him.
The Ravenclaw common room was a chaotic mash of students, the air thick with the thump of a fast-beat song—Chase Atlantic, probably, knowing Barty’s taste. Bowls of punch were scattered everywhere, crystal-clear until you poured it into a cup, when it changed color to reflect your mood, courtesy of Barty’s charm. Red for horny, blue for sad, green for happy, yadda yadda yadda. Sirius grabbed a cup, filled it, and watched it swirl into a bright yellow.
Fucking figures.
He downed it in one go, the sweet burn hitting his throat, and refilled, scanning the room for Barty. There he was, leaning against a window with Pandora, looking unfairly hot in basic black baggy jeans slung low on his hips and a tight black tee that showed off his lean frame and that damn snake tattoo peeking out from the sleeve. Git.
Sirius made a beeline for them, weaving through the crowd of dancing students and dodging a Hufflepuff in a charmed princess costume that kept sprouting real glitter. Barty clocked him coming, his smirk spreading like he’d just won a bet.
“Black,” Barty said, nodding like they were casual mates and not, y’know, fucking like the world was ending.
“Crouch,” Sirius replied, rolling his eyes for effect, then glanced at Pandora. “Hi, Panda.” He eyed her cup—pink punch. What the hell was pink supposed to mean?
Barty’s cup was red. Horny. Of course. Sirius nearly snorted but caught himself.
“Hi!” Pandora beamed, all dreamy and adorable in her fairy costume, complete with glowing wings that fluttered softly. “What’re you dressed as?”
“Stripper,” Sirius said, not missing a beat, taking a sip of his yellow punch.
Barty cackled, nearly choking on his drink, but Pandora just tilted her head, unfazed. “Well, you look great!” she said, her smile so sweet it could rot teeth.
Sirius laughed, genuinely this time. “Thanks. You too.”
Pandora’s smile widened. “I’m gonna check on Felix and see if he’s drunk yet. See you later!” She floated off into the crowd, her wings leaving a trail of sparkles.
Sirius stepped closer to the window, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it with a snap of his wand. He was still running on pure rage, the image of Remus and Gabriel in the Room of Requirement burning a hole in his brain.
“So, what’s yellow for?” he asked Barty, exhaling smoke into the cool night air filtering through the cracked window.
“Means you’re pissed out of your mind,” Barty said, smirking like he’d invented the concept of moods.
“That tracks,” Sirius muttered, taking another drag.
“What happened, though? Couldn’t tame your hair?” Barty teased, leaning against the window frame, his red punch sloshing slightly.
Sirius snapped his head around, glaring. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, but for once, he didn’t push. They stood in silence, Sirius chain-smoking, Barty sipping his horny-ass punch, the party pulsing around them. When Sirius flicked his cigarette butt out the window, Barty downed his drink and gave him that trademark smirk.
“Let’s put that outfit to use, huh?” Barty said, voice low and suggestive, his eyes raking over Sirius’s mesh top and jeans like he was already undressing him.
Sirius downed his punch, the yellow liquid burning his throat, and headed for the stairs to Barty’s dorm without a word. Because, hell yeah, he was about to ride Barty until his legs gave out, or maybe let Barty pin him to the mattress—whatever got him out of his head fastest.
They slipped through the crowd, dodging a group of Gryffindors doing shots and a Ravenclaw couple arguing over who’d spiked the punch with Firewhisky. The staircase to the boys’ dorms was mercifully empty, and Sirius took the steps two at a time, Barty right behind him, that smug smirk practically radiating heat. Sirius pushed open Barty’s dorm door, the room dark except for the glow of charmed fairy lights strung across the ceiling—Xeno’s touch, no doubt. Barty’s bed was unmade, a mess of black sheets and a band poster taped crookedly above it. Typical.
The door clicked shut, and Sirius turned, already tugging off his leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. “You’re such a prick,” he said, but his voice was rough, betraying how much he wanted this.
“And you’re a tease,” Barty shot back, stepping close, hands finding Sirius’s hips and pulling him flush against him. “That top’s fucking criminal, Black.”
“Good,” Sirius said, smirking as he shoved Barty toward the bed, taking control—or at least pretending to. Barty let him, falling back onto the sheets with a grin, hands still gripping Sirius’s hips as Sirius climbed over him, straddling his lap. The mesh top rode up, exposing a strip of skin, and Barty’s eyes darkened, his fingers brushing the waistband of Sirius’s jeans.
“Damn, you’re really hot when you’re pissed,” Barty murmured, leaning up to capture Sirius’s lips in a kiss that was all heat and teeth, his tongue piercing doing its usual infuriatingly perfect work. Sirius groaned into it, hands sliding under Barty’s tee, fingers tracing tattoos as he rocked his hips, earning a low curse from Barty.
“Shut up and do something,” Sirius said, pulling back just enough to yank Barty’s tee over his head, tossing it somewhere into the chaos of the room. He ran his hands down Barty’s chest, nails scraping lightly, and Barty hissed, flipping them in one smooth move so Sirius was pinned beneath him, back against the sheets.
“Bossy,” Barty said, smirking as he leaned down, nipping at Sirius’s jaw, hands working the button of his jeans. “But I like it.”
Sirius was about to snap back, but Barty’s lips were on his neck, sucking a mark that’d need a glamour charm later, and his hands were sliding Sirius’s jeans down, leaving him in the mesh top and boxers. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across Barty’s skin, his snake tattoo almost glinting, and Sirius’s brain short-circuited for a second. Fuck, why did he have to look that good?
Barty’s wand was on the nightstand, and with a lazy flick, he cast a cleaning spell, the familiar tingle washing over Sirius’s skin, followed by a lube spell that made Sirius laugh, breathless. “You’re such a show-off,” he said, but he was already arching into Barty’s touch, desperate to forget the Map, Remus, all of it.
“Perks of being a genius,” Barty said, smirking as he slid Sirius’s boxers off, hands spreading his thighs with that maddening confidence. Sirius bit his lip, trying not to moan too loud as Barty’s fingers worked him open, slow and teasing at first, then faster, curling just right to hit that spot that made stars burst behind Sirius’s eyes.
“Fuck, Crouch,” Sirius gasped, hands fisting in the sheets, hips rocking against Barty’s hand. He was a mess already, and Barty’s smug grin said he knew it.
“Patience, princess,” Barty teased, but his voice was strained, his own jeans looking uncomfortably tight. Sirius reached down, fumbling with Barty’s zipper, and Barty laughed, helping him shove the jeans and boxers off. Another quick spell, and Barty was slicked up, lining himself up as Sirius wrapped his legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Get on with it,” Sirius growled, and Barty didn’t need telling twice. He pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, setting a rhythm that had Sirius’s head spinning, the bed creaking under them. The mesh top clung to his skin, the friction driving him wild as Barty’s hands gripped his hips, thrusting hard and fast, hitting that spot over and over.
“God, you’re—fuck,” Sirius panted, hands scrambling to Barty’s shoulders, nails digging in as he arched into every thrust. Barty’s lips were back on his, swallowing his moans, that piercing making Sirius lose whatever shred of control he had left.
“Gonna make you forget all about him,” Barty murmured against his lips, voice rough, and Sirius’s heart stuttered, because fuck, he knew. Of course he did. But Sirius didn’t care, not when Barty’s hand slid between them, stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him closer to the edge.
“Shut—up,” Sirius gasped, but he was grinning, head thrown back as the heat built, overwhelming. He came with a broken moan, vision whiting out, spilling over Barty’s hand and his own stomach. Barty followed a moment later, his rhythm faltering, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he thrust through his release, collapsing onto Sirius in a sweaty, breathless heap.
They lay there, panting, the party’s bass thumping faintly through the floor, fairy lights casting a soft glow. Sirius’s heart was still racing, his body buzzing, and he couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out, half-delirious from the intensity and the lingering high of his earlier rage.
“Don’t get cocky, Crouch. This doesn’t mean shit.”
“Sure, princess,” Barty said, his smirk back in full force as he reached for a joint from his nightstand, lighting it with a snap and taking a drag before passing it to Sirius.
Sirius took the joint, inhaling deeply and blowing out a cloud of smoke. He wasn’t about to admit how good this felt—the sex, the banter, the way Barty’s chaos drowned out the noise in his head. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, the mesh top riding up, and let the weed smooth out the edges of his anger. Remus and Gabriel could fuck off for all he cared.
“So,” Barty said after a while, passing the joint back, his voice lazy but teasing. “You gonna wear this outfit to that London birthday thing? ‘Cause I’m not complaining.”
Sirius snorted, taking a drag. “Maybe. Depends if I feel like giving you a heart attack.”
Barty laughed, low and rough, and Sirius felt that stupid spark in his chest again. He ignored it, focusing on the joint and the faint hum of the party below. His phone buzzed on the floor, probably James or Regulus, but he didn’t check. He wasn’t ready to face them, or the Map still burning a hole in his backpack, or the fact that he’d probably check it again tomorrow like the obsessive idiot he was.
“Stay,” Barty said, almost too casual, nudging Sirius’s leg with his own. “Party’s dying down. No need to drag your arse back to Slytherin.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You just want another go at this,” he said, gesturing to himself, cocky as ever.
“Guilty,” Barty grinned, stealing the joint back. “But you’re not saying no.”
Sirius didn’t answer, just took another drag, sinking deeper into the sheets. He wasn’t saying yes, either, but he wasn’t leaving. Not yet. The night was still buzzing, and Barty’s dorm felt like a bubble, keeping the world at bay.
They lay there for a while, passing the joint back and forth, and Sirius didn’t even bother to get dressed again. Instead, he grabbed his wand from the nightstand and flicked it to lock the door with a soft click, because apparently they’d been stupid enough to leave it unlocked earlier. Rookie mistake, and Sirius was already plotting round two, his body still buzzing from the weed and the afterglow.
“You got that worked up because Lupin was talking with that guy?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow, his smirk saying he was loving how riled Sirius was.
“They’re fuckin’,” Sirius said, staring at the wall, the words bitter on his tongue.
“You’re projecting,” Barty shot back, taking a drag and blowing a lazy smoke ring.
“They were in the Room of Requirement for almost four hours, Crouch. You don’t exactly go there to chat, you know,” Sirius snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut.
Barty’s eyebrow climbed higher. “And how the hell do you know that?”
Sirius, figuring Barty already knew too much—Remus being a werewolf, him, James, and Peter being Animagi, the whole damn mess—decided to just spill. He didn’t care if Barty blabbed. Let the whole school know, whatever.
“The Map,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Me and the guys made a charmed map of Hogwarts. Shows everyone, every hidden corridor, every room—fucking everything. Except the Room of Requirement. That shit’s unplottable. Couldn’t find Remus or that little bitch anywhere, then a few hours later, they pop up on the seventh floor, right where the Room is. So, yeah, they’re fucking, and I’m not projecting.”
Barty stared, eyes wide, joint paused halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck? A map?”
“That’s beside the point,” Sirius snapped, lighting a fresh joint, the flame sparking in the dim glow of the fairy lights. “Point is, Remus moved on, and I’m—never mind.” He cut himself off, jaw tight, glaring at the wall like it owed him answers.
Barty leaned back, smirking like the smug git he was. “Black, you’ve been flirting with half the school for two months like it’s a bloody sport. Now we’re fucking, and you’re losing it ‘cause Lupin’s seeing some Hufflepuff nancy, when you’re the one who dumped him?” ?”
“I didn’t break up with him,” Sirius spat, gaze still fixed on the wall, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “He dumped me. So shut the fuck up, Crouch.”
Barty’s smirk faltered for a split second, something like surprise flickering in his mismatched eyes, but he covered it quick, taking the joint from Sirius’s fingers. “Well, shit, princess. That’s a plot twist. Thought you were the one who kicked him to the curb.”
“Yeah, well, you thought wrong,” Sirius muttered, grabbing the joint back and inhaling deep, the smoke burning his lungs. He wasn’t about to spill the whole messy story—how he’d fucked it up with Remus, how one stupid mistake had snowballed into a breakup, how Remus had walked away and left Sirius. Nope, not going there, especially not with Barty, who’d probably just make some snarky comment and call it a day.
Barty didn’t push, though, which was… weirdly decent of him. Instead, he leaned over, snagging a fresh joint from the nightstand and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. “Alright, Black, you wanna mope about Lupin, go for it. But you’re not doing it in my bed looking like that.” He gestured at Sirius’s sprawled form, mesh top still clinging to his chest, jeans long gone. “It’s a crime to waste that outfit.”
Sirius snorted, the tension in his chest easing just a fraction. “Fuck off, Crouch. I’m not moping.” He took a drag, blowing smoke toward Barty’s face just to be a prick. “And this outfit’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to—driving you mental.”
“Guilty,” Barty grinned, leaning closer, his hand brushing Sirius’s thigh, teasing but not pushing. “So, what’s the plan? You gonna keep stalking Lupin on your magic map, or you gonna let me distract you properly?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, smirking despite himself. “You think you’re that distracting?”
“Know I am,” Barty said, voice low and cocky, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Sirius’s skin. “C’mon, princess, round two. Let’s see if I can make you forget Lupin’s name.”
Sirius laughed, short and sharp, and stubbed out the joint in the charmed ashtray. “Big talk, Crouch. Better deliver.” He shoved Barty back against the pillows, climbing over him, the weed and Barty’s smug grin pulling him out of his head. Remus and Gabriel could fuck off for now. Sirius had better things to do—like proving he was still the hottest mess in Hogwarts.
They didn’t leave Barty’s dorm until the party was a faint hum below, the bass barely vibrating through the floor. Sirius finally dragged himself out of bed, pulling on his jeans and mesh top, glamour-charming a few new marks on his neck with a quick flick of his wand. His curls were a disaster, but he leaned into it, running a hand through them to make it look intentional. Barty, the git, looked annoyingly put-together, like he hadn’t just been thoroughly wrecked. He tugged on his black tee and jeans, smirking as he caught Sirius checking him out.
“Eyes up here, Black,” Barty teased, tossing Sirius’s leather jacket at him.
“Piss off,” Sirius shot back, catching the jacket and slinging it over his shoulder. They slipped back into the Ravenclaw common room, where the party had fizzled to a few stragglers—Pandora dancing with Dorcas in a glittery haze, a couple of Slytherins passing a bottle of Firewhisky, and some Gryffindor trying to charm the punch to sing pop songs. Sirius grabbed a cup, pouring himself another dose of punch. It swirled green this time—happy. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Barty.
“Guess you’re not completely useless, Crouch,” he said, sipping the punch, the sweet tang mixing with the weed still buzzing in his system.
Barty grinned, pouring his own cup—red again, because of course. “High praise, princess. Frame it.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at his lips.
A few moments later, Evan appeared at their side, dressed as a vampire—because, obviously. His eyes widened at Sirius’s outfit, the mesh top catching the fairy lights just right, and Sirius felt a smug spark of satisfaction. Flattery was the perfect balm for his bruised ego, and Evan’s reaction was like a shot of Firewhisky to his confidence.
“Damn,” Evan blinked, his fangs glinting under the charmed lighting.
“Cheers to that,” Sirius said, downing his cup of green punch and reaching for a refill from the nearest bowl. As he turned toward the table, he caught Evan yanking Barty down by the collar, whispering something in his ear, voice low and urgent. Barty shook his head, his face unreadable, and whatever he said made Evan’s expression shift to disappointment, his shoulders slumping slightly. Sirius’s punch swirled red as he poured it, and he nearly choked on his own smugness. Jesus fucking Christ.
Barty clocked the color change and smirked, the absolute smacktard that he was, his eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of amusement and challenge. Sirius rolled his eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and took a sip of the red punch—horny, apparently, which, yeah, tracks after their dorm room chaos. He was not thinking about round three, but he wasn’t need Barty getting cockier.
Evan, sipping his own pink punch—Sirius really needed to figure out what the hell pink meant—beamed at him. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked, leaning casually against the wall, his vampire cape swishing dramatically.
Sirius mirrored him, propping himself against the wall with one boot crossed over the other, his leather jacket slipping off one shoulder. “Reg and I are Apparating to London around noon. That flat’s a fucking mess, so we’ll clean it up or some shit, dunno. Prongs’ll Apparate with you later.”
Evan nodded, twirling his pink punch like it was a fine wine. “Yeah, fair. Club later?”
“Fuck yeah,” Sirius grinned, the thought of a night out in London—blaring music, cheap drinks, and zero Hogwarts drama—lighting a spark in his chest. “Gonna tear up Camden, maybe drag Reg to a dive bar and watch him squirm.”
Evan laughed, his fangs catching the light. “Good luck with that. Archie’ll probably demand a wine list at a place that only serves lager.”
“Bet he brings his own glass,” Sirius snorted, imagining Regulus pulling a charmed crystal goblet out of his pocket at some grimy pub. “What about you? You hitting the clubs with us or sticking to your posh Slytherin vibes?”
“Oi, I’m not that posh,” Evan protested, but his grin said he wasn’t mad about it. “I’m in for the clubs. Gotta show you lot how it’s done on the dance floor.”
Barty snorted, finally joining the conversation, his red punch nearly gone. “Rosie, you dance like a drunk Niffler. Stick to brooding in the corner.”
“Fuck off, Crouch,” Evan shot back, but he was laughing, nudging Barty’s shoulder. “Least I don’t trip over my own ego like you.”
Sirius cackled, the banter easing the last of the knot in his chest. He glanced at Barty, who was watching him with that damn smirk, and his punch stayed stubbornly red. Fuck’s sake, he needed to get a grip. Or maybe just get Barty alone again—same difference.
“So,” Evan said, oblivious to the undercurrent, “what’s the vibe for London? You going full punk rock stripper again, or switching it up?”
Sirius smirked, running a hand through his curls. “Dunno yet. Maybe I’ll keep the mesh top, give the Muggles a show. Depends if I feel like causing a riot.”
“Mate, you are a riot,” Evan said, shaking his head, his pink punch sloshing.
“What’s pink mean, anyway?” Sirius asked, nodding at Evan’s cup, curiosity getting the better of him.
Evan grinned, a little too smug. “Flirty. Means I’m charming the pants off everyone tonight.”
Sirius barked a laugh, nearly spilling his drink. “Explains why you’re hovering around us, then. Trying to charm Crouch’s snake tattoo?”
Barty choked on his punch, coughing as Evan cackled. “Fuck you, Black,” Barty said, but his grin was wide, and he flipped Sirius off with a lazy flourish.
“Anytime, prick,” Sirius shot back, winking just to mess with him. His punch was still red, and Barty’s smirk said he’d noticed. Git.
The common room was thinning out, the music slowing to some dreamy Tame Impala track, and Sirius felt the buzz of the punch and weed mixing into a pleasant haze. He scanned the room out of habit, half-expecting to see Remus and Gabriel tangled in a corner, but there was no sign of them. Good. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with that gut-punch again. Instead, he focused on Evan’s ridiculous vampire cape and Barty’s low-slung jeans, letting the moment ground him.
“Oi, you lot staying here all night or what?” James’s voice cut through the haze, and Sirius turned to see him weaving through the crowd, Regulus trailing behind with his usual air of mild exasperation. James was dressed as a Quidditch player—because, of course—and Regulus was in all black, probably aiming for “moody poet” but landing closer to “Slytherin stereotype.”
“Prongs!” Sirius grinned, raising his cup. “Reggie! Didn’t think you’d grace us with your presence.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you idiots from burning the place down,” Regulus said, but his lips twitched, betraying a smile. He eyed Sirius’s outfit, raising an eyebrow. “But—for real? A stripper?”
“It’s a vibe,” Sirius said, striking a dramatic pose that made James laugh and Regulus roll his eyes.
“Vibe or not, you’re a walking scandal,” Regulus muttered, but there was no heat in it. He grabbed a cup, pouring punch that turned a soft blue—sad. Sirius frowned but didn’t comment, filing it away for later. Regulus wasn’t one for heart-to-hearts in the middle of a party.
James, meanwhile, poured himself a green punch—happy, naturally—and clapped Sirius on the shoulder. “Ready for London tomorrow? Gonna show these Slytherins how Gryffindors party.”
“Mate, they’re not ready,” Sirius said, grinning. “Gonna drag ‘em to the grimiest pub I can find, maybe start a mosh pit.”
“Good luck getting Archie to mosh,” Evan said, smirking as Regulus shot him a glare.
“Keep talking, Rosier, and I’ll hex your fangs off,” Regulus said, sipping his blue punch like it was a fine vintage.
Barty laughed, leaning closer to Sirius, his voice low. “Bet your punch stays red all night, Black.”
Sirius elbowed him, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Bet yours does too, Crouch.”
The group bantered on, the common room’s glow wrapping them in a bubble of noise and light. Sirius let himself sink into it, the red punch in his hand a reminder of Barty’s hands, his smirk, the chaos they’d left in the dorm. Tomorrow, London would be a fresh slate—music, mates, maybe a few bad decisions. For now, he’d take the party, the banter, and the way Evan’s vampire cape kept getting caught on everything. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to keep the shadows at bay.
Chapter Text
The next morning, Sirius woke up in his own bed—well, not his exactly, but the spare one in Regulus’s dorm, which was basically his considering how often he crashed there. The familiar creak of the mattress and the faint scent of Regulus’s fancy cedarwood cologne grounded him, and he was thankful he hadn’t ended up in Barty’s dorm or, worse, some random corner of Hogwarts after the Ravenclaw party. His head throbbed faintly from the punch and weed, but Regulus, ever the prepared one, shoved a vial of anti-hangover potion into his hand the second he sat up.
“Drink,” Regulus said, not looking up from his own packing, his tone clipped but not unkind.
Sirius downed the potion, the bitter taste fading into a cool relief that cleared the fog from his brain. “Cheers, Reggie,” he muttered, tossing the empty vial onto the bed.
They skipped breakfast—because who the hell needed soggy toast when you had a London weekend ahead?—and started packing for their Apparition to Sirius’s flat. Sirius rifled through his dresser, tossing every slutty crop top he could find into his bag, because he hadn’t decided on an outfit yet and, frankly, he was leaning toward maximum chaos. Mesh, leather, maybe that ripped velvet number that made his collarbones look like a felony—options, baby.
Regulus, meanwhile, was folding his clothes with annoying precision, but Sirius could tell he was still in a funk. His punch had been blue at the party and, apparently, it was not about James. The two had kissed goodbye that morning with their usual “love ya” routine, all soft and gross, so whatever was eating at Regulus wasn’t boyfriend-related. Sirius let it slide while they were in the dorm, but as they slipped into the hidden corridor leading to Hogsmeade, he decided it was time to corner him.
“Why’re you so off, Reggie?” Sirius asked, nudging him with his shoulder as they walked, their boots echoing softly.
Regulus grimaced, his face doing that thing where it tried to shut down emotions like a charmed vault. “It’s nothing.”
“Reg,” Sirius said, shooting him a look that said, don’t bullshit me, we’re twins.
Regulus sighed, the kind of tortured exhale he always gave when forced to talk about feelings—like it was a fate worse than detention with Filch. “I mean… it’s our birthday tomorrow, our parents don’t give a shit about me, I’m basically homeless, totally broke, and have nowhere to live after we graduate. James said I can move in with him, but how the fuck am I supposed to do that when I don’t even have money for rent?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh, kicking at a loose pebble on the tunnel floor.
Sirius’s heart sank, a sharp pang of guilt hitting him.
Fuck, he’d been so deep in his own misery—Remus, Barty, the whole damn mess—that he hadn’t even clocked how much Regulus was carrying. His brother, who’d been disowned right alongside him, who’d lost just as much but always played it cool, was cracking under the weight. And Sirius hadn’t noticed.
Shit.
“You’ll live with me,” Sirius said, keeping his tone light but firm, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And the money Uncle Alphard left me? It’s yours too, Reg. No way in hell I’m spending all of it on my own—probably blow it on leather jackets and Firewhisky if left to my devices.”
“Sirius—” Regulus started, his voice tight, like he was about to argue.
“I mean it,” Sirius cut him off, slinging an arm around Regulus’s shoulders. “You can go to your fancy potions uni, brew your weird concoctions, and not worry about money or a flat or any of that crap. I’m not leaving you behind, and I sure as hell won’t let you starve in some ditch.”
Regulus glanced at him, his grey eyes softening, a flicker of relief breaking through his usual stoic mask. “Thanks,” he said quietly, the word carrying more weight than usual.
Sirius squeezed his shoulder, grinning. “No prob, Reggie. We’re in this shitshow together, yeah?”
“Still sucks, though,” Regulus muttered, leaning slightly into Sirius’s side as they walked. “The whole disowning thing.”
“Yeah, it does,” Sirius agreed, because as much as he hated their parents—Walburga’s shrill voice, Orion’s cold silences—he blamed them for more than just his own scars. They’d made Regulus feel like this, like he was worthless, and that was unforgivable. “But fuck ‘em. We’ve got each other, and I’d take you over those pricks any day.”
Regulus huffed a small laugh, the sound almost drowned out by their footsteps. “Sap.”
“Guilty,” Sirius said, ruffling Regulus’s hair just to annoy him, earning a half-hearted swat.
He cursed himself again for not noticing Regulus’s mood sooner. God, he was a shit brother sometimes, too wrapped up in his own drama to see what was right in front of him. But he meant every word—he’d make sure Regulus was set, no matter what. They’d figure out the flat, the money, the future, all of it. Together.
The tunnel opened up and they sneaked out from the basement of Honeydukes, the chilly November air hitting them as they stepped out into the village. Sirius adjusted his backpack, and glanced at Regulus, who was pulling his scarf tighter against the wind.
“Hold tight, unless you fancy splinching your pretty face.”
Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away as he grabbed his arm, and with a twist of Sirius’s wand, they Apparated, the world compressing into a dizzying rush before spitting them out in the alley behind the flat. The familiar grime of Camden greeted them—neon signs flickering, the distant thump of music from a nearby pub, the smell of fried food and exhaust hanging in the air. They trudged up the rickety staircase of the old tenement, its ivy-covered walls giving it a sort of rebellious charm, to the top floor where Sirius’s flat waited.
The place had belonged to their Uncle Alphard his whole life, left to Sirius in his will along with everything else—the record shop downstairs, a hefty pile of Galleons, and a lifetime’s worth of wild stories. Alphard was a piece of work, no question. Brother to Walburga and Cygnus, he’d been the black sheep of the Black family long before Sirius earned the title. In Sirius’s eyes, the man was an absolute legend. He’d played the part of the dutiful pureblood, claiming to be straight until his parents kicked the bucket. Then— boom —out came the obnoxiously rich wizard, strutting out of the closet and revealing he’d been secretly married to a Muggle man named Vince since he was twenty. Alphard had a soft spot for Muggles, music, and mischief, which was why he’d opened the record shop in Camden back in the ‘80s, stocking it with vinyls from Bowie to The Clash. Vince had died years before Alphard, and Alphard never remarried, always saying he couldn’t move on from his true love.
Sometimes, Sirius caught himself praying Remus wasn’t his true love, just so he could move on—the sooner, the better. Either that, or Remus would forgive him, because otherwise, Sirius was half-convinced he’d end up a member of the Twenty-Seven Club, overdosing on heroin or some other stupid shit in a fit of heartbreak. Dramatic? Maybe. But he was a Black, so it came with the territory.
The flat itself was more loft than apartment, a sprawling space with exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and scuffed wooden floors that creaked underfoot. Record players were scattered everywhere—on the coffee table, the kitchen counter, even a vintage one in the corner that Alphard swore was haunted by a jazz musician’s ghost. Band posters plastered the walls: Nirvana, Sex Pistols, Joy Division, all curling at the edges. A spiral staircase in the living room led to a rooftop deck with a killer view of Camden’s chaos, and the place had two bedrooms, a massive living room, and a tiny kitchenette, since Alphard hated cooking and only used it to boil water for his endless cups of tea.
“God, it stinks in here,” Regulus grimaced as they stepped inside, tossing his bag onto the floor with a thud.
“Yeah,” Sirius said, nearly gagging as he caught a whiff of something foul. “There’s fucking mold on the records. Shit.” He eyed the bookshelf by the living room, where stacks of vinyls were looking suspiciously green around the edges.
“Something’s living in the bathroom too,” Regulus called, poking his head into the tiny loo. “What the fuck is that? Mutant cockroaches?”
Sirius snorted, already pulling out his wand. “Probably. Or Alphard’s tea stash grew legs.” He waved his wand, muttering a half-remembered cleaning charm, but it only made a pile of dust bunny-hop across the floor. “Fuck, I’m shite at this.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, stepping up. “Move, you heathen. Scourgify.” He flicked his wand, and a wave of magic scrubbed the bookshelf, the mold vanishing with a faint sizzle. “You’d let this place rot if I weren’t here. Try Evanesco on the rubbish, and don’t blow anything up.”
“Bossy,” Sirius muttered, but he grinned, mimicking Regulus’s wand movement and vanishing a pile of empty Firewhisky bottles from the coffee table. “Since when are you a domestic goddess?”
“Since you decided to live like a troll,” Regulus shot back, waving his wand at the bathroom. A faint squeak suggested whatever was in there had just been banished to oblivion. “Aeris Purum for the smell, Siri. Point and flick, not stab.”
Sirius followed his instructions, the charm clearing the musty stench and replacing it with a faint lemony scent that was probably Regulus’s doing. They fell into a rhythm, Regulus barking spells and Sirius half-arsing them, but between the two of them, the flat started looking less like a health hazard. Sirius charmed the windows to sparkle, while Regulus tackled the kitchenette, scouring the kettle and vanishing a suspicious crusty pot that might’ve been soup once. The record players got a gentle Reparo to fix scratches, and Sirius even managed a charm to dust the posters without tearing them.
“Merlin, we’re basically house elves,” Sirius said, flopping onto the couch once they’d finished, his wand dangling from his fingers. The flat gleamed—well, as much as a Camden loft could—brick walls glowing under the fairy lights he’d charmed to flicker like candles. “Alphard’d be proud. Or horrified.”
“Proud,” Regulus said, sitting beside him and kicking off his boots. “He’d probably say we’re ruining his aesthetic with all this cleanliness.”
Sirius laughed, picturing Alphard’s dramatic pout, his silk robes clashing gloriously with the grunge of the flat. “True. Bet he’s haunting the record shop, yelling at Muggle kids for touching his Bowie vinyls.”
Regulus snorted, grabbing a biscuit from the box Sirius had found earlier. “You checked on the shop lately? Bet it’s as bad as this place was.”
“Nah, I pay that Muggle girl—Lizzie, Liz, something—to run it,” Sirius said, stretching his arms over his head. “She’s got it under control. Says the hipsters love the ‘vibes.’ Whatever that means.”
“Means they’re overpaying for scratched records,” Regulus said, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “You ever think about running it yourself? The shop, I mean. After we graduate.”
Sirius blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Nah. I’d probably set it on fire trying to charm the cash register. Why, you fancy it?”
Regulus shrugged, picking at the biscuit. “Dunno. Just… it’s ours, y’know? Alphard’s. Feels like we should do something with it.”
Sirius tilted his head, studying him. Regulus wasn’t usually sentimental, but there was something soft in his voice, like the shop was a tether to the one family member who hadn’t screwed them over. “Maybe,” Sirius said, keeping his tone light. “Could be fun. You sling vinyls, I flirt with the customers. We’d be rich in a week.”
Regulus rolled his eyes but smiled, a real one this time. “You’d flirt with the customers, then hex them for picking the wrong band.”
“Guilty,” Sirius grinned, nudging Regulus’s leg. “But seriously, we’ll figure it out. Shop, flat, potions uni, all of it. Team Black, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Regulus said, his voice quieter but steadier. He grabbed another biscuit, tossing one to Sirius, who caught it mid-air. “Just… don’t let Barty near the shop. He’d probably charm the records to scream death metal.”
Sirius choked on his biscuit, laughing. “Fuck, can you imagine? Lizzie’d quit on the spot.” He leaned back, the mention of Barty sparking a flicker of last night’s red punch, but he shoved it down. No time for that now. “Speaking of, you ready to drag him and Rosier to some dive bar tonight? Gotta show ‘em how Camden does it.”
Regulus groaned, rubbing his face. “Only if you promise not to start a fight with some Muggle over their taste in music.”
“No promises,” Sirius said, winking. He stood, stretching, and headed to his bag to unpack his crop tops, already mentally sorting through outfits for the night. “Gonna wear something that makes Evan’s vampire fangs fall out.”
Regulus snorted, grabbing his own bag. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love me for it,” Sirius shot back, tossing a glittery crop top at Regulus’s head, which he dodged with a scowl. The flat felt alive now, the ghost of Alphard’s chaos lingering in the brick walls, and Sirius felt a surge of determination. Tomorrow was their birthday, and they’d make it epic—pubs, clubs, maybe a little rooftop stargazing with a stolen bottle of Firewhisky. For now, he’d focus on Regulus, the flat, and the promise of a night out that’d drown out the past. Camden was their turf, and they were gonna own it.
After the cleaning frenzy, both Sirius and Regulus took much-needed showers, scrubbing off the grime of the flat and the lingering Camden alley funk. Refreshed, they headed to the nearby Tesco for essentials—meaning a cartload of vodka, whiskey, beer, and, because Regulus was the responsible one, some actual food like bread, cheese, and a questionable bag of frozen chips. Sirius tossed in a pack of biscuits for good measure, claiming it was “emergency sustenance.”
Back at the flat, they barely had time to unpack the bags before a classic sibling squabble broke out over who got which bedroom. The loft had two—one with a tiny balcony overlooking Camden’s neon chaos, the other stuck next to the bathroom.
“I don’t want the one by the bathroom,” Regulus whined, arms crossed like a petulant kid. “I’ll wake up every time you flush the bloody toilet.”
Sirius groaned, because, fuck, he didn’t want it either—mostly because it lacked the balcony. “I want to smoke on the balcony and look broody!” he argued, gesturing dramatically.
“I want to smoke on the balcony too!” Regulus shot back, matching his energy.
“Reg!”
“SIRIUS!”
And it went on like that for a solid five minutes, bickering like they were first-years fighting over the last Chocolate Frog. Finally, Sirius threw up his hands, mostly to shut Regulus up but also because, deep down, he wanted to see his smile.
“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “You take the one with the balcony. But you better slap a permanent Silencing Charm on it, ‘cause I’m not waking up to Prongs screwing you out there.”
Regulus rolled his eyes so hard Sirius was shocked they didn’t pop out. “You too, you slut. Bet you’ll drag someone here every week.”
“Every day if people get lucky,” Sirius grinned, winking.
“You’re absolutely gross.”
“Thanks.”
Regulus laughed, helpless, and cracked open a can of beer, the hiss echoing in the loft. He propped his feet on the low coffee table, looking more relaxed than he had all day. Sirius grabbed a beer too, settling onto the couch beside him, the brick walls and band posters giving the place a cozy, lived-in vibe now that it didn’t reek of mold.
“Speaking of,” Regulus said, side-eyeing Sirius with a smirk, “you noticed how glowy Crouch’s been lately?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Him? Glowing?” He snorted, picturing Barty’s usual smirk and snake tattoo. “What, like a bloody Lumos charm?”
“Hell yeah,” Regulus said, laughing. “He’s banging someone, I’d bet my wand on it.”
Sirius’s heart skipped a beat, and he nearly choked on his beer. Did Regulus know? Fuck.
He kept his face neutral, taking a slow sip to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “He’s always banging someone, right?” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal.
“Duh,” Regulus rolled his eyes. “But he usually yaps about it after. Like, I know way too much about blokes’ arses, for real. And now? Fucking nothing. He just sits there, smirking like he’s won the Quidditch Cup.”
Sirius’s face stayed unreadable, but inside? Full-on victory party. Barty Fucking Crouch was worked up over him, and Sirius was going to be smug about it until he died. He’d rub it in Barty’s face the second he showed up in London—probably with that stupid red punch smirk.
“Besides,” Regulus went on, oblivious to Sirius’s internal gloating, “he spilled to Evan a few weeks ago, when he was high as a kite—‘cause the dude can’t stay sober for a single day—that he’d just got laid and, quote, ‘my brain chemistry’s changed, Rosie. Like, who the fuck moans like that?’” Regulus mimicked Barty’s deep, drawling voice, complete with a dramatic hand gesture.
Sirius nearly burst out laughing, biting his lip to keep it together. Oh, that was gold. He was definitely saving that to torment Barty later. Brain chemistry changed? Moaning? Merlin, he’d never let him live it down.
“Wonder if he’s dating someone,” Regulus hummed, sipping his beer. “I mean, he’s always so fucking cryptic about that. Don’t know if he’s ever been in a proper relationship, really. Never even admitted to having a crush, let alone dating.”
Sirius’s eyebrows shot up. “For real?”
Regulus nodded, leaning back. “Yep. He’s all about bragging over his hookups, but nothing real. Who knows? Maybe he’s aromantic or something.” He shrugged, cracking open another beer.
Sirius hummed, because, yeah, that tracked. He couldn’t picture Barty in a relationship—forehead kisses, holding hands, all the soft shit Sirius had with Remus and missed like a hole in his chest. Barty was chaos, smirks, and that damn tongue piercing, not candlelit dinners or love letters. Still, the thought of Barty keeping their thing quiet, even from Evan, made Sirius’s stomach do a weird flip. Not that he cared. Nope.
“Anyway,” Regulus said, side-glancing at him, his tone softening. “How you, uh, holding up after the whole Lupin and Truman thing?”
Sirius’s grip on the beer tightened, his mood souring instantly. “Like shit.”
Then, because he was sick of bottling it up, he let it spill. “I hoped he’d forgive me one day, y’know, and we’d… get back together.” His voice dropped, gaze fixed on the chipped chandelier above. “I knew he wouldn’t—realized that months ago—but I hoped. And it’s driving me fucking insane that he’s with some guy who’s the opposite of me. Like he’s trying to prove I was a total mistake.”
Regulus was quiet for a moment, just listening, which was rare for him. “I mean… yeah, Truman’s not like you. Kinda boring, actually. Jamie said they bumped into each other in the library a while back and, y’know, bonded over Oscar Wilde or some shit.”
Sirius snorted, but it was hollow, the image of Remus and Gabriel geeking out over books twisting his gut.
“But… you should move on too, y’know,” Regulus added, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. “It’s been months, Siri.”
“I try,” Sirius groaned, dragging a hand through his curls. “I fucking try, but… fuck, he made me realize I’m gay, and now he’s gone, and I can’t look at anyone the way I looked at him. There’s no one else like him out there.” His voice cracked, and he hated how raw it sounded.
Regulus rested his head on Sirius’s shoulder, a rare show of affection. “Yeah, and that’s good. You don’t need another Remus. You need someone like you, right? Someone who likes the shit you do, who doesn’t pick books over Quidditch, who gets what you’re on about when you’re all worked up after practice.” He paused, choosing his words. “Lupin was great, but… maybe you were too different. He’d have forgiven you if you weren’t such opposites.”
“Yeah, I’d forgive him in a heartbeat,” Sirius muttered, staring at the beer can like it held answers.
“I know,” Regulus said softly. “So maybe look for someone who’s more like you. Unhinged, crazy. Boring blokes say they like crazy guys but hate it when they actually act crazy.”
Sirius chuckled, the sound rough but real. “Explains why Prongs puts up with your drama when he’s walking chaos himself.”
Regulus laughed, fond and warm. “Yeah, it does. But we’ve got stuff in common, even if it doesn’t look like it. Quidditch, music, shows. He doesn’t read or study like I do, but he never neglects me for it. I respect when he wants to go out, and he respects when I don’t. We compromise. It works. Didn’t for you and Lupin, though.”
Sirius hummed, because, fuck, Regulus was right. He and Remus were different on so many levels it was almost laughable. Their music taste barely overlapped—Sirius was all punk, Remus was indie rock. When Remus was buried in a book, he was in his own world, untouchable. When Remus skipped parties, Sirius felt like shit for going without him, but he never thought to ask if Remus felt bad leaving him alone to study or read for hours in the library.
Maybe he didn’t.
Maybe Remus wasn’t his soulmate after all.
And as Regulus’s advice to find someone similar sank in, Sirius’s mind flicked to Barty in a heartbeat. Same music taste, same reckless energy, same knack for chaos. But that was a huge red neon sign screaming, ‼️‼️‼️HE’S JUST A PRICK, NOT SOMEONE YOU CAN FALL FOR, YOU IDIOT‼️‼️‼️. Barty was a fling, a distraction, not boyfriend material. No way.
“Earth to Siri,” Regulus said, nudging him. “You zoning out or plotting to hex Truman?”
Sirius snorted, shaking off the Barty spiral. “Nah, just thinking you’re too wise for your own good, Reggie. When’d you get so smart about love?”
“Blame James,” Regulus said, smirking. “He’s got me watching rom-coms. They’re awful, but… educational.”
Sirius laughed, the sound echoing off the brick walls. “Shit, you’re whipped. Next you’ll be quoting Jane Austen.”
“Fuck off,” Regulus said, but he was grinning, tossing an empty beer can at Sirius, who dodged it with a cackle. They lapsed into comfortable silence, the loft warm with fairy lights and the faint hum of Camden outside. Sirius’s mind was still a mess but Regulus’s shoulder against his was an anchor, keeping him steady.
“Oi,” Sirius said after a while, cracking open another beer. “We gotta charm that chandelier to spin or something. Make this place properly unhinged for tonight.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Only if you don’t set it on fire.”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, already pulling out his wand.
They spent the next hour messing with charms, making the chandelier flicker like a disco ball and charming the record player to hum a soft Sex Pistols track without a vinyl. By the time they collapsed back onto the couch, the flat felt like theirs, not just Alphard’s ghost.
By eight p.m., James, Barty, and Evan strolled into the loft, mid-laugh, and a predatory smile spread across Sirius’s face the second he locked eyes with Barty. The git was in his usual low-slung jeans and a tight black tee, looking like sin and Sirius was already plotting how to mess with him.
“Rosier splinched,” James announced, kicking the door shut behind him, still wheezing.
“It was half an eyebrow!” Evan protested, gesturing wildly at his face. “Barely counts!”
“And Crouch still had to fix your face,” James cackled, dodging Evan’s half-hearted swat.
Barty laughed too, sauntering into the living room and flopping into an armchair, already reaching for a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. Sirius, perched on the couch with a beer, grinned like a madman because, oh boy, Regulus’s intel about Barty “glowing” because of him was pure gold.
“What, Black?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow as he uncorked the whiskey, his mismatched eyes narrowing.
“Nothing, prick,” Sirius sang-songed, his smirk practically a weapon.
Barty squinted, suspicious, but before he could fire back, Evan started panicking about his outfit—“Is this shirt too Muggle?”—and James was already pulling Regulus onto his lap, whispering something that made Regulus roll his eyes but smile. The loft erupted into chaos, everyone talking over each other, bottles clinking, and Sirius leaned back, soaking it in.
After a few rounds of shots—too many, too fast—they all changed for the night out. Sirius, naturally, went for maximum chaos: another mesh top, this one silver and sheer, paired with ripped straight-fit jeans that hugged his thighs and showed off his V-line every time he moved. He caught Barty’s eyes lingering as he tugged the jeans on, and yeah, mission accomplished. Messing with Barty’s horniness was his cardio for the night.
James, ever the ringleader, convinced them to hit Soho and pub-crawl every dive they could find, so they spilled out of the flat into the neon-lit streets, already buzzing from the shots. The first pub was a rusty hole-in-the-wall with sticky floors and a jukebox blaring The Strokes. They claimed a booth, and Sirius made a point to lean back, stretching just enough to flash his V-line and the edge of his black boxers. Barty, across the table, kept eyeing him—well, eyefucking him, the prick—and Sirius swung his hips a little extra every time he got up for another round, just to drive the point home.
“You’re staring,” Sirius mouthed to Barty when James and Regulus were too busy murmuring to each other to notice, and Evan had vanished to flirt with some lanky bloke at the bar.
“Fuck off,” Barty mouthed back, but his smirk said he wasn’t mad about it.
Sirius laughed, loud and unapologetic, before downing the rest of his funky neon-green cocktail—some concoction that tasted like regret and lime. He stood, stretching again, letting his jeans slip just low enough to show a sliver more of his boxers. “Let’s go for a smoke, Crouch,” he said, already heading for the door.
Barty followed, grabbing his leather jacket and rolling his eyes like it was a chore, but the way he matched Sirius’s stride said otherwise. They stepped outside, weaving through the Soho crowd to a quieter alley far enough from the pub that their friends wouldn’t spot them. Sirius lit a cigarette, the flame casting shadows on his face, and smirked, leaning against the brick wall for good measure.
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow as he lit his own cigarette, exhaling smoke into the chilly air.
“Oh, nothing,” Sirius said, smiling sweetly, all innocence and venom. “Just heard something really funny today.”
“And what’s that?” Barty rolled his eyes, like the question was physically painful.
“That you’re apparently banging someone in secret and you’re glowing, Crouch. Glowing,” Sirius said, smug as hell, dragging out the word for maximum effect.
Barty’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Glowing? What the fuck kind of word is that?”
“The one that describes how your ‘brain chemistry changed,’” Sirius smirked, mimicking Regulus’s earlier imitation of Barty’s voice.
Barty froze, cigarette halfway to his mouth, his face a mix of shock and something dangerously close to embarrassment. “What?” he asked, voice flat.
“Didn’t know you were that into me. That’s cute, Crouch,” Sirius teased, stepping closer, his voice low and taunting.
“You’re fucking delusional,” Barty snapped, but he didn’t move away, his eyes locked on Sirius’s.
“And yet, you had a whole rant about my moans. Interesting,” Sirius said, his smirk widening.
“I didn’t,” Barty shot back, but the faint flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.
“Keep lying, sweetheart. Love that for me,” Sirius purred, batting his eyelashes for effect.
“You’re so fucking unwell,” Barty snapped, exhaling smoke like he was trying to blow away the conversation.
Sirius just laughed and stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off Barty. Yeah, fine, Barty was taller—Sirius could admit it now, grudgingly —but he had the upper hand here. He tilted his head, looking up through his lashes. “And you’re into me,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“You’re projecting,” Barty said, but his smirk was back, his eyes flicking to Sirius’s lips.
“You’re probably jerking off thinking about me, don’t you?” Sirius pressed, stepping so close their chests nearly brushed.
“I’m gonna slap you,” Barty shot back, but he still didn’t pull away, his cigarette forgotten.
“You can spank me,” Sirius said, grinning wickedly.
“Black—” Barty started, his voice a warning.
“Yes?” Sirius fluttered his eyelashes, all mock innocence.
“I’m not fucking glowing,” Barty snapped, but his eyes were dark, and Sirius could see the crack in his armor.
“Sure you’re not,” Sirius smirked. “And you’re not eyefucking me all night, either, right?”
“You’re so full of yourself,” Barty spat.
“Thanks,” Sirius replied, unfazed.
“That wasn’t a compliment, you freak,” Barty snapped.
Sirius laughed and yanked Barty down by the collar of his tee, kissing him first, hard and messy. Barty kissed back instantly, like he’d been waiting for it, his hands finding Sirius’s hips and pulling him flush against him. Sirius slid a hand down, brushing over Barty’s jeans, and—yep, hard already.
He grinned against Barty’s lips. “You’re so fucking easy,” he muttered.
“Shut up,” Barty growled, kissing him harder, his tongue piercing working its usual magic. One hand slid under Sirius’s mesh top, fingers grazing his skin, and Sirius arched into it, the alley’s cold brick wall a sharp contrast to Barty’s heat.
They stayed like that, trading kisses and taunts, the cigarette smoke curling around them like a charm. Sirius’s head spun, the alcohol and Barty’s hands drowning out the Remus-shaped ache in his chest. He tugged Barty’s hair, earning a low groan, and smirked into the kiss, knowing he had him exactly where he wanted.
“Fuck, you’re crazy,” Barty muttered, pulling back just enough to breathe, his lips swollen and eyes dark.
“Takes one to know one,” Sirius shot back, nipping at Barty’s jaw. He stepped back, adjusting his jeans with a smirk, and lit a fresh cigarette. “C’mon, Crouch, let’s get back before Prongs sends a search party.”
Barty rolled his eyes but followed, stealing Sirius’s cigarette for a drag before handing it back. They slipped back into the pub, the noise and heat hitting them like a wave. James and Regulus were still in their own world, Evan was now chatting up a different bloke—a ginger this time—and nobody seemed to notice their absence. Sirius slid into the booth, his mesh top riding up just enough to catch Barty’s eye again, and he leaned back, sipping a fresh drink, all smug satisfaction.
The night rolled on, pub after pub, the group getting louder and sloppier with each stop. At one dive, James tried to charm the jukebox to play Queen but ended up with a Muggle country song, earning boos from the locals. Evan, half-pissed, challenged Regulus to a shots contest, only to lose spectacularly when Regulus downed his vodka like water. Sirius cheered, filming it on his phone for blackmail later.
Barty stayed close to Sirius’s side, their knees brushing under tables, his smirks growing bolder with every drink. Sirius kept up the teasing—brushing past him “accidentally,” letting his hand linger when passing a bottle—knowing it was driving Barty up the wall.
“Still glowing, mate?” Sirius whispered, smirking.
Barty flipped him off, but his laugh was rough, and he shoved Sirius’s shoulder. “You’re gonna pay for that, Black.”
“Promise?” Sirius grinned, dodging Barty’s half-hearted swipe.
By the time they stumbled out of the last pub, it was well past midnight, and the Soho sparkled under a drizzle. James was carrying a giggling Regulus piggyback, Evan was singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” off-key, and Sirius and Barty trailed behind, sharing a cigarette and trading barbs. Sirius’s mesh top was damp from the rain, clinging to his skin, and Barty’s eyes kept wandering, his smirk saying he wasn’t complaining.
“Back to the flat?” Sirius suggested, blowing smoke into the night air.
“Only if you stop being such a prick,” Barty said, but he was already leading the way, his arm brushing Sirius’s as they walked.
Sirius grinned, the buzz of alcohol, the night, and Barty’s chaos keeping him afloat. And yeah, maybe that neon sign about Barty was still flashing red, but Sirius was too busy living for the moment to care.
Chapter Text
The second they stumbled back into the flat, Regulus and James vanished into Regulus’s bedroom, a Silencing Charm flashing behind them like a neon “do not disturb” sign. Evan, meanwhile, collapsed onto the couch, snoring the moment his head hit a throw pillow.
“That’s convenient,” Sirius smirked, kicking off his boots and tossing them by the door.
“Yeah, no one’s gonna hear you screaming my name,” Barty shot back, tugging Sirius toward the other bedroom with a grin that promised chaos.
Sirius laughed, loud and bright, because fuck yeah, he was exactly the vibe tonight.
Inside, Barty locked the door with a quick spell and cast a Silencing Charm for good measure. But instead of pinning Sirius to the wall—like he should have, honestly—he pulled a small Ziploc bag from his jacket pocket, shrugging it off and letting it to the floor.
“Fucking Molly?” Sirius cackled, eyeing the colorful pills, his pulse already racing from the night and Barty’s smirk.
“Happy birthday, princess,” Barty smirked, popping one pill onto his tongue like it was nothing. He pulled another from the bag, tossed the Ziploc onto the dresser by the wall, and stepped closer, his smirk pure sin.
“Come on,” he said, cupping Sirius’s jaw with his free hand, tilting his head to open his mouth.
Sirius was either out of his mind or way too wasted, because that was hot as hell, so he obeyed in a second, parting his lips. Barty placed the pill on his tongue, his fingers lingering, then crashed their lips together, and fuck, the shit was had a rapid action. The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue, Barty’s piercing sparking heat straight to Sirius’s core. The pill dissolved, a faint chemical tang mixing with the whiskey on Barty’s breath, and Sirius felt the buzz hit fast, his skin tingling, every touch amplified.
“Fuck, Crouch,” Sirius gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, his hands already tugging at Barty’s tee, yanking it over his head to reveal that damn tattoos. Barty’s hands were on Sirius’s mesh top, ripping it off with zero patience, the fabric catching on his nipple piercing and sending a jolt through him.
“Eager, princess?” Barty teased, his voice low and rough, shoving Sirius back until his legs hit the bed. He fell onto the mattress, jeans tight and boxers tighter, and Barty climbed over him, straddling his hips, grinding down just enough to make Sirius groan.
“Shut up and do something,” Sirius snapped, but his grin was feral, hands roaming Barty’s chest, nails scraping over the tattoos. Barty hissed, leaning down to bite Sirius’s neck, sucking a mark as his hands worked Sirius’s jeans open, tugging them down with his boxers in one go, leaving him bare and aching under Barty’s gaze.
“Fucking look at you,” Barty murmured, eyes dark as he traced a finger down Sirius’s V-line, stopping just shy of where he wanted it. “All worked up for me.”
“Like you’re not,” Sirius shot back, reaching for Barty’s jeans and palming him through the denim, smirking at the hardness he found. “Told you, you’re easy.”
Barty growled, swatting Sirius’s hand away to strip himself, jeans and boxers hitting the floor. He grabbed his wand from the dresser, casting a quick cleaning spell and a lube charm, the slick warmth making Sirius arch instinctively. “Bossy little shit,” Barty said, but he was grinning, pushing Sirius’s thighs apart and settling between them.
He started with his fingers, one at first, slow and teasing, curling just right to hit that spot that made Sirius’s vision spark. Sirius moaned, loud and unashamed, his hands fisting the sheets as Barty added another finger, stretching him with a maddening rhythm. “Fuck, Crouch, faster,” Sirius demanded, rocking his hips to meet Barty’s hand.
“Patience, princess,” Barty teased, but his own voice was strained, his cock hard and leaking against Sirius’s thigh. He scissored his fingers, adding a third, and Sirius’s head fell back, a string of curses spilling out as the Molly amplified every sensation, his skin buzzing like a live wire.
“Enough teasing,” Sirius growled, grabbing Barty’s wrist and pulling him closer. “Fuck me already.”
Barty didn’t need telling twice. He slicked himself up, lined up, and pushed in, slow at first, letting Sirius feel every inch. Sirius gasped, the stretch burning in the best way, his legs wrapping around Barty’s waist to pull him deeper. Barty groaned, his hands gripping Sirius’s hips hard enough to bruise, and set a relentless pace, thrusting deep and fast, hitting that spot over and over.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Barty panted, leaning down to kiss Sirius, sloppy and desperate, his piercing catching Sirius’s lip. Sirius moaned into it, hands clawing at Barty’s back, nails leaving red trails as he rocked up to meet every thrust. The bed creaked, the headboard banging against the brick wall, but the Silencing Charm kept it their secret.
“Harder,” Sirius demanded, voice wrecked, and Barty obliged, flipping him onto his stomach with a rough tug. Sirius scrambled to his knees, arse up, and Barty didn’t waste a second, slamming back in, the new angle making Sirius see stars. He fisted the sheets, moaning Barty’s name like a prayer, the Molly turning every thrust into a wave of electric heat.
“Like that, princess?” Barty growled, one hand gripping Sirius’s hip, the other sliding up to tug his hair, pulling his head back. Sirius arched, the mix of pain and pleasure sending him spiraling, his cock leaking onto the sheets without even being touched.
“Fuck, yes,” Sirius gasped, pushing back against Barty, chasing the high. Barty’s hand slid around, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and Sirius was gone, coming hard with a broken moan, spilling over Barty’s hand and the bed. His vision whited out, the Molly making it feel like he was floating, every nerve singing.
Barty didn’t stop, chasing his own release, his thrusts erratic until he came with a low groan, spilling inside Sirius, his grip tightening as he rode it out. They collapsed in a sweaty heap, panting, the room spinning from the drugs and the intensity.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sirius muttered, rolling onto his back, chest heaving. Barty laughed, rough and breathless, flopping beside him.
“Not done yet, princess,” Barty said, smirking as he grabbed Sirius’s hips and pulled him onto his lap, already half-hard again. The Molly was relentless, and Sirius wasn’t complaining, straddling Barty and sinking down onto him, the oversensitivity making him hiss but feel so fucking good. He rolled his hips, slow and teasing at first, hands braced on Barty’s chest, nails digging into one of the tattoos.
“Fuck, you’re unreal,” Barty groaned, hands guiding Sirius’s hips, urging him faster. Sirius grinned, leaning down to kiss him, all tongue and teeth, riding him with a rhythm that had Barty cursing under his breath. The bed rocked, the fairy lights casting shadows across their skin, and Sirius lost himself in it, the world narrowing to Barty’s hands, his cock, the heat building again.
“Wanna try something,” Barty said, voice rough, and before Sirius could ask, he was lifted off and flipped, back against the wall, legs hooked over Barty’s shoulders. Barty thrust back in, the angle deep and filthy, and Sirius’s head fell back, hitting the brick with a thud he barely felt. He clung to Barty’s shoulders, moaning as Barty fucked him against the wall, the rough texture scraping his back, adding to the overload of sensation.
“Fuck, Crouch, you’re— shit,” Sirius panted, his second orgasm building fast, the Molly making every touch feel like fire. Barty’s hand wrapped around him again, stroking fast, and Sirius came with a shout, spilling between them, his whole body shaking. Barty followed, groaning into Sirius’s neck, his thrusts slowing as they both came down, legs trembling.
They slid to the floor, a tangled mess of limbs, laughing between gasps for air. Sirius’s back stung from the brick, his thighs ached, and he was pretty sure he’d lost track of time, but he didn’t care. “You’re a fucking animal,” he said, stealing a sip from a water bottle on the nightstand.
“Says the guy who kept begging for more,” Barty shot back, smirking.
They didn’t stop there. The Molly kept them wired, and they went for another round on the floor, Sirius on top this time, riding Barty slow and deliberate, drawing it out until they were both whimpering messes. Then again on the bed, Barty spooning him from behind, lazy but deep, whispering filthy praise in Sirius’s ear until they both came one last time, too spent to move.
Hours later, they finally collapsed, the drugs wearing off, leaving them buzzed but sated. Sirius sprawled across the bed, Barty keeping his distance as usual, the room a wreck—sheets tangled, clothes everywhere, the Ziploc still on the dresser. The fairy lights glowed softly, and Sirius felt a rare moment of peace, the Remus ache dulled for now.
“Happy fucking birthday,” Barty mumbled, half-asleep, his voice muffled against pillow.
Sirius laughed, soft and tired. “Yeah, cheers, prick.” He closed his eyes, the chaos of the night settling into his bones.
The next morning was a fucking nightmare. Sirius woke up feeling like he’d been hexed by a Troll—razor burn stinging his back from the brick wall, arse still aching, and thighs trembling even as he lay sprawled on the bed. How many times had they gone at it? Three? Four? Holly shit, how was that even possible? He had no clue and didn’t want to know, already scheming in his pounding head about the next time they’d pop Molly and repeat the chaos. Because, yeah, it was that good.
To make matters worse, he had the hangover of the century. His mouth was dry as the Sahara, head throbbing like a Bludger had taken up residence in his skull, and his body felt like it’d been through a Quidditch match with no broom. Beside him, Barty was still out cold, face buried in the pillow, his back muscles looking like a fucking Renaissance painting in the morning light filtering through the loft’s high windows. They’d slept as far apart as the bed allowed, as usual, no cuddly nonsense here. When Sirius reached for the water bottle on the nightstand, his arm protesting the movement, he couldn’t help but curse the universe for dangling someone like Barty Fucking Crouch in front of him.
The git was, without question, the best sex Sirius had ever had—not that he’d admit it to Barty, or even to himself, hell no. Barty was a sharp-witted, smirking menace who acted like he was above everything and everyone. Always hexing people with something nasty just for the principle of it, always high on something, always carrying drugs in his pocket like he was waiting for the perfect moment to casually pull out heroin or some other mad shit. He was a walking, biting, red flag with legs, and Sirius had to remind himself—over and over—that falling for this prick would be dumber than challenging McGonagall to a duel.
Because, yeah, the sex was exceptional—mind-blowing, leg-shaking, brain-chemistry-changing exceptional—but beyond that? Barty was a little shit. He wouldn’t admit with a wand to his throat that he even liked Sirius, let alone anything deeper. Too busy being nonchalant, too cool to care about anything, frankly. Sure, he could wreck Sirius against a wall, pin him to the bed, and leave him a moaning mess, but ask if he wanted a bottle of water after? Light a cigarette for him? Nah, that was too much effort for Barty Crouch Jr. So, Sirius kept it locked down to just fucking, because he wasn’t idiot enough to believe he meant anything more to Barty than an arse to grope and a mouth to—well, you know.
Even if Barty was reportedly glowing. The little shit probably was, considering Sirius let him do whatever he wanted in bed. That “brain chemistry changed” line Regulus had dropped was still bouncing around in Sirius’s head, and he couldn’t help the smug twitch of his lips. Yeah, he’d gotten under Barty’s skin, and that was a win he’d take to the grave.
Sirius groaned, rolling onto his side, the sheets tangled around his hips. He chugged half the water bottle, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat, and glanced at Barty again. The git looked infuriatingly peaceful, his dark hair a mess, one arm flung over the edge of the bed. Sirius resisted the urge to poke him awake, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could handle Barty’s smirk this early. Instead, he dragged himself out of bed, wincing as his thighs protested, and shuffled to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water stung his back but eased the ache in his muscles, and he leaned against the tiles, letting the steam clear his head.
By the time he stumbled back into the bedroom, towel around his waist, Barty was awake, propped up on one elbow, squinting against the light. “Morning, princess,” he drawled, voice rough from sleep and last night’s whiskey. “You look like shite.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius snapped, but there was no heat in it, his lips twitching as he rummaged for clean clothes. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself, Crouch.”
Barty grinned, stretching, his muscles flexing in a way that was not helping Sirius’s resolve to keep things casual. “Bet I still look better than you,” he said, grabbing the water bottle and downing the rest.
“Keep dreaming,” Sirius shot back, pulling on a pair of loose jeans and a cropped Sex Pistols tee, the hem barely grazing his waistband. He caught Barty’s eyes lingering on the sliver of skin and smirked, because yeah, two could play that game.
The loft was quiet, save for Evan’s faint snoring from the couch and the muffled sound of James and Regulus moving around in the other bedroom. Sirius headed to the kitchenette, digging through the Tesco haul for anything edible. He found the biscuits and a jar of instant coffee, which was better than nothing, and set about boiling water in Alphard’s ancient kettle. Barty followed, leaning against the counter, still shirtless and infuriatingly smug.
“Coffee?” Sirius asked, holding up the jar, mostly to avoid staring at Barty’s tattoo.
“Only if you say ‘pretty please’ first,” Barty teased, stealing a biscuit and popping it in his mouth.
“Piss off,” Sirius said, but he was grinning, tossing a spoonful of coffee grounds into a mug. “You’re lucky I’m even offering, you prick.”
Barty laughed, the sound low and rough, and Sirius’s stomach did a stupid flip. Red flag, red flag, red flag, he chanted in his head, focusing on the kettle like it was a bloody Arithmancy exam. They sipped their coffee in silence, the loft slowly waking up around them. Evan groaned from the couch, muttering something about his eyebrow, and Regulus emerged from his room, looking annoyingly put-together despite the late night.
“Happy birthday, you heathen,” Regulus said, snagging a biscuit and eyeing Sirius’s crop top. “You couldn’t find a shirt that covers your navel?”
“Jealousy’s a bad look, Reggie,” Sirius shot back, winking. “Where’s Prongs? Still recovering from your Silencing Charm?”
Regulus flipped him off, but his lips twitched. “He’s in the shower.”
James appeared, hair wet and glasses fogged, and clapped Sirius on the shoulder. “Happy eighteenth, mate! Ready to get pissed again tonight?”
“Born ready,” Sirius grinned, already plotting the pub crawl. “But first, food. I’m not surviving on biscuits and regret.”
They decided on a greasy spoon café down the street, piling into a booth and ordering enough bacon, eggs, and chips to feed a Quidditch team. Sirius sat across from Barty, their knees brushing under the table, and every time their eyes met, Barty’s smirk said he knew exactly what Sirius was thinking about last night. Git. Sirius kicked him under the table, earning a mock glare, and focused on his food, trying to ignore the way Barty’s fingers tapped the table, or how his tongue flicked over his piercing when he laughed.
Regulus, picking at his eggs, brought up the record shop. “You gonna check on it today, Siri? Make sure Lizzie hasn’t sold all your Bowie vinyls to hipsters?”
“Planning to,” Sirius said, shoving a chip in his mouth. “Might drag you lot along. Show you how to charm the Muggle cash register without breaking it.”
Evan snorted, still nursing his coffee. “Mate, you’ll set it on fire.”
“Faith, Rosier, have some faith,” Sirius said, grinning. He caught Barty’s eye again, and the git had the nerve to wink, like he was daring Sirius to bring up the “glowing” thing again. Sirius didn’t, but only because he was saving it for later, when he could really make Barty squirm.
The day stretched ahead—birthday shenanigans, the record shop, another night of chaos in Camden. Sirius’s head was still a mess, the Remus ache lingering like a bruise, but Barty’s smirk, Regulus’s banter, and the promise of a proper piss-up kept it at bay. He wasn’t falling for Barty— no way —but he’d take the sex, the taunts, and the thrill of knowing he’d gotten under that prick’s skin.
By evening, they’d landed in another Camden bar, this time opting for pints instead of shots, because, well, they had to Apparate back to Hogwarts in the morning. The place was a proper dive—dim lights, scuffed wooden tables, and a jukebox crooning some grunge track that Sirius vaguely recognized. His phone had been buzzing all day with birthday texts, and he ignored most of them, skimming through the flood of “happy bday mate” and heart emojis from random classmates. A few stood out, though—Pandora’s, with her usual string of sparkly emojis and a “may your chaos reign, Sirius ✨”; Dorcas’s, short and sweet with a “happy 18th, don’t die”; and, weirdly, one from Mary Macdonald that made him pause.
“Happy birthday, fucking traitor ♥️ still love u,” Mary’s text read, and Sirius snorted, showing it to James, who was halfway through his pint.
“I mean,” James shrugged, adjusting his glasses, “she said something recently like, ‘yeah, Black’s a fucking red flag, but first love theory or whatever.’” He waved a hand, like it was no big deal.
Sirius cackled, because, fuck, that tracked. Mary was his first girlfriend, he was her first boyfriend, and even though it was puppy-love nonsense back in third year, they’d had their moment—snogging in the Gryffindor common room, sneaking off to Hogsmeade, all that jazz. They’d broken up on good terms, no drama, just two kids realizing they were better as mates. Still, the “traitor” bit stung a little, but the heart emoji softened it, and Sirius fired back a quick “love u too, Mar ♥️” before pocketing his phone.
“If Evans ever says shit like that about James, I swear I’m committing a felony,” Regulus declared, glaring into his pint like Lily was personally offending him right now, even though nothing of the sort had happened.
Sirius laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “Please, Reggie. You’re the bloke who made her boyfriend gay and the reason James dumped her, so, no, she won’t say shit like that.”
“She better,” Regulus muttered, rolling his eyes. “Fucking ginger.”
Evan snorted so loudly he almost knocked over his pint, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from spraying beer everywhere. James was biting his lip, clearly fighting a laugh, while Barty—well, Barty just rolled his eyes, pretending he wasn’t amused, his pint dangling lazily in one hand. Nonchalant dickhead, acting like he was above their chaos, but Sirius caught the twitch of his mouth.
Sirius leaned back in the booth, scrolling through the endless birthday texts, but his mood dipped as he realized something grim. This was his first birthday since starting Hogwarts that he hadn’t spent with Remus—and worse, Remus hadn’t even sent a “happy birthday.” Not a text, not a note, nothing. He’d wished Regulus well—Sirius saw the “Happy 18th, Reg 🤎” on Reg’s phone earlier—but for Sirius? Radio silence. The ache in his chest flared, sharp and familiar, and he downed his pint in one go, signaling the bartender for another round.
Because apparently, no matter how many times your brother’s best mate fucked you senseless, you still woke up missing your ex.
Fucking hell, that was Sirius’s life.
“Oi, slow down, birthday boy,” James said, raising an eyebrow as the fresh pints arrived. “We’ve got class tomorrow. McGonagall’ll skin us if we show up hungover.”
“Worth it,” Sirius grinned, but it was a bit forced, the Remus-shaped hole in his day gnawing at him. He clinked his glass against James’s, then Evan’s, avoiding Barty’s gaze because he didn’t need that smug smirk right now. Regulus, though, caught his eye, his expression softening like he knew exactly what was up. Damn twin telepathy.
“Pandora’s planning some Hogsmeade thing next weekend,” Regulus said, steering the conversation to safer ground. “Reckons we should all crash the Three Broomsticks and charm the butterbeer to sing pop songs.”
“Genius,” Evan said, finally recovering from his snort-fest. “Bet we could get Rosmerta to join in. She’s got a soft spot for me.”
“You wish, Rosier,” Barty drawled, finally breaking his cool-guy silence. “She’d hex your arse for flirting before you got two words out.”
“Jealous, Crouch?” Evan grinned, leaning forward. “Don’t worry, I’ll save a dance for you.”
Barty flipped him off, but he was smirking, and Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in his chest easing a fraction. He sipped his new pint, letting the group’s banter wash over him. James was reenacting Evan’s splinching incident from yesterday, complete with dramatic arm-waving, while Regulus groaned and hid his face in his hands, muttering about “embarrassing Gryffindors.” Barty stayed quiet, but his knee brushed Sirius’s under the table, deliberate enough to make Sirius glance at him. The git just raised an eyebrow, all innocent, and Sirius kicked him lightly, hiding his smirk behind his pint.
The bar was buzzing, Muggle locals mixing with a few wizards who’d slipped in under glamours, the air thick with cigarette smoke and laughter. Sirius’s phone buzzed again—another text, this one from Andromeda, saying “Happy 18th, I love you 🩷don’t set anything on fire”—and he fired back a cheeky “no promises, Andy 😌.” He was about to toss his phone aside when he noticed Barty watching him, that damn piercing glinting as he tilted his head.
“What?” Sirius asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” Barty said, his smirk slow and dangerous. “Just wondering if you’re gonna mope all night or actually enjoy your birthday.”
“Fuck off, Crouch,” Sirius said, but he was grinning, the jab pulling him out of his head. “I’m enjoying it plenty. Got pints, mates, and your ugly mug to look at—what more could I want?”
“Ugly?” Barty clutched his chest, mock-offended. “I’m a masterpiece, Black.”
“Masterpiece of bullshit,” Sirius shot back, and the table erupted in laughter, even Regulus cracking a smile.
They stayed until last call, nursing their pints and swapping stories—James’s latest Quidditch fumble, Evan’s disastrous attempt to chat up a bartender, Regulus’s deadpan recounting of a Slytherin prank gone wrong. Barty stayed close to Sirius, their shoulders brushing now and then, and Sirius let himself lean into it, just a little. Not because he liked Barty—hell no—but because the contact grounded him, kept the Remus ache from swallowing him whole.
As they stumbled back to the loft, the Camden streets slick with drizzle, Sirius lagged behind, lighting a cigarette and blowing smoke into the night air. Barty fell into step beside him, hands in his pockets, his leather jacket zipped against the chill.
“Still no word from Lupin, huh?” Barty asked, voice low, no trace of his usual smirk.
Sirius tensed, taking a long drag before answering. “Nope. First birthday in years he’s ghosted me.”
Barty hummed, not pushing, which was… weirdly decent. “His loss, princess. You’re a fucking riot.”
Sirius snorted, glancing at him. “High praise from you, Crouch.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Barty said, but his smirk was back.
Back at the flat, Evan claimed the couch again, James and Regulus disappeared with another Silencing Charm, and Sirius headed to his room, Barty trailing behind like it was a given. They didn’t hook up—too knackered, too hungover—but Barty crashed on the spare mattress Sirius dragged in, and they passed a joint back and forth, the loft quiet except for the faint hum of Camden outside.
“Happy birthday, princess,” Barty mumbled, half-asleep, passing the joint.
“Cheers, prick,” Sirius said, grinning into the dark. His phone stayed silent, no Remus, but he had his mates, his brother, and—fuck it—Barty’s chaos to keep him going.
He rolled onto his back, head dangling off the edge of the bed, his hair brushing the wooden floor of the loft, the fairy lights casting a soft glow across the room. The joint’s buzz lingered, mixing with the alcohol and the ache of his eighteenth birthday, and Sirius felt a reckless urge bubble up.
“Crouch?” he asked, glancing at Barty, who was sprawled on the mattress, one arm flung over his head.
“What?” Barty mumbled, voice thick with sleep and smoke.
“You’re not catching feelings, right?” Sirius asked, the words spilling out from sheer stupidity, too much weed, too many pints, and a brain that clearly wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Barty snorted, loud and obnoxious, the sound echoing off the brick walls. “I’m here for your arse, Black. Don’t get delusional.”
Sirius shrugged, his upside-down view of the room making him dizzy. “Good. We can hook up, but I’d rather die than date you.”
“Right back at ya, princess,” Barty smirked, passing the joint back, his fingers brushing Sirius’s for a split second. “Casual shit only.”
They didn’t talk much after that, just smoked the joint in silence, the faint hum of Camden’s nightlife seeping through the windows. Barty fell asleep first, his breathing evening out, the mattress creaking as he shifted. Sirius buried himself in the sheets, weirdly proud of himself for setting boundaries—or whatever the hell that conversation was. He could keep hooking up with Barty, no strings attached, until someone actually worth his time showed up. Preferably with Molly, because, fucks’ sake, that shit took sex to another plane of existence, and Sirius wasn’t too proud to admit it. To himself, at least. Never to Barty.
He stared at the ceiling, the chandelier they’d charmed to flicker like a disco ball catching the light. His phone was still quiet, and the Remus-shaped hole in his chest throbbed, but it was duller now, softened by the night’s chaos and Barty’s snarky reassurance that this was just physical. Good. Sirius didn’t need another heartbreak, and Barty was the last person he’d ever fall for. Too sharp, too reckless, too much like looking in a mirror that showed all his worst bits. But the sex? Yeah, that he’d keep, no question.
The loft was still, save for Evan’s faint snoring from the couch and the occasional creak from Regulus’s room, where he and James were probably passed out. Sirius’s mind wandered, replaying the weekend—Soho’s neon blur, the pub crawl, Barty’s hands, that “glowing” jab that still made him smirk. He was eighteen now, officially an adult in the real world too, and the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. No parents, no rules, just him and Regulus carving out their own path, with the flat, the record shop, and a future that felt like a blank spellbook.
He rolled onto his side, tugging the sheets higher, and let his eyes drift to Barty’s sleeping form. The git looked almost human like this, his usual smirk gone, his hair a mess against the pillow. Sirius snorted softly, shaking his head. Nope, no feelings here. Just a fling, a distraction, a way to drown out the Remus ache until someone better came along. Someone who’d light a cigarette for him after, maybe, or text him “happy birthday” without making him feel like he was begging for scraps.
The joint’s high was fading, leaving a pleasant haze, and Sirius yawned, his body finally demanding rest. Tomorrow, they’d Apparate back to Hogwarts, drag themselves to classes, and face whatever drama waited—probably Snape sneering in Potions, or McGonagall giving them detention for looking too hungover. He’d check the Marauders’ Map, too, because yeah, he was still that pathetic, still scanning for Remus’s name like it’d fix anything. But for now, he let the loft’s quiet wrap around him, the fairy lights a soft anchor in the dark.
“Night, prick,” he muttered under his breath, half to Barty, half to himself, and closed his eyes. His birthday had been a mess—pints, drugs, hookups, and a heart still cracked—but it was his mess, and he’d take it. He’d keep Barty at arm’s length, keep Regulus close, and keep moving forward, one chaotic night at a time. Someone worth his time was out there, and until then, he’d raise hell with the mates he had. Starting with teasing Barty about that “brain chemistry” line the second they woke up. Smirking, Sirius drifted off, already plotting his next move in their game of snark and sex.
Morning came too soon, the loft’s high windows letting in a grey London dawn that felt like a personal attack. Sirius groaned, his head still pounding, his body a map of aches from the weekend’s excesses. Barty was already up, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, rolling another joint with a focus that was frankly unfair this early. He glanced at Sirius, smirking like he knew exactly how rough he felt.
“Rise and shine, princess,” Barty said, lighting the joint and taking a drag. “You look like you got hit by a Hippogriff.”
“Fuck you,” Sirius muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He snatched the joint from Barty’s fingers, inhaling deeply, the smoke smoothing out the edges of his hangover. “Why’re you so chipper? We’re out of Molly.”
“Natural charm,” Barty grinned, leaning back on his hands, his tee riding up to show a sliver of skin. “Unlike you, I can handle my liquor.”
Sirius flipped him off, passing the joint back, and stumbled to the kitchenette for coffee. Regulus was already there, looking annoyingly fresh in a black jumper, sipping tea like a posh git. James was frying eggs, humming some tune, while Evan groaned from the couch.
“Happy birthday, round two,” Regulus said, raising his mug. “You surviving, Siri?”
“Barely,” Sirius admitted, grabbing a mug and dumping instant coffee into it. “You lot better not expect me to be cheerful in Transfiguration.”
“McGonagall’ll have your hide if you’re late again,” James warned, sliding a plate of eggs toward him. “Eat. You’re no use to us dead.”
Sirius grumbled but took the plate, sitting at the counter next to Regulus. Barty joined them, stealing a piece of toast from Evan’s plate as he passed, earning a muffled “oi!” from the couch. The loft buzzed with their usual chaos—James teasing Regulus about his tea obsession, Evan whining about his eyebrow, Barty smirking like he owned the place. Sirius let it wash over him, the normalcy grounding him after the emotional rollercoaster of the weekend.
After they’d scarfed down James’s greasy eggs and Regulus cleaned the loft with a few swift spells—talented bastard, Sirius was not jealous, not even a bit—they gathered their bags, still groaning from the hangover that clung to them like a bad hex. With no anti-hangover potion in sight, they Apparated back to Hogsmeade, the familiar lurch making Sirius’s stomach protest. From there, they dragged their sorry arses through the secret passage behind Honeydukes, the cloying smell of sugar doing nothing for their pounding heads. The tunnel’s damp walls and creaky floorboards felt like a personal insult, and every step had them cursing their life choices—especially the pints, the Molly, and the lack of foresight to brew a potion before the weekend.
“Never again,” Evan moaned, clutching his bag like it was a lifeline.
“Liar,” Barty snorted, somehow looking less wrecked than the rest, though his eyes were bloodshot behind his smirk. “You’ll be back at it by Friday.”
“Shut up, Crouch,” Evan muttered, but there was no heat in it, just exhaustion.
By the time they reached the castle, they were a mess—hair disheveled, tees askew, and Sirius’s crop top swapped for a rumpled uniform that screamed “I partied too hard.” Regulus and Evan had a free period that morning, lucky gits, and Barty vanished to do some Ravenclaw-y nonsense, probably charming his way out of a late assignment with that tongue piercing and a grin. Sirius and James, predictably, were running late for Transfiguration, because Sirius couldn’t find his bloody tie—buried under a pile of jeans in his bag—and James was tearing through his stuff for an essay he’d forgotten to hand in last week, which McGonagall was already feral about.
“Mate, it’s gone, just accept it,” Sirius said, yanking his tie from under a pair of boots and looping it around his neck, not bothering to knot it properly.
“It’s somewhere,” James insisted, upending his bag, quills and crumpled parchment flying everywhere. “Minnie’s gonna murder me.”
“She’ll murder us both if we’re late,” Sirius pointed out, but he was grinning, the chaos oddly comforting after the weekend’s emotional rollercoaster.
They sprinted to the classroom, arriving a solid ten minutes late, trying to slip in with innocent faces despite looking like they’d been dragged through a hedge. The room was already buzzing with students practicing Vanishing Spells, and McGonagall, perched at her desk like a hawk, shot them a look that could’ve curdled milk.
“Detention,” she said, her no-nonsense voice cutting through the chatter.
“Fuck me,” Sirius groaned, tipping his head back dramatically, his tie slipping further askew.
“Minus ten points, Black,” McGonagall added, crossing her arms, her lips twitching just enough to betray a hint of amusement. A few classmates—Marlene and some girls—chuckled, and Sirius flipped them off behind his back.
James cackled, slumping into the seat next to Sirius. “Tosser.”
“Minus ten points, Potter,” McGonagall said, and now the whole class was laughing, Peter snorting loudest from his spot by the window.
“But—” James started, his glasses sliding down his nose in indignation.
“Prongs, just sit,” Peter said, shaking his head, his wand still poised over a half-vanished teacup. “You’re digging your own grave.”
“If this is what being eighteen’s like, I’m signing out,” Sirius muttered, collapsing at his desk, his head throbbing as he pulled out his wand. He aimed it at the teacup in front of him, muttering “Evanesco,” but only managed to make it flicker like a bad Muggle lightbulb. “Fuck’s sake.”
McGonagall swept by, her robes swishing, and raised an eyebrow. “Language, Black. And focus, unless you’d like another detention.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sirius said, saluting her with a grin that was half-charm, half-exhaustion. She rolled her eyes but moved on, and Sirius leaned back, whispering to James, “Worth it, though, right? Soho, the loft, all that?”
James grinned, his own teacup wobbling under a shaky spell. “Mate, I’d take ten detentions for that pub crawl. Reg nearly fell off my back on the way home.”
Sirius snorted, picturing Regulus, all prim and proper, giggling like a first-year as James carried him through Camden. “You two are disgusting. Silencing Charms exist for a reason.”
The rest of the lesson dragged, Sirius and James half-arsing their spells while Peter nagged them to “at least try,” his own teacup now a perfect pile of dust. By the end, Sirius’s head was still pounding, and the prospect of detention—probably scrubbing cauldrons or sorting Flobberworms—wasn’t helping. He and James shuffled out, joining the crowd in the corridor, where Regulus and Evan were waiting, looking far too smug for people who’d skipped morning classes.
“Detention already?” Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall, his tie annoyingly perfect. “It’s not even noon, Siri.”
“Fuck off, Reggie,” Sirius said, but he slung an arm around his shoulders, grinning. “Jealous you missed Minnie’s wrath?”
“Hardly,” Regulus said, ducking out of the hold. “I’d rather not start my eighteenth year polishing trophies.”
Evan snorted, adjusting his bag. “You two are hopeless. Where’s Crouch?”
“Probably charming Sinistra out of homework,” James said, pushing his glasses up. “Or hiding in the Ravenclaw tower, being all mysterious.”
“Git,” Sirius muttered, but his lips twitched, thinking of Barty’s smirk and that “casual shit only” line from last night. Good. Boundaries set, no feelings, just chaos and— God help him —mind-blowing sex. He wasn’t falling for that prick, no matter how much his brain kept replaying the loft’s brick-wall moment.
They headed to the Great Hall for lunch, the smell of roast beef and Yorkshire puddings making Sirius’s stomach rumble despite the hangover. The Gryffindor table was buzzing, Pandora and Dorcas waving them over, and Sirius plopped down, stealing a roll from James’s plate before he could protest.
“Happy birthday, old man,” Dorcas said, tossing a charmed paper bird at Sirius that chirped “eighteen” before bursting into confetti. “Heard you and Potter got detention already. Classic.”
“Minnie’s got it out for us,” Sirius said, grinning as he tore into the roll. “What’s new?”
Pandora leaned forward, her hair swinging. “Heard Snape’s been skulking around the library, muttering about some new hex. Watch your back, yeah?”
“Always,” Sirius said, but his mind wasn’t on Snape. He scanned the Hufflepuff table out of habit, spotting Gabriel but no Remus. His chest tightened, and he forced his eyes back to his plate, piling on mash to distract himself.
Regulus, sitting across from him, caught the look and nudged his foot under the table. “You alright?” he mouthed, subtle enough that no one else noticed.
Sirius nodded, managing a half-smirk. “Peachy, Reggie.” He wasn’t, not really, but he’d fake it till he made it. Lunch passed in a blur of banter—James recounting their Soho antics, Evan whining about his eyebrow again. Barty showed up halfway through, sliding in next to Evan with a can of Monster and a smirk that said he’d dodged trouble, as usual.
“Miss me, Black?” Barty asked, stealing a chip from Sirius’s plate.
“Like a hex to the face,” Sirius shot back, but their knees brushed under the table, and Barty’s smirk widened.
The day dragged on and by dinner, he was knackered, the hangover still lingering, but the thought of detention with James kept him grinning. They’d probably charm the cauldrons to sing Muggle punk songs and drive McGonagall up the wall.
As they headed to the common room, Sirius lagged behind, pulling out the Marauders’ Map out of habit. He tapped it, muttering, “ I solemnly swear I am up to no good ,” and watched the ink spread, revealing Hogwarts’s secrets. His eyes flicked to the library, then the Ravenclaw tower, but Remus’s name was nowhere. He sighed, folding the map and shoving it in his pocket.
Maybe Regulus was right—time to move on, find someone who matched his chaos. Someone not Barty, obviously, because that was a disaster waiting to happen.
Just as Sirius was mulling over his messy life, his phone buzzed, and—of course—it was Barty, texting like some freaky mind-reader.
crouch 💀🔫: astronomy tower, now
Sirius groaned inwardly, keeping his face blank to avoid nosy glances from James or Regulus, who were sprawled in the common room, arguing over Quidditch tactics. He fired back a reply, fingers flying over the screen.
sirius: pass, my arse still hurts
crouch 💀🔫: good, you can give me head then
sirius: fuck off
crouch 💀🔫: just get over here and bring that map
Sirius frowned, slouching lower in his armchair. The Map? What the hell did Barty need the Marauders’ Map for?
sirius: wth
crouch 💀🔫: just come here you wanker
Against his better judgment, Sirius dragged his aching arse up to the Astronomy Tower, every step a reminder of the weekend’s chaos. The castle’s corridors were quiet, most students already in their common rooms, and the cold November air bit at his knuckles as he climbed the spiral staircase. Barty was already there, leaning against the railing, looking like he was freezing his “tough” arse off despite a Warming Charm humming around him and a Wind-Warding Spell keeping the gusts at bay. He’d tossed his Ravenclaw tie over his shoulder, his shirt untucked, and that damn tongue piercing glinted as he smirked.
“I’m not giving you head,” Sirius declared the second he stepped in, crossing his arms and leaning against a telescope.
“Always knew you were useless,” Barty said, rolling his eyes with exaggerated drama. “Gimme that Map.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, not budging. “And what for?”
“Because, you idiot,” Barty said, squinting down at him like Sirius was a particularly dense first-year, “if you can guess Lupin’s screwing his shiny new toy in the Room of Requirement, Potter or Archie could guess I’m screwing you there too. And I’m not into explaining to anyone why I’m fucking my best mate’s twin brother. Hand over the Map.”
Sirius blinked, because—damn, the git had a point. That was exactly the kind of paranoia Sirius had been nursing, not wanting James or Regulus to clock their hookups. Reluctantly, he pulled the Marauders’ Map from his bag and sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, gesturing for Barty to join him. “Sit, prick,” he said, unfolding the parchment and tapping it with his wand. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”
The ink spread, revealing Hogwarts’s secrets—corridors, classrooms, and tiny labeled dots moving in real-time. Barty leaned over, his shoulder brushing Sirius’s, and Sirius could tell he was impressed, even if his face stayed unreadable.
“Who charmed the Map to track people?” Barty asked, his tone curious but sharp, like he was already reverse-engineering it in his head.
“Me,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes. “With some help from Remus and Prongs, but the tracking spell’s mine.”
“How?” Barty pressed, all business, which—Merlin’s sake—was kinda hot, not that Sirius would admit it.
So Sirius launched into the explanation, rattling off the mix of Locator Charms, Homonum Revelio variants, and a bit of experimental rune work he’d cobbled together in fourth year. Barty nodded, soaking it up like a proper Ravenclaw nerd, his mismatched eyes flicking between Sirius and the Map.
“Thought so,” Barty said when Sirius finished. “Alright, since the Room’s unplottable and we’re invisible on the Map when we’re in there, I’m gonna cast a spell to fake my presence in my dorm the second I step into the Room of Requirement. You’ll still won’t show up on the Map, but Potter’ll just think you’re crying over Lupin in the Room, so it’s all peachy, since you do still cry over him.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, ignoring the jab because, fuck, that was genius. Barty’s plan was airtight, and Sirius couldn’t help but be a little impressed. “Come on, then,” he said, gesturing to the Map.
Barty pulled his wand, muttering a series of complex charms Sirius vaguely recognized from Advanced Spellcraft. The Map shivered, glowing briefly on the seventh floor, where the Room of Requirement should be, and in the Ravenclaw boys’ dorm, where a fake “Barty Crouch Jr.” dot appeared, lounging innocently. Sirius whistled, genuinely impressed.
“Not bad, Crouch,” he said, folding the Map and tucking it away. “Didn’t know you had it in you to be this sneaky.”
Barty pocketed his wand and smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Now we can go there, you can give me head as a ‘thank you,’ and I might fuck you lighter than usual, since you’re so sensitive, princess.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, standing and brushing off his jeans. “Shut up, prick. We can’t go there anyway—Lupin and his bitch are in the Room, so it won’t appear.”
Barty’s eyebrow shot up. “How’d you know they’re there?”
Sirius froze, lips parting, but no words came out. Shit.
Barty gasped, his smirk widening into something downright evil. “Fuck, you’re stalking them?”
“Shut up,” Sirius snapped, his face heating.
“Black, that’s next-level pathetic,” Barty said, laughing now, the sound echoing off the tower’s stone walls.
“Shut up,” Sirius repeated, shoving Barty’s shoulder, but it only made him laugh harder.
“Oh, that’s fucking gold,” Barty wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Moping and stalking your ex? Fuck, you’re a mess.”
“Crouch—” Sirius started, his voice a warning, but Barty cut him off.
“I mean, really? You’re out here checking the Map like some lovesick first-year, pining after Lupin while he’s shagging his Hufflepuff twink?”
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Sirius growled, lunging at Barty, who dodged with a cackle, scrambling to his feet and darting around a telescope.
“Gotta catch me first, princess!” Barty taunted, still laughing as Sirius chased him, their boots clattering on the stone floor. It was stupid, juvenile, but Sirius couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips, the chase burning off some of the embarrassment. He finally tackled Barty against the wall, pinning him with a forearm to his chest, both of them panting and grinning like idiots.
“You’re a prick,” Sirius said, but there was no venom in it, his heart racing from the run and Barty’s stupid smirk.
“And you’re obsessed with your ex,” Barty shot back, but his eyes were glinting, and he didn’t push Sirius off. “Admit it, Black. You’re checking that Map every chance you get.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, stepping back and running a hand through his hair. “Fine, I check it. Happy? Doesn’t mean I’m stalking him.”
“Mate, you’re one step from camping outside the Hufflepuff common room with a pair of Omnioculars,” Barty said, smirking as he leaned against the railing, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. He offered it to Sirius, who took it, mostly to avoid arguing.
“Piss off,” Sirius muttered, taking a drag and blowing smoke into the night air. The Warming Charm kept the chill at bay, and the stars above were sharp, the tower’s quiet a stark contrast to the weekend’s chaos. He leaned next to Barty, their shoulders brushing, and for a moment, they just stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth.
“So,” Barty said after a bit, his tone lighter but still teasing, “you gonna keep pining, or you gonna let me distract you properly next time the Room’s free?”
Sirius snorted, handing the cigarette back. “You’re a shit distraction, Crouch. All mouth, no follow-through.”
“Oi, my follow-through had you screaming last time,” Barty said, grinning, and Sirius elbowed him, laughing despite himself.
“Delusional,” Sirius said, but his smirk betrayed him. He glanced at Barty, the git looking infuriatingly smug under the starlight, and shook his head. “Map’s sorted, so we’re good. But I’m not blowing you as a thank you, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“Tragic,” Barty sighed, flicking the cigarette stub over the parapet, where it sparked and vanished. “Guess I’ll just have to charm you with my sparkling personality instead.”
“Good luck with that,” Sirius said, pushing off the railing and heading for the stairs. “C’mon, prick, I’ve got detention to survive tomorrow, and you’re not helping my hangover.”
Barty followed, his boots echoing behind Sirius. “Bet I could cure that hangover with a quick shag in the broom cupboard.”
“Keep dreaming,” Sirius called over his shoulder, but he was grinning, the Astronomy Tower’s banter chasing away the sting of Remus’s absence. Barty was a red flag, a menace, and definitely not boyfriend material, but he was keeping Sirius’s head above water, one snarky jab at a time. Back at Hogwarts, with detention looming and the Map safe in his pocket, Sirius felt ready to tackle whatever came next—whether it was McGonagall’s wrath, Snape’s sneers, or his own dumb heart still checking for Remus’s name.
Chapter Text
After the wild weekend in London, Sirius slipped back into his usual Hogwarts rhythm—well, as usual as it got for him. That meant sneaking off with Barty during breaks to snog in empty classrooms (fine, he gave him head once or twice, shut up), hooking up in the Room of Requirement whenever it was free, and slacking off in classes because, honestly, who needed Charms when you had a Beater’s bat? He was practicing Quidditch every damn day, though, because the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match was two weeks away, and Sirius wasn’t about to let Barty’s smug arse win. No fucking way in hell. He’d send a storm of Bludgers at that git, maybe aim for that stupid snake tattoo just to wipe the smirk off his face.
Still, every night before crashing, Sirius pulled out the Marauders’ Map, tapping it with his wand and muttering, “ I solemnly swear I am up to no good .” Thank God, Remus was always in his dorm, and that Hufflepuff bitch was in his own. Good. Because if Sirius saw their names together in some cozy corner, he’d probably lose his shit and hex something. Or someone. Not that he was obsessed or anything. Just… checking.
His sex life wasn’t exactly lacking—Barty was a menace in the best way—but Sirius was starting to itch for something more. Not with Barty, obviously; that was pure chaos, no strings, just sweat and smirks. But the intimacy? Yeah, he missed that. Falling asleep without Remus’s arm around him was easier after half a year, but it still sucked. He wanted someone to hold his hand, play with his curls, do all the sappy shit he saw Regulus and James pulling off daily—giggling over private jokes, stealing kisses in the corridors, looking at each other like the world didn’t exist. Gross, but… nice.
So, Sirius decided to go hunting.
And, Merlin’s beard, it was almost too easy.
On Thursday evening, he was—shockingly—in the library, only because Regulus had dragged him there with a death glare and a hissed, “You’re failing Potions, Siri, move.” Sirius was slumped at a table, pretending to read a book on Draught of Peace while doodling Bludgers in the margins, when his eyes caught a Ravenclaw across the room. The guy was probably a year below, maybe sixteen, and Sirius didn’t know his name, but he was cute. Dark hair, green eyes, straight nose, tall enough to be interesting. He had a shy smile, and when he noticed Sirius staring, his cheeks went pink, his quill freezing mid-scratch. Definitely worth a shot.
“Be right back,” Sirius said, pushing his chair back and standing.
“Sirius—” Regulus started, groaning, but cut himself off when he followed Sirius’s gaze and saw him sauntering toward the Ravenclaw instead of bolting for the door. Regulus raised an eyebrow, muttering something like, “Unbelievable,” but Sirius was already halfway across the library, his usual swagger dialed up to eleven.
The Ravenclaw—let’s call him Green Eyes for now—was at a table by the Charms section, surrounded by books and parchment, looking like he was actually studying, the nerd. Sirius leaned against the table, casual as hell, his tie loose and his shirt untucked just enough to show a sliver of collarbone. “Hey,” he said, flashing his best grin, the one that usually got him out of detention or into someone’s bed.
“Uh, h-hi,” Green Eyes stammered, his blush deepening as he pushed a book aside, knocking over an ink bottle in the process. He scrambled to catch it, and Sirius chuckled, righting it for him with a lazy flick of his wand.
“Smooth,” Sirius teased, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting without asking. “What’s your name, Ravenclaw?”
“Elliot,” the guy said, his voice a bit shaky but his green eyes meeting Sirius’s, curious now. “Elliot Harper. And you’re… Sirius Black, right?”
“The one and only,” Sirius said, winking, leaning back to stretch just enough to make his shirt ride up, showing a hint of his abs. Elliot’s eyes flicked down, then back up, and Sirius mentally high-fived himself. Too easy.
“So, Elliot, what’s a cute guy like you doing buried in…” He glanced at the book. “Advanced Rune Translation? Geez, you’re making me feel like a slacker.”
Elliot laughed, a soft, nervous sound, running a hand through his dark hair. “Just, y’know, studying. NEWTs are next year, so…” He shrugged, his smile shy but genuine. “What about you? Didn’t think you, uh, hung out in the library.”
“I don’t,” Sirius admitted, grinning. “My brother dragged me here to ‘save my Potions grade,’ but I’m more interested in… other things.” He let his eyes linger on Elliot’s, just long enough to make the kid squirm, but in a good way.
“Other things?” Elliot asked, his voice pitching up, and Sirius could practically see the gears turning in his head—half-panicked, half-hopeful.
“Yeah,” Sirius said, lowering his voice, leaning closer. “Like getting to know you better. Fancy a walk? Library’s a bit stuffy, don’t you think?”
Elliot’s eyes widened, and for a second, Sirius thought he might bolt, but then he nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Sure, yeah. Just… let me pack up.”
Sirius waited, smirking as Elliot fumbled with his books, shoving them into his bag with hands that were definitely shaking. Regulus was watching from their table, his quill paused, one eyebrow arched like he was both impressed and judging. Sirius gave him a mock salute, earning an eye-roll, and followed Elliot out of the library, his heart doing a weird little flip. Not love, obviously—just the thrill of the chase, the promise of something new.
They wandered down the corridor, the castle’s torches casting flickering shadows, and Sirius kept the conversation light—Quidditch, music, the usual. Elliot was shy but warmed up fast, laughing at Sirius’s dumb jokes and blushing every time their arms brushed. He was sweet, earnest, the kind of guy who’d probably hold hands and play with Sirius’s hair without being asked. Not like Barty, who’d rather hex him than show a shred of softness. By the time they reached a quiet alcove near the Charms classroom, Sirius was feeling pretty good about his hunting skills.
“So,” Sirius said, leaning against the wall, close enough to catch the faint cedar scent of Elliot’s soap—clean and grounding. “You got a boyfriend, Elliot? Or am I about to make your day?”
Elliot’s face went scarlet, and he laughed, nervous but clearly thrilled. “No, uh, no boyfriend. And… you’re definitely making my day.”
“Good answer,” Sirius grinned, stepping closer, ready to seal the deal with a kiss—nothing too intense, just a test drive to see if the spark was there.
He tilted his head, Elliot’s green eyes wide and expectant, and their lips met in a soft, tentative brush. Thank God, it was good—sweet, warm, with just enough confidence to keep Sirius from being disappointed. And, yeah, between Remus and Barty, Sirius had developed a thing for taller guys, liking the way he had to tilt his chin up just a bit. Elliot, thankfully, fit the bill.
Sure, he could have played it slow, maybe waited more than thirty minutes after learning Elliot’s name to snog him, but where was the fun in that? Sirius lived for the rush, the leap without looking, and Elliot’s shy enthusiasm was exactly the vibe he needed.
When they pulled apart, Elliot was grinning, his cheeks still flushed, and fuck if that wasn’t a refreshing change from the smug smirks Sirius was used to lately. “God, you’re cute,” Sirius chuckled, because, yeah, Elliot was bloody sweet, all nervous charm and bright eyes. “Text me, yeah?” he added with a wink, already turning on his heel to walk away, swinging his hips for good measure because he knew Elliot was watching.
“Ye-yeah, sure,” Elliot called after him, voice a bit dazed, and Sirius smirked, feeling like he’d just scored a goal in Quidditch.
He sauntered back to the library, where Regulus was still perched at their table, quill scratching furiously, surrounded by Potions notes and a stack of books that screamed “overachiever.” Sirius flopped into his chair, kicking his legs up on the table, and Regulus looked up, his grey eyes narrowing.
“You absolute slut,” Regulus hissed, but the amusement in his voice betrayed him, his lips twitching.
Sirius grinned, unrepentant. “You told me to move on, right? I’m just following orders, Reggie.”
“Yeah, but not in the library, duh,” Regulus rolled his eyes, tossing a balled-up piece of parchment at Sirius, who dodged it with a laugh. “So, who the hell was that?”
“Elliot Something,” Sirius shrugged, leaning back and twirling his quill like a wand. “Sixth year, Ravenclaw, cute as hell, good kisser.”
“You kissed him already?” Regulus raised an eyebrow, looking equal parts impressed and exasperated.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Sirius said, rolling his eyes like, duh, of course I did. “It’s me, Reg. I don’t waste time.”
“Unbelievable,” Regulus muttered, shaking his head, but he was fighting a smile. “Now study before Slughorn gives you detention for failing his next quiz. I’m not tutoring you again.”
Sirius grinned, pulling his Potions book closer, but his heart wasn’t in it. He scribbled a few notes about Essence of Dittany, mostly to keep Regulus off his back, but his mind was elsewhere—split between Elliot’s shy smile and, annoyingly, a certain pierced tongue that kept creeping into his thoughts. Elliot was a great kisser, sweet and eager, but Sirius couldn’t shake the memory of a rougher edge, a smirk that drove him up the wall. He shoved the thought away, doodling a Bludger in the margin instead. No way was he letting his brain ruin a perfectly good flirt with a cute Ravenclaw.
“Oi,” Regulus said, kicking his shin under the table. “Stop daydreaming about your new boyfriend and focus. What’s the main ingredient in a Wiggenweld Potion?”
“Wiggentree bark,” Sirius said automatically, then grinned at Regulus’s surprised look. “What? I’m not that hopeless.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Regulus said, but he went back to his notes, satisfied for now.
They studied for another half hour—well, Regulus studied, and Sirius mostly flipped pages and charmed his quill to dance across the table until Madam Pince shot him a glare from her desk. His phone buzzed, and he snuck a glance under the table, expecting another birthday text, but it was Elliot: Hey, had fun earlier. Hogsmeade still on? with a nervous smiley face. Sirius smirked, texting back, Defo, cutie. Three Broomsticks, Saturday. He pocketed the phone, feeling smug. Elliot was exactly what he needed—sweet, uncomplicated, a chance at the soft stuff he’d been craving.
But as he tried to focus on Potions, his mind wandered back to the Room of Requirement, to heat and hurried breaths, and—fuck—he was thinking about Barty again. That git’s piercing, his taunts, the way he’d push Sirius just to see him snap back. Elliot was a breath of fresh air, but Barty was a storm, and Sirius hated how much he liked the chaos. He wasn’t falling for him—God, no—but the comparison was there, nagging, making Elliot’s kiss feel… nice, but not electric.
“Earth to Sirius,” Regulus said, snapping his fingers. “You’re staring at that page like it’s written in Troll. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Sirius lied, flashing a grin. “Just plotting how to crush Ravenclaw at Quidditch. Gotta make sure Elliot sees me in action.”
Regulus snorted. “You’re hopeless. Don’t let your new fling distract you from practice, or James’ll bench you.”
“Never,” Sirius said, mock-offended, clutching his chest. “Quidditch is my true love, Reggie. Don’t insult her.”
Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, and they packed up as the library started to clear out, students trickling toward dinner or their dorms. Sirius slung his bag over his shoulder, trailing Regulus to the Great Hall, where the smell of shepherd’s pie and treacle tart hit like a Warming Charm. James was already at the table, waving them over, his plate piled high, while Evan and Barty were bickering nearby about Evan’s latest celebrity crush—Conan Gray, of all people.
“His voice is ethereal,” Evan insisted, waving a fork for emphasis. “You wouldn’t get it, Crouch.”
“It’s whiny,” Barty shot back, smirking. “Pick a better Muggle, Rosier.”
James squinted at Sirius the second he sat down, pointing a fork at him like he was casting a hex. “You snogged someone.”
Barty’s eyes flicked to Sirius, just for a split second, but Sirius caught it. Of course he did—he’d been catching every damn glance from Barty lately, like some hyper-aware idiot.
“Ten points to Gryffindor,” Sirius said, grinning as he reached for a pile of roast potatoes, piling them onto his plate.
“My brother’s a slut, and I can’t—I can’t even,” Regulus groaned, dropping his head onto James’s arm like the drama queen he was.
Evan’s eyebrows shot up, and Barty? Well, his face was unreadable, but Sirius could practically hear the gears turning—wondering if Sirius was talking about him. Nope, not this time, prick.
“Who?!” Evan shrieked, leaning forward, nearly knocking over his goblet of pumpkin juice.
“He doesn’t even remember the guy’s last name,” Regulus whined, his voice muffled against James’s shoulder. “The absolute sket.”
“Yeah, I don’t,” Sirius shrugged, unbothered, grabbing a roll and slathering it with butter. “Doesn’t change the fact I’ve got a date on Saturday, so suck it up.”
And now Barty looked at him, properly, his mismatched eyes locking onto Sirius’s. Face still unreadable, the dick, but that stare was intense, like he was trying to crack Sirius’s skull open and read his thoughts. Sirius just raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something, but Barty stayed quiet, chewing his gum with that infuriating calm.
“Cig?” Barty asked, standing and jerking his head toward the door.
Sirius shrugged, snatching a piece of toast for the road. “Yeah, come on,” he said, already getting up, ignoring Regulus’s muttered “he’s unbelievable” and Evan’s indignant “the git” as they left.
They strolled out to a stone bench by the courtyard, the freezing November air nipping at Sirius’s piercing through his shirt, making him regret not grabbing his jumper. He plopped down, munching his toast, wondering idly if Elliot was a bottom or versatile or what—Merlin, he’d better not be a bottom, or those thirty minutes of flirting were a waste. Barty sat beside him, close enough that their thighs brushed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a snap of his fingers.
“So, who’s the poor guy?” Barty asked, casual as hell, exhaling smoke into the chilly air.
“Elliot H… something,” Sirius said, crossing his legs and leaning back. “Ravenclaw, year below.”
“Harper?” Barty offered, raising an eyebrow as he passed the cigarette.
“Yes! Cheers,” Sirius said, bowing dramatically before popping the last bit of toast in his mouth and taking the cigarette. He inhaled, the smoke warming his chest against the cold.
“So, you’re into younger guys now?” Barty asked, his tone light but with that edge Sirius knew too well.
“Mate,” Sirius shot him a look, passing the cigarette back. “You’re younger too.”
“Yeah, but we’re not dating,” Barty said, shrugging, his smirk creeping in.
“Damn right,” Sirius said, echoing Barty’s own words from the loft. “Casual shit only.”
“Yep,” Barty replied, popping his gum—Merlin, the git had a problem with that lately, chewing half the damn time like it was his job.
They smoked in silence for a bit, Sirius mentally planning his Hogsmeade outfit—maybe the leather jacket, ripped jeans, something to make Elliot blush again. Barty just stared at the courtyard, his gum snapping softly, the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Sirius shivered, the cold seeping through his shirt, and wished he’d charmed his piercing to stay warm like Regulus did with his earrings.
“So, we stopping the fucking or what?” Barty asked, breaking the silence, his voice still casual but his eyes flicking to Sirius.
Sirius side-eyed him, smirking. “Do I look like I’m dating him already?”
“God, you are a slut,” Barty snorted, leaning back and blowing a smoke ring.
“You’ve said that before,” Sirius said, stealing the cigarette for another drag.
“Stand by it, given how you’re taking my dick.”
“Thanks.”
“Room of Requirement later?” Barty asked, his voice low, that familiar glint in his eyes.
“Mhm,” Sirius hummed, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to catch Barty’s gaze. “Just don’t ruin my arse again, Crouch. I’ve got Quidditch practice in the morning.”
“No promises, princess,” Barty said, flicking the cigarette stub into the grass and standing too, his leather jacket creaking as he moved.
They headed back inside, the castle’s warmth a relief after the courtyard’s chill. Sirius’s mind was already spinning—Hogsmeade with Elliot, butterbeer and maybe a snog, versus the Room of Requirement with Barty, all heat and chaos. Elliot was sweet, the kind of guy who’d hold his hand and blush at his jokes, but Barty was… well, Barty. A storm Sirius couldn’t quit, no matter how many times he told himself to keep it casual. He wasn’t falling for the git—fuck no —but that piercing, that smirk, kept sneaking into his thoughts, even when he was kissing someone else.
Back in the Great Hall, they slid into their seats, Regulus still whining to James about Sirius’s “library antics,” while Evan had moved on to ranting about Conan Gray’s latest album. Sirius grabbed another helping of treacle tart, ignoring Barty’s glance from across the table, though he felt it like a hex. Dinner was loud, the usual mess of laughter and banter—James planning Quidditch drills, Regulus threatening to hex anyone who touched his tart, Evan trying to convince them all to charm the Slytherin table to play pop songs. Sirius leaned into it, letting the noise drown out his head.
After dinner, he and James trudged to detention, scrubbing cauldrons under McGonagall’s hawk-like gaze. They tried charming the cauldrons to whistle “Sweet Caroline,” but McGonagall shut it down with a flick of her wand and a dry, “Ten more points, gentlemen.” Sirius grinned, unrepentant, and James cackled, tossing a sponge at him. By the time they got back to the common room, Sirius was knackered, his nipple piercing still aching from the cold, but he checked his phone—Elliot had texted again, a shy Can’t wait for Saturday :) —and Sirius grinned, texting back, Better be ready, cutie .
Before leaving to meet up with Barty, he pulled out the Marauders’ Map, tapping it awake. Remus in his dorm, Gabriel in his. Good.
Sirius showered in the Slytherin dorms, the hot water easing the chill from the courtyard, and threw on his pajama pants and a loose hoodie, because crashing in the Room of Requirement after Barty wrecked him was basically a given now. The first time he’d shown up like that, Barty had snorted, then smirked and said, “Easier to feel you up, so win-win, princess.” Sirius had flipped him off but hadn’t argued, because, yeah, the git had a point—the soft cotton made every touch hit harder.
He slipped through the castle’s quiet corridors, Marauders’ Map tucked in his pocket to dodge Filch or any nosy prefects. When he reached the seventh floor, he paced three times, thinking of a place to hook up, and the Room of Requirement shimmered into existence. Stepping inside, he found Barty already lounging on a massive bed draped in white sheets, still in his trousers and half-unbuttoned shirt, his tattoos peeking out. The LED lights glowed neon green, casting a surreal vibe, and Chase Atlantic’s sultry beats hummed through hidden speakers.
Peak spot to let Barty Crouch Jr. fuck you into the mattress, if you asked Sirius.
“Molly?” Barty asked as a greeting, his smirk lazy but his eyes sharp, already holding up a small Ziploc with those familiar pink pills.
“Hell yeah,” Sirius grinned, because, damn, that shit was good, and he’d been low-key craving it since their wild night in London. He crossed the room, kicking off his trainers and climbing onto the bed.
“Come on, princess,” Barty said, patting his hip like he was summoning a damn Crup. Sirius straddled him in two seconds flat, thighs bracketing Barty’s hips, his hoodie riding up to show a sliver of skin. Barty’s hands found his waist immediately, fingers digging in just enough to make Sirius’s pulse jump.
Barty popped a Molly first—because, God forbid, the git would ever be a gentleman and offer Sirius first—then looked up at him, smirking like pure mischief incarnate. “Open,” he said, voice low and teasing, holding up another pill.
Sirius, a slut for both the Molly and— fine, maybe a bit for Barty, though he’d deny it to his grave —parted his lips without hesitation. Barty placed the pink pill on his tongue, his thumb brushing Sirius’s lips in a slow, deliberate drag, the menace knowing exactly what he was doing. Then he yanked Sirius down into a kiss, all heat and teeth, the pill dissolving with a faint chemical tang mixing with the spearmint of Barty’s gum. The Molly kicked in fast, Sirius’s skin buzzing, every touch amplified like a spell gone wild.
“Ride me?” Barty muttered between heated kisses, his hands sliding under Sirius’s hoodie, nails grazing his back.
And that’s exactly what Sirius did, smugly watching as Barty started to lose it beneath him. He tugged off his hoodie, tossing it to the floor, and Barty’s eyes darkened, roaming over Sirius’s chest, lingering on the nipple piercing glinting under the neon lights. Sirius grinned, rolling his hips slow and deliberate, drawing a low groan from Barty, whose hands gripped Sirius’s thighs like he was holding on for dear life.
“Fuck, Black,” Barty panted, his usual smirk faltering as Sirius picked up the pace, the Molly making every movement feel electric. Sirius leaned down, kissing him hard, stealing the gum from Barty’s mouth just to be a prick, and Barty laughed into it, rough and breathless, his hands sliding to Sirius’s arse, urging him faster.
“Like that, Crouch?” Sirius teased, voice wrecked but smug, watching Barty’s head tip back, his throat exposed, that damn piercing catching the light as he gasped. Sirius took the chance to nip at his jaw, dragging his teeth along the stubble, and Barty cursed, his hips bucking up to meet Sirius’s.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” Barty growled, but he was grinning, his hands working Sirius’s pajama pants down, the fabric pooling at his thighs. He cast a quick lube charm and Sirius hissed at the sudden slickness, the sensation overwhelming with the Molly buzzing through him.
“Pot, kettle,” Sirius shot back, but his words cut off in a moan as Barty’s fingers found him, prepping him with a roughness that was just right. Sirius rocked back, chasing the feeling, his hands braced on Barty’s chest, nails digging into the skin. “Fuck, get on with it.”
“Bossy,” Barty muttered, but he was already shifting, guiding Sirius down onto him, and—fucks’ sake—the stretch was perfect, the Molly turning every inch into a spark of heat. Sirius moved, slow at first, savoring the way Barty’s hands tightened, his smirk gone, replaced by something raw and desperate.
“Thought you were tough, Crouch,” Sirius taunted, picking up speed, his thighs burning but the high making it feel like he could go forever. Barty groaned, thrusting up to match him, and the bed creaked, the neon lights pulsing in time with the music, the whole room a blur of green and sound and skin.
“Shut up,” Barty panted, pulling Sirius down for another kiss, all tongue and piercing, his hands everywhere—Sirius’s hips, his back, his hair. Sirius moaned into it, losing himself in the rhythm, the Molly making every touch feel like it was rewriting his nerves. He could feel Barty unraveling, his breaths ragged, and Sirius smirked, knowing he had the upper hand, at least for now.
“Gonna come already?” Sirius teased, clenching deliberately, and Barty swore, his grip bruising as he flipped them, pinning Sirius to the mattress without missing a beat. The sudden shift made Sirius gasp, his legs wrapping around Barty’s waist as Barty set a relentless pace, hitting just the right spot to make Sirius see stars.
“Cocky bastard,” Barty growled, but he was grinning, leaning down to bite Sirius’s collarbone, leaving a mark that’d need a glamour charm tomorrow. Sirius arched into it, his hands clawing at Barty’s back, the Molly amplifying every sensation—the scrape of Barty’s stubble, the cool metal of his piercing, the heat of their bodies pressed together.
“Fuck, Crouch,” Sirius moaned, his head thrown back, the neon lights spinning above him. He was close, the pressure building fast, and Barty’s hand found him, stroking in time with his thrusts, sending Sirius over the edge with a broken shout. His vision whited out, the Molly making it feel like he was floating, every nerve singing. Barty followed, groaning low and rough, his thrusts slowing as he rode it out, collapsing half on top of Sirius, both of them panting like they’d just played a Quidditch match.
“Holly shit,” Sirius muttered, sprawled out, his body buzzing with aftershocks. Barty laughed, breathless, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.
“Not bad, princess,” Barty said, his smirk creeping back as he reached for a water bottle already prepared on the nightstand. He took a swig, then passed it to Sirius, who drank greedily, the cool liquid grounding him a bit.
“High praise,” Sirius snorted, tossing the bottle aside and tugging his pajama pants back up, though he didn’t bother with the hoodie, too warm from the Molly and the sex. He flopped next to Barty, the bed dipping, and they lay there, the Chase Atlantic track fading into something slower, the neon lights shifting to a softer purple.
“Still got that date Saturday?” Barty asked, his tone casual, but Sirius caught the slight edge, like he was fishing.
“Yup,” Sirius said, popping the ‘p,’ keeping his voice light. “Butterbeer and snogging, you know, the works.”
Barty hummed, chewing his gum again—seriously, the git had an addiction—and didn’t push. “Better not get all sappy and ditch our arrangement, Black.”
Sirius laughed, rolling onto his side to face him. “Please, Crouch, you think I’m giving up this for hand-holding? Casual shit, remember?”
“Damn right,” Barty said, smirking, but his eyes flicked over Sirius’s face, lingering a bit too long. Sirius ignored it, because no way was he reading into that. This was just sex, Molly-fueled chaos, nothing more.
They stayed there for a bit, trading lazy insults and passing a cigarette, the Room’s magic keeping the vibe perfect—soft bed, low music, no rush to leave. Sirius’s mind wandered to Elliot’s shy smile, the promise of something sweet, but it kept circling back to Barty’s piercing, the way he’d groaned Sirius’s name. He shoved the thought away, because he wasn’t catching feelings—fuck no. Elliot was for intimacy, Barty was for fun, and Sirius could keep them separate, easy.
Eventually, they cleaned up with a quick spell, and Sirius grabbed his hoodie, ready to crash in the Room’s conjured bed for the night. “Don’t hog the sheets, prick,” he said, climbing under them.
“No promises,” Barty replied, smirking as he sprawled out, still half-dressed. “Night, princess.”
“Night, prick,” Sirius muttered, grinning into the dark. His body was wrecked, his head buzzing, but he felt alive, the Molly and Barty’s chaos chasing away the Remus ache for now. Saturday was for Elliot—soft kisses, maybe a real connection. But tonight? Tonight was for the storm, and Sirius was riding it, one neon-lit hookup at a time. Eighteen was his year, and he’d take it all—sweet, chaotic, and everything in between.
Chapter Text
The week blurred by with the usual Hogwarts chaos—classes, pranks, and another detention from Filch because Sirius and James charmed Mrs. Norris to rap Eminem instead of meowing. That shit was iconic as hell, if you asked them, though Filch’s face had turned a shade of purple that probably warranted a Healer. Sirius spent his free moments with Elliot, who was just as cute as he’d seemed in the library. The Ravenclaw kissed him like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to, all shy enthusiasm, tugging his fingers through Sirius’s curls with a reverence that boosted Sirius’s ego to the bloody moon. It was sweet, soft, exactly the kind of intimacy Sirius had been craving.
Until Elliot’s fingers brushed the scar on Sirius’s hipbone—a jagged reminder of his mother’s temper—and Sirius had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping. Barty touched that scar all the damn time, never making a fuss, probably because he knew how fucked up the Black family was. But Elliot? He whispered a quick “sorry,” his green eyes wide, before moving his hand higher and kissing Sirius sweetly again, like he was trying to erase the moment. Sirius let it go, melting into the kiss, but it stuck with him, a tiny crack in the otherwise perfect vibe.
People noticed, of course. Sirius wasn’t exactly subtle, snogging Elliot in alcoves or holding his hand in the corridors. Students stared, some with envy, others with gossip-ready smirks. McGonagall caught them in the hallway once and gave Sirius a pointed look, saying, “Don’t ruin my perfect student, Black.” Sirius just winked, promising nothing, while Elliot blushed scarlet. James cackled every time Sirius said something like, “He’s so nice, I might actually pass Potions,” elbowing him like it was the funniest thing ever. Regulus rolled his eyes constantly, muttering about Sirius’s “revolving door of boyfriends,” but the way he softened when Sirius grinned told him Regulus was happy for him, deep down. Evan kept squinting at Sirius like he was a puzzle to solve, his eyebrow still a mess from the splinching incident.
And Barty? Well, Barty hadn’t changed a bit. He didn’t seem to care that Sirius was snogging Elliot before heading to the Room of Requirement to hook up with him, which happened every night except Friday.
Because, apparently, Barty Fucking Crouch had landed himself a detention and refused to spill why.
“Not your business, fuckers,” he snapped at dinner, stabbing his shepherd’s pie like it had personally offended him.
“But you’re going to Hogsmeade, right?” Evan asked, baffled, his fork hovering mid-air.
“Nah, the old bat banned me,” Barty said, rolling his eyes and tearing into a roll with his teeth.
“What, Minnie?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What the hell did you do to get banned from Hogsmeade?”
“I’m not telling you shit,” Barty fired back, pointing his roll at Sirius. “Eat your broccoli, twat.”
Sirius squinted, tempted to push, but let it slide, his mind already drifting to his date with Elliot tomorrow. He caught Barty’s glance, that unreadable stare, and wondered what was going on in that chaotic head of his, but didn’t dwell. He had butterbeer and hand-holding to look forward to, and that was enough for now.
Saturday’s date was, honestly, damn good. Sirius and Elliot snagged a cozy booth in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, the pub buzzing with students and the smell of butterbeer and fried chips. Elliot was all shy smiles, his green eyes lighting up every time Sirius teased him, and Sirius leaned into the physical affection—hands brushing, knees touching under the table, a quick kiss here and there. He craved it like hell, even if he buried it under his usual cocky grin. Elliot was sweet, slipping his fingers through Sirius’s as they shared a butterbeer, blushing when Sirius called him “cutie.” It was easy, soft, the kind of date that made Sirius think maybe he could do this—find something real, something that wasn’t just heat and chaos.
They wandered Hogsmeade after, poking into Honeydukes for Chocolate Frogs and Zonko’s for prank supplies, Elliot laughing as Sirius juggled a Fanged Frisbee and nearly dropped it on a first-year. By the time they headed back to the castle, the November chill nipping at their noses, Sirius was buzzing—not from Molly, but from the simple joy of it all. He walked Elliot to the Ravenclaw Tower, stealing one last kiss by the eagle knocker, Elliot’s lips soft and warm, his hands lingering on Sirius’s waist.
“Text me later?” Elliot asked, his smile shy but hopeful.
“Count on it, Harper,” Sirius winked, swinging his hips as he sauntered off, feeling like he’d nailed the whole “normal date” thing.
But the second he was out of sight, like clockwork, he pulled out his phone and texted Barty: room of req, now And, also like clockwork, Barty replied: omw.
Sirius made his way to the seventh floor, pacing three times to summon the Room, his heart already racing. The door appeared, and he stepped inside, finding Barty lounging on the bed, the LED lights now a sultry red, The Weeknd pulsing through the speakers. Barty was in his usual jeans and half-unbuttoned shirt, his snake tattoo curling over his bicep, and he held up a Ziploc with those familiar pink pills.
“Molly?” Barty asked, smirking like he already knew the answer.
“Fuck yeah,” Sirius grinned, kicking off his boots and climbing onto the bed. He was still riding the high of his date, but this—this was different. This was chaos, and Sirius craved it just as much as he craved Elliot’s softness.
Barty popped a pill first, because of course he did, then held one out for Sirius. “Open, princess,” he said, his voice low and teasing, and Sirius obeyed, letting Barty place the Molly on his tongue, his thumb brushing Sirius’s lips in that infuriatingly hot way. Barty pulled him into a kiss, all teeth and piercing, the pill dissolving with a chemical tang, and the buzz hit fast, Sirius’s skin tingling like it was alive.
“Had fun with your Ravenclaw?” Barty muttered between kisses, his hands sliding under Sirius’s jumper, nails grazing his back.
“Jealous, Crouch?” Sirius teased, straddling him, smirking as Barty’s hands tightened on his hips.
“Not my style, Black,” Barty said, but his eyes glinted, and Sirius knew he was lying, just a bit. “Ride me?”
And Sirius did, smugly watching Barty unravel beneath him, his usual smirk faltering as Sirius moved, the Molly amplifying every touch, every sound. Barty’s hands were everywhere—Sirius’s thighs, his chest, his hair—his groans rough and desperate. Sirius leaned down, stealing a kiss, his nails digging into Barty’s tattoo, and the bed creaked, the red lights pulsing in time with the music.
“Fuck, you’re unreal,” Barty panted, flipping them so Sirius was on his back, Barty setting a relentless pace that had Sirius moaning, his head thrown back, the world a blur of heat and neon. The Molly made it feel like they were floating, every thrust electric, and Sirius clung to Barty, cursing and laughing, the line between pleasure and chaos blurring.
They went at it for what felt like hours, switching positions—Sirius on top again, then against the wall, then sprawled across the bed, the Room’s magic keeping the vibe perfect. By the end, they were a sweaty, panting mess, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, the Molly fading but leaving a warm buzz. Sirius sprawled out, his jumper discarded, his body aching in the best way.
“Fucks’ sake,” he muttered, grabbing a water bottle and chugging half of it. Barty laughed, rough and breathless, stealing the bottle for a sip.
“Not bad for a guy with a boyfriend,” Barty said, smirking, but there was no bite in it.
“Not my boyfriend,” Sirius shot back, rolling onto his side to face him. “Just… a thing. Casual shit, like us.”
“Whatever you say, princess,” Barty said, but his smirk softened, and he didn’t push. They lay there, trading lazy banter, the music slowing to something mellow, the lights shifting to a soft purple. Sirius’s mind drifted—Elliot’s shy kisses, Barty’s piercing, the way both filled different holes in his chest. He wasn’t falling for Barty—fuck no—but the git was under his skin, and Elliot, sweet as he was, didn’t quite match the storm.
“Still banned from Hogsmeade?” Sirius asked, mostly to fill the silence.
“Yup,” Barty said, popping his gum—Merlin, that habit was getting worse. “McGonagall’s got it out for me. Don’t ask, I’m not spilling.”
“Git,” Sirius muttered, but he was grinning, already planning his next date with Elliot, maybe a snog by the Shrieking Shack. But tonight, he’d stay here, crash in the Room’s bed, Barty’s warmth beside him, no strings, just chaos. He checked the Marauders’ Map before dozing off—Remus in his dorm, Gabriel in his, good—and folded it with a quiet, “Mischief managed.” Elliot was for softness, Barty for the rush, and Sirius was juggling both.
For now, at least.
True to the utter lack of luck and peace in his life, the next day ended with Lily Evans yelling at Sirius like she had a birthright to do so. Spoiler alert: she didn’t. And Sirius Black was not someone you could just scream at—unless you were Regulus, but that was beside the point.
Sirius was strolling with Barty toward a hidden balcony on the second floor after dinner, ostensibly for a smoke, but let’s be real—snogging was on the menu. The castle was quiet, most students already in their common rooms, and the torchlit corridors felt like their own private playground. That is, until Lily Evans, with her hawk-like precision, spotted them from across the hall and made a beeline straight for Sirius, her red hair practically crackling with righteous fury.
Sirius raised an eyebrow at the sight, because Lily had firmly planted herself on “Team Remus” since the breakup, barely speaking to Sirius unless it was to sling an insult his way. Barty, mid-step beside him, paused, both of them watching Lily approach with matching bored expressions. Barty leaned in, his breath warm against Sirius’s ear.
“Want me to hex the carrots?” he muttered, quiet enough for only Sirius to hear, his voice dripping with mischief.
Sirius snorted, and apparently, that was all it took to set Lily off.
“You absolute excuse of a man,” she snapped, stopping a foot away, her green eyes blazing.
“Nice to see you too, Evans,” Sirius said, bowing with exaggerated flair, crossing his arms over his chest, his leather jacket creaking.
Barty, clearly deciding this drama wasn’t worth his time, rolled his eyes. “Catch ya later,” he drawled, sauntering off toward the balcony, his boots echoing as he disappeared around the corner.
Wow, the emotional support of that prick was truly inspiring.
“Don’t Evans me,” Lily glared, her hands on her hips. “Why the hell are you doing this?”
“What, walking down a corridor?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow, his tone all innocent confusion.
“Snogging random guys just to hurt Remus, you slut!” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the stone walls.
Sirius’s eye twitched. His mates—or, well, Barty —could call him that as a joke, and it was fine, funny even. But Lily? Some self-appointed moral arbiter? No fucking way. His jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm, cold, the kind of calm that made people rethink their choices.
“First of all, Evans,” he said, stepping closer, his grey eyes locking onto hers. “I’m not snogging random guys. I’m not doing anything for Remus to see, and—let me remind you, in case you’ve forgotten—you’re not involved in any of this. So stop playing his lawyer when he can’t even talk to me himself.”
“You’re shocked that he can’t?” Lily shot back, her voice rising, incredulous.
“No, I’m not,” Sirius fired back, his calm cracking just a bit. “But if he hasn’t looked at me in half a year, why the hell would he care who I’m snogging? Especially since he’s dating someone? Do you see how hypocritical that is, or are you too blinded by your righteous crusade?” He snapped the last words, his hands gesturing sharply, and Lily flinched, looking like he’d slapped her. Which, fair—he kind of wanted to.
“And don’t ever call me that again, Evans,” he added, his voice low, dripping with all the don’t-fuck-with-me energy he’d inherited from the Black family. “You have no right to judge me.”
He brushed past her, not bothering to wait for a reply. He was this close to losing his shit and hexing her with something nasty—Regulus would probably high-five him for it, but it wasn’t worth the detention. His boots echoed in the corridor, his heart pounding, Lily’s words clawing at him despite his bravado. He wasn’t hurting Remus. He wasn’t. Remus had Gabriel, his shiny new Hufflepuff, and Sirius was just… living. Snogging Elliot, hooking up with Barty, trying to fill the gaps in his chest. If Remus was hurt, that was his problem, not Sirius’s.
He reached the portrait guarding the hidden balcony—a knight and princess, charmed to open with a tap on the daisy on the meadow. Sirius touched it, and the portrait swung open, revealing Barty leaning against the railing, smoking a cigarette, the night air crisp and the stars sharp above.
“Evans tear you a new one?” Barty asked, smirking, not looking up from his cigarette.
“ Tried to,” Sirius muttered, stepping onto the balcony and snatching the cigarette from Barty’s fingers for a drag. The smoke burned his throat, grounding him. “Called me a slut for snogging ‘random guys’ to hurt Remus. Like I’m some bloody villain in her morality play.”
Barty snorted, leaning back against the railing, his eyes glinting under the moonlight. “She’s got a stick up her arse the size of a broomstick. Ignore her.”
“Planning to,” Sirius said, passing the cigarette back and leaning next to him, their shoulders brushing. The cold stone bit through his jacket, but Barty’s warmth was a quiet anchor. “Still pissed she thinks I’m doing this to get at Remus. Like I’m not just… moving on.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, chewing his gum—Merlin, that habit was relentless. “You sure you’re moving on, princess? Still checking that Map every night.”
Sirius shot him a glare but didn’t deny it. “Fuck off, Crouch. I’m allowed to check.”
“Stalker,” Barty teased, but there was no heat in it, just that smirk that made Sirius want to hex him or kiss him. Maybe both.
“Git,” Sirius muttered, stealing the cigarette again. They smoked in silence for a bit, the castle’s distant hum and the rustle of the Forbidden Forest below filling the space. Sirius’s mind churned—Lily’s accusation, Elliot’s shy kisses, the way Barty’s hand had lingered on his hip last night in the Room of Requirement. He wasn’t hurting Remus. He was just… living, right? Snogging a cute Ravenclaw, hooking up with a chaos magnet, trying to figure out what he wanted. If Remus couldn’t handle it, that was his loss.
“So,” Barty said, breaking the quiet, his voice casual but his eyes sharp as he leaned against the balcony railing, the moonlight catching his tongue piercing. “You gonna keep seeing that Harper kid? Or is Evans’s lecture scaring you off?”
Sirius snorted, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the crisp November air. “Scared? Me? Nah, Harper’s cute. Date was solid, might go for round two.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering for a split second. “Cute? Since when are you into that shit?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow right back, leaning closer, the stone railing cold against his back. “Who said I’m not?” he challenged, his voice light but with a teasing edge.
Barty looked genuinely baffled, a rare sight for the git who usually had a comeback for everything. “Dunno. Just… seemed obvious,” he shrugged, trying to play it off, but his eyes flicked over Sirius’s face, searching for something.
Sirius rolled his eyes, taking another drag of the cigarette, the smoke curling around his face. “Whatever, Crouch. We gonna make out, or are you about to play therapist?”
“Fuck off,” Barty laughed, his smirk snapping back into place as he leaned down, closing the gap between them. His hands gripped Sirius’s thighs, lifting him with that effortless strength that always caught Sirius off guard, and Sirius tossed the cigarette over the railing, not caring where it landed, wrapping his legs around Barty’s waist with almost embarrassing speed.
Barty pinned him against the balcony wall, the stone rough through Sirius’s jacket, and kissed him hard—exactly the way Sirius liked it most, all heat and edge, with that damn piercing adding a spark that made his head spin. Sirius kissed back, his hands sliding into Barty’s hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan, and Barty’s grip tightened, pressing their bodies closer. The cold air nipped at Sirius’s exposed neck, but Barty’s warmth, his hands, his mouth, drowned it out, the world narrowing to this—teeth, tongues, and the faint taste of spearmint gum.
“Damn, you’re needy,” Barty muttered against Sirius’s lips, smirking, but his voice was rough, betraying how much he was into it.
“Pot, kettle,” Sirius shot back, nipping Barty’s bottom lip, grinning when Barty cursed and kissed him harder, one hand sliding under Sirius’s jacket, fingers grazing the skin above his waistband. Sirius arched into it, his legs tightening around Barty’s hips, the friction just right, and he laughed, breathless, because this— this —was the chaos he craved, the kind that shut his brain off and let him just feel.
They stayed like that, snogging like they were trying to outdo each other, Barty’s hands wandering, Sirius tugging at his hair, the balcony their own little bubble under the stars. The portrait guarding the entrance stayed shut, thank God, because Sirius wasn’t in the mood for interruptions—Filch, prefects, or, worse, Lily Evans with another lecture. Barty’s lips moved to Sirius’s neck, sucking a mark that’d need a glamour charm tomorrow, and Sirius tilted his head back, smirking at the sky, his pulse racing.
“Trying to brand me, Crouch?” Sirius teased, his voice wrecked, fingers digging into Barty’s shoulders.
“Gotta mark my territory before Harper gets ideas,” Barty mumbled against his skin, his smirk audible, and Sirius laughed, shoving him back just enough to meet his eyes.
“Jealous?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow, his legs still hooked around Barty’s waist, keeping him close.
“Not my style, princess,” Barty said, but his eyes glinted, and Sirius knew he was full of shit. He didn’t call him on it, though, just pulled Barty back into a kiss, slower this time, teasing, drawing it out until Barty was the one groaning, his hands gripping Sirius’s thighs like he was holding on for dear life.
They finally pulled apart, panting, foreheads pressed together, the cold air rushing back in. Sirius slid down to his feet, his back still against the wall, and Barty stayed close, one hand braced beside Sirius’s head, his smirk softer now, almost human.
“Not bad,” Sirius said, grinning, smoothing his jacket like he hadn’t just been thoroughly snogged. “You’re getting better at this.”
“High praise from the resident slut,” Barty shot back, but he was laughing, stealing Sirius’s cigarette pack from his pocket and lighting one for himself. He offered it to Sirius, who took it, their fingers brushing, and they leaned against the railing again, smoking in companionable silence, the castle’s distant lights twinkling below.
Sirius’s mind wandered, the buzz of the makeout session mixing with thoughts of Elliot’s shy kisses, Lily’s glare, and the ever-present ache of Remus’s absence. He wasn’t hurting anyone, was he? Elliot was sweet, Barty was chaos, and Remus… well, Remus had made his choice. Sirius was just living, juggling the soft and the wild, trying to figure out what stuck.
“Room later?” Barty asked, flicking his cigarette stub into the night, his voice casual but his eyes watching Sirius closely.
Sirius grinned, already picturing neon lights and Chase Atlantic. “Only if you don’t wreck me too bad. Got a date to look good for tomorrow.”
Barty snorted, rolling his eyes. “Harper’s not gonna care if you limp a bit. Might even like it.”
“Git,” Sirius laughed, shoving him toward the portrait. “C’mon, let’s get inside before Filch catches us.”
They slipped back into the corridor, Barty’s arm brushing Sirius’s, his smirk back in full force. Sirius’s phone buzzed—probably Elliot, texting something adorably shy—and he ignored it for now, letting Barty’s chaos fill the moment. He’d text Elliot later, plan another Hogsmeade date, chase that softness. But tonight? Tonight was for snogging on balconies, hooking up in secret rooms, and keeping the storm alive. He checked the Marauders’ Map as they walked—Remus in his dorm, Gabriel in his, good—and folded it with a quiet, “Mischief managed.”
Despite how much Sirius and Barty were getting along—if you could call their snarky banter and heated hookups “getting along”—the closer the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch match loomed, the worse they got. Sirius had sworn to send every Bludger screaming toward Barty’s smug face, aiming to knock that snake tattoo right off his arm. Barty, never one to back down, promised to dodge every single one, score enough points to bury Gryffindor, and humiliate both Sirius and James in front of the entire school. It was war, and neither was playing nice.
Their bickering spilled into everything—meals, shared classes, even hangouts with the rest of the crew. At breakfast, Sirius would lob a sarcastic jab about Barty’s “shitty Chaser aim,” and Barty would fire back that Sirius’s Beater swings were “all show, no substance.” By lunch, they’d be arguing over who’d choke first in the match, Sirius slamming his goblet down while Barty leaned back, smirking, chewing that damn gum like it was his job. In Potions, Slughorn had to separate them after they nearly upended a cauldron during a heated debate about Quidditch tactics. Even during chill moments in the common room, with James sprawled on a couch and Evan charming playing cards to explode, Sirius and Barty would start sniping, turning every conversation into a pre-game battlefield.
James, predictably, took Sirius’s side, hyping up Gryffindor’s chances and mocking Ravenclaw’s “fancy flying nonsense.” Evan backed Barty, insisting Ravenclaw’s precision would “wipe the pitch” with Gryffindor’s brute force. The four of them bickered like only sports-obsessed blokes could, their voices rising until Regulus, fed up, would mutter, “You’re all idiots,” and bury his nose in a book. Regulus had declared himself neutral, refusing to get sucked into that drama, but Sirius caught him once whispering to James, “It’s obvious you’re gonna win, Jamie,” all soft and certain, his hand on James’s arm. Sirius snorted, both amused and betrayed—neutral, his arse.
The funniest thing, though? When Sirius said he and Barty were fighting all the time, he meant all the time. Including sex. Which, honestly, was both hilarious and hot as hell.
In the Room of Requirement, under pulsing neon lights with some band blaring, their hookups had taken on a competitive edge. Sirius would straddle Barty, smirking as he pinned his wrists, taunting, “Bet you’ll miss every shot Saturday, Crouch.” Barty would flip them, grinning wickedly, and growl, “Keep dreaming, princess,” before kissing him hard enough to bruise. Every thrust was a challenge, every moan a point scored, their usual chaos dialed up to eleven. One night, Sirius bit Barty’s shoulder mid-rant about Ravenclaw’s “superior strategy,” and Barty laughed, rough and breathless, before shoving Sirius against the wall, muttering, “That’s all you got, Black?” It was ridiculous—snarking about Quidditch while tearing each other’s clothes off—but Merlin, it worked, the Molly-fueled heat only sharper for it.
“Admit it,” Sirius panted once, sprawled across the bed after a particularly intense round, his chest heaving, Barty’s hand still on his thigh. “Gryffindor’s gonna crush you.”
“Delusional,” Barty shot back, smirking, his hair a mess and his piercing glinting under the blue LEDs. “I’ll score ten goals before you even swing your bat.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius said, stealing Barty’s water bottle and chugging it, grinning when Barty flipped him off. They’d bicker like that until they passed out, tangled in the sheets, only to wake up and start again—at breakfast, in the corridors, everywhere. It was exhausting, but Sirius thrived on it, the rivalry fueling his fire for the match.
Outside the Barty chaos, Sirius kept seeing Elliot, who was still adorably sweet, kissing him like he was a gift he couldn’t believe he’d unwrapped. They’d snog in alcoves, Elliot’s hands gentle in Sirius’s curls, his green eyes wide with awe. It was soft, ego-boosting, everything Sirius craved—they had another Hogsmeade date planned, and Sirius was looking forward to it.
But the Quidditch match was priority one, and Sirius threw himself into practice, swinging his bat with a vengeance, imagining every Bludger was Barty’s head. James was just as feral, barking orders at the team, their practices running late into the evening, the pitch glowing under charmed lights. “We’re not losing to those Ravenclaw pricks,” James declared, and Sirius nodded, fist-bumping him, both of them grinning like maniacs.
At dinner the night before the match, the Great Hall was electric, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables buzzing with pre-game hype. Sirius and Barty were at it again, lobbing insults across the aisle—Sirius mocking Barty’s “floppy wrist shots,” Barty sneering at Sirius’s “caveman Beater style.” Evan egged Barty on, James backed Sirius, and Regulus just sighed, muttering, “I’m surrounded by children,” before stealing James’s pudding. Lily shot Sirius a glare from the Gryffindor table, still pissed about their corridor run-in, but Sirius ignored her, too focused on psyching out Barty, who was smirking like he’d already won.
“Hope you’ve got a Healer on speed-dial, Crouch,” Sirius called, grinning as he speared a roast potato.
“Hope you’ve practiced falling off your broom, Black,” Barty shot back, popping his gum, his eyes glinting with challenge.
“Merlin, just shag and get it over with,” Evan groaned, and Sirius choked on his potato, James cackling while Barty just smirked, unfazed. Regulus buried his face in his hands, muttering something about disowning them all.
Later, in the Room of Requirement, the bickering didn’t stop. Sirius shoved Barty onto the bed, taunting, “Bet I’ll knock you out cold tomorrow,” and Barty laughed, pulling Sirius down, muttering, “Bet I’ll score before you blink, princess.” The sex was rough, competitive, both of them fighting for control, the neon lights flashing red, some track—maybe Post Malone—blaring. Sirius came with a shout, Barty’s name on his lips, and Barty followed, grinning like he’d won the match already. They collapsed, panting, still trading jabs about Bludgers and goals until they passed out, the Room’s magic lulling them into sleep.
Morning brought game day, and Sirius woke in the Room of Requirement, the bed’s white sheets tangled around him, Barty sprawled as far away as possible, as usual. The git always rolled to the edge after they passed out, like he was allergic to cuddling—Merlin forbid any post-sex softness. Sirius blinked at the neon purple LEDs still glowing softly, the Room’s magic humming, and, as had become annoyingly usual lately, wondered: What the hell am I doing?
He had perfectly good boyfriend material in Elliot—because, yeah, they hadn’t defined anything yet, but the Ravenclaw was sweet, kissable, and practically screamed “relationship potential.” Yet here Sirius was, hooking up with Barty every damn night, sometimes multiple times in one go. (Fine, usually multiple times in one go. Shut up.)
As he glanced at Barty’s messy hair, bare back, and the sheets barely covering his arse—complete with a bite mark from Sirius, no comment needed—the truth hit him like a rogue Bludger: Sirius… liked Barty. Not just tolerated him, not just enjoyed the chaos of their hookups, but liked him. Barty Fucking Crouch Junior, of all people.
He liked Barty’s snarky comments that could cut glass, his mismatched eyes that seemed to see right through Sirius’s bullshit, and those damn tattoos snaking over his body like a map Sirius had memorized. He liked Barty’s voice—deep and smooth normally, gravelly in the morning, or the way it turned into a growl in Sirius’s ear during sex. He liked his twisted sense of humor, his taste in music (Chase Atlantic was their soundtrack for a reason), and—shit—their similarities were terrifying. Same reckless streak, same love for pushing buttons, same knack for charming their way out of trouble. They were like two sides of a cursed Galleon, and Sirius hadn’t seen it coming.
Sure, he’d tolerated Barty before. There was a time he thought he hated him—though, looking back, it was less hate and more loving the thrill of pissing him off. But liking him? Not romantically—God, forbid —but liking him as a person, as someone he didn’t mind sharing a cigarette or a bed with? That was new. And fucking weird, considering Barty was the guy who offered him Molly like it was candy, threw parties every week, hexed people for breathing wrong, and got into so much trouble McGonagall banned him from Hogsmeade. McGonagall was strict, but banning a literal adult wizard from a village outing? That was next-level suspicious. Barty’s rap sheet was long—handing out drugs at his raves, pranking professors, doing anything to spite his father (which, fair, Sirius respected). Yet here Sirius was, staring at the git’s sleeping form, thinking he wasn’t the worst person in the world.
Even if Barty’s emotional maturity was toddler-level, and he’d rather choke than say something nice, especially to Sirius.
“Fucking hell,” Sirius muttered, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow, hoping it’d smother his stupid thoughts.
Barty, apparently not asleep, shifted to face him, his voice lazy but amused. “Round two?”
Sirius laughed, helpless, lifting his head. “You mean fourth?”
“Aw, you’re counting?” Barty smirked, his hand sliding under the sheets to grab Sirius’s arse, because of course he’d go there.
“Fuck off,” Sirius laughed again, already halfway to straddling Barty, his body moving on instinct despite his brain’s protests. “Still gonna crush you on the pitch today, prick.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Barty replied, his smirk wicked, but before he could say more, Sirius shut him up with a kiss, hard and teasing, their lips crashing like they were still fighting about Quidditch. Barty’s hands gripped Sirius’s hips, pulling him closer, and Sirius grinned into it, nipping Barty’s lip just to hear that low growl. The kiss deepened, all heat and edge, Barty’s piercing cool against Sirius’s tongue, and for a moment, Sirius forgot his existential crisis, lost in the familiar chaos.
They didn’t go for round four—thank Merlin, because Sirius needed his legs for the match—but they stayed tangled, trading lazy kisses and jabs about Bludgers and goals. Barty’s fingers traced Sirius’s hipbone scar absently, no apology, no fuss, and Sirius relaxed into it, the ease of it unnerving him. He wasn’t supposed to like this, not with Barty, but here he was, smirking as Barty mocked his “caveman Beater style” while tugging at his hair.
“Gonna send a Bludger right at your tattoo,” Sirius said, rolling off Barty and stretching, his pajama pants riding low. “Maybe knock some sense into you.”
“Good luck aiming, princess,” Barty shot back, propping himself on an elbow, his eyes roaming over Sirius’s chest, lingering on the nipple piercing. “You’ll be too busy eating my dust.”
“Delusional,” Sirius grinned, grabbing his hoodie from the floor and pulling it on. He checked his phone—Elliot had texted, a shy Good luck today!:) —and Sirius’s heart did a weird flip, guilt mixing with warmth. He texted back, cheers, cutie. then pocketed the phone, ignoring Barty’s raised eyebrow.
“Off to swoon over Harper?” Barty asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp, chewing that damn gum already.
“Jealous, Crouch?” Sirius teased, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll still kick your arse on the pitch.”
“Not jealous,” Barty said, smirking, but he didn’t move, just watched Sirius head for the door. “Don’t choke, Black.”
“Watch me shine,” Sirius called back, winking as he stepped into the corridor, the Room’s door vanishing behind him. The castle was waking up, students trickling toward breakfast, and Sirius felt the game-day buzz in his bones. He swung by the Gryffindor dorms to change, grabbing his Quidditch kit and bat, his mind split three ways—Barty’s smirk, Elliot’s text, and the match ahead.
At breakfast, the Great Hall was chaos, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables roaring with hype. James was hyping up the team, his glasses fogged from coffee steam, while Regulus pretended to read but kept sneaking glances at James, all soft. Sirius plopped down, stealing a slice of bacon, and James grinned, fist-bumping him.
“Ready to crush Ravenclaw?” James asked, already in captain mode.
“Born ready, Prongs,” Sirius said, scanning the Ravenclaw table. Barty was there, laughing with his teammates, his smirk catching Sirius’s eye. Elliot waved shyly, and Sirius winked back, his heart doing that flip again. He ignored Lily’s glare still burning from yesterday, focusing on eggs and strategy, plotting every Bludger’s path.
As usual, when you want things to go according to plan, the universe laughs and does the exact opposite. The sky above the Quidditch pitch was dark and brooding, clouds heavy with drizzle, and a proper storm was brewing, ready to unleash any minute. James, being James, didn’t complain—naturally. He just charmed his glasses to repel raindrops with a quick flick of his wand, looking every bit the fearless captain. Sirius, who was supposed to be listening to James’s usual pre-game pep talk, was too busy scanning the bleachers. Regulus was in the Slytherin section, bundled in a wool coat that hid James’s Gryffindor jersey underneath (the absolute sap). Evan sat beside him, probably betting on Ravenclaw just to annoy Regulus. In the Ravenclaw section, Elliot caught Sirius’s gaze and flashed a shy grin; Sirius winked back without a second thought.
Then his eyes slid to the Gryffindor section, and there was Remus, sandwiched between Peter and Mary, looking annoyingly cozy in a scarf. Sirius didn’t flinch—not outwardly, at least. Fuck it. Let Remus see how hot Sirius was on the pitch, bat swinging, Bludgers flying.
After that Lily ambush, Sirius was done with him. Done wondering if Remus was too much of a coward to face him or just didn’t care, too busy snogging his pathetic Hufflepuff boyfriend. Either way, Sirius was over it. Mostly.
Arm in arm with James and Marlene, he strutted to the center of the pitch, where the Ravenclaws were already waiting. Davies, their captain and an absolute twat, flashed his cocky grin at James, who, in true James Potter style, grinned back with his signature pre-game I’m gonna kick your arse into next year vibe. James knew he was a fucking star and made damn sure everyone else knew it too—overconfident, but always right about it.
The commentator’s voice—Smith, that whiny Hufflepuff Chaser who was a loser both with a mic and a Quaffle—echoed across the pitch, hyping the crowd. Sirius locked eyes with Barty, who was already staring, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, Quidditch uniform hugging his frame just right. Shit, Sirius prayed he wouldn’t pop a boner mid-game.
“I’ll end you,” Sirius mouthed, smirking.
“Keep dreaming, princess,” Barty mouthed back, his grin sharp and challenging.
Madam Hooch’s whistle pierced the air, and all fourteen players shot into the sky, the game turning brutal the second a Bludger zoomed toward Marlene. She swung her bat, sending it crashing into a Ravenclaw Chaser who’d grabbed the Quaffle, knocking it loose. Gryffindor was on fire, taking the lead in the first few minutes, mostly thanks to James, who scored four of their seven goals like he was born with a Quaffle in his hands, and Sirius, who sent Bludgers screaming toward Davies, nearly knocking the git off his broom. The Quaffle slipped from Davies’s hands, and the Gryffindor stands roared.
Then Smith, the commentator, decided it was the perfect moment to piss Sirius off.
“As we can see,” his whiny voice drawled over the enchanted megaphone, “since Black discovered how good bats can be, he’s gotten better at being a Beater.”
Sirius snapped his head toward the commentator’s booth, his blood boiling. Did that little prick just try to insult him with a cheap gay jab? Without thinking, he zoomed toward the nearest Bludger, gripped his bat, and smashed it with pinpoint accuracy. The Bludger rocketed straight into the commentator’s booth, splintering the wooden railing. Smith yelped, diving under the desk like a scared rat, and the bleachers erupted in laughter, Gryffindor and Slytherin sections losing it.
“Keep going, and I’ll shove this bat up your arse!” Sirius shouted, hovering mid-air, grinning like a maniac.
“BLACK!” McGonagall and Madam Hooch bellowed in unison, their voices carrying over the chaos.
“THAT’S MY BOY!” James yelled, soaring past, his grin wide enough to split his face, looking like they’d already won the cup.
And Barty? Barty Fucking Crouch, weaving through the Ravenclaw formation, shot Sirius a look that was pure pride, his smirk saying nice one, princess. Sirius’s chest did a weird twist, but he shoved it down, focusing on the game.
“MINUS THIRTY POINTS, BLACK!” McGonagall roared from the stands, her hat practically vibrating with fury.
“WORTH IT!” Sirius shouted back, flipping his bat in a cocky spin before diving back into the fray like nothing had happened. The crowd was still buzzing, half cheering, half jeering, and Sirius soaked it up, his adrenaline pumping. Let Smith try that shit again—he’d aim for his head next time.
The game raged on, the drizzle turning to a proper downpour, soaking Sirius’s uniform and making his grip on the bat slippery. He didn’t care. Every Bludger was a missile, and most were aimed at Barty, who dodged with infuriating grace, scoring three goals and taunting Sirius with a mid-air salute. Sirius sent a Bludger his way, grazing Barty’s broom, and Barty laughed, shouting, “That all you got, Black?” Sirius grinned, already hunting the next one, their rivalry electric, the pitch their battlefield.
James was a beast, weaving through Ravenclaw’s defense, scoring another two goals, while Marlene knocked a Bludger into Davies’s shoulder, sending him spinning. The score was tight—Gryffindor up by twenty, but Ravenclaw was relentless, Barty and their Seeker pushing hard. Sirius caught Elliot cheering in the stands, his shy wave a contrast to the chaos, and winked, but his eyes flicked to Remus, who was watching—not clapping, just watching. Sirius gritted his teeth, swinging his bat harder, determined to make him see.
Half-time hit, and Gryffindor piled into the locker room, soaked and hyped. James rallied them, his hair plastered to his forehead, glasses fogged despite the charm. “We’ve got this, but don’t let up! Pads, keep those Bludgers flying—maybe not at the booth next time, yeah?”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, gulping water and wiping rain from his face. Marlene cackled, slapping his back, while the rest of the team hooted. Sirius’s mind was split—Barty’s proud smirk, Elliot’s wave, Remus’s neutral stare.
He liked Barty, fine, but not like that. Elliot was the soft he wanted, right? So why was Barty’s chaos so fucking addictive?
Back on the pitch, the storm worsened, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing in the distance. Madam Hooch warned them to play tight or she’d call it. Sirius didn’t care—he was born for this, rain and all. The second half was brutal, Barty scoring twice, Sirius nailing him with a Bludger that made him wobble but not fall. James scored again, and their Seeker was neck-and-neck with Ravenclaw’s, both chasing the Snitch through the downpour. Sirius sent another Bludger at Barty, who dodged and flipped him off, grinning like a lunatic. Sirius laughed, soaked and alive, every swing a release.
The Snitch darted low, and Gryffindor’s Seeker dove, Ravenclaw’s right behind. Sirius cleared a path, smashing a Bludger into a Ravenclaw Chaser, and James shouted, “GO!” The crowd roared as the Seeker’s hand closed around the Snitch, and the whistle blew—Gryffindor won, 210-170. The stands exploded, Regulus on his feet, Evan groaning, Elliot clapping shyly. Sirius pumped his fist, soaring to James, who tackled him mid-air, both laughing like maniacs.
On the ground, the team mobbed each other, soaked and triumphant. Barty landed nearby, his smirk softer now, and muttered, “Not bad, princess,” before stalking off with his team. Sirius grinned, his heart racing, then caught Elliot jogging over, umbrella in hand, all shy smiles. “You were amazing,” Elliot said, and Sirius kissed him, quick and sweet, ignoring the rain. But his eyes flicked to Remus, who was leaving with Peter and Mary, not looking back.
Fine. Fuck him.
In the locker room, James was still hyped, planning a common room party. Sirius showered, changed, and checked his phone—Elliot’s text: party later? He replied, defo, cutie, but his mind was on Barty’s smirk, that proud look. He liked the git, more than he should, but Elliot was the plan—soft, sweet, safe. Right? He’d figure it out at the party, with Firewhisky and music to drown the noise in his head. For now, he’d celebrate, because Gryffindor won, and Sirius Black was on top of the world, one chaotic, messy moment at a time.
The Gryffindor common room party was the first one Sirius had attended this year, having been too busy getting wrecked at Ravenclaw’s raves, where neon lights and Molly were the vibe. Even with Elliot pressed against his side, a Firewhisky in his hand, and the common room pulsing with music and laughter, something felt… off. Probably the lack of a proper rave, right? Gryffindor parties were loud and fun—red and gold banners charmed to wave, tables groaning with snacks, and someone always spiking the punch a little too much—but they didn’t have that chaotic, drug-fueled edge Sirius had gotten used to.
Yeah, that had to be it.
Remus was sprawled on a couch across the room with Mary and Lily, sipping a beer and laughing at something Mary said, looking infuriatingly unbothered. Clearly, he didn’t give a shit that Sirius had his arm around Elliot, his hand resting casually on the Ravenclaw’s waist. So what the hell was Lily’s problem with her whole “you’re hurting Remus” ambush? Jesus Christ, the hypocrisy. Sirius took a swig of Firewhisky, the burn grounding him, and forced his eyes away from Remus. Let him laugh with his mates. Sirius was done caring.
Regulus and Evan were near the fireplace with James, Regulus practically glowing with pride over his genius boyfriend’s Quidditch victory. James was basking in it, grinning like being adored by Regulus was the best feeling in the world—which, honestly, it probably was. James had his arm slung around Regulus’s shoulders, regaling Evan with an exaggerated play-by-play of the match, complete with wild gestures that nearly knocked over a second-year’s Butterbeer. Regulus rolled his eyes but leaned into James, all soft and sappy, and Sirius snorted, amused despite himself. His brother was whipped.
But as the night wore on, with every shot of Firewhisky and every new song blasting from the charmed speakers, that weird, hollow feeling in Sirius’s chest kept growing. The Gryffindor playlist was solid—some rock, a bit of Weird Sisters—but when a cheesy pop song kicked in, Elliot leaned down, his green eyes soft, and kissed Sirius, all sweet and gentle. And that’s when it hit Sirius like a fucking trainwreck.
He didn’t miss Ravenclaw’s type of party.
He missed the type of party where Barty was beside him.
Shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
He missed Barty’s reckless chaos—how he’d shove a Molly into Sirius’s hand like it was just another shot, smirking as he said, “Open, princess.” He missed how Barty would drag him into the crowd to dance, their bodies pressed close, neon lights flashing, music so loud it drowned out everything else. He missed Barty’s snark, his mismatched eyes glinting with mischief, the way he’d laugh when Sirius pushed his buttons, all sharp and alive. Fucks’s sake, Sirius missed him, and not just in the Room of Requirement, not just for sex. He missed Barty, the whole infuriating package.
He froze mid-kiss, his lips still against Elliot’s, his brain short-circuiting. Elliot pulled back, his brows furrowing, concern flickering in his eyes. “You good?” he asked, his voice soft over the music.
Sirius blinked, shaking himself out of it. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, forcing a grin. “Come on, cutie.” He yanked Elliot down for another kiss, deeper this time, trying to drown out the realization screaming in his head. Elliot kissed back, sweet and eager, his hands sliding to Sirius’s waist, and Sirius leaned into it, desperate to feel something else, anything else. But even as he kissed Elliot, Barty’s smirk flashed in his mind—that proud look on the pitch, the way he’d mouthed “keep dreaming, princess” before the game. Fuck.
The song ended, and Sirius pulled away, grabbing his Firewhisky and downing it in one go, the burn chasing away the panic. Elliot smiled, oblivious, lacing their fingers together, and Sirius squeezed his hand, grounding himself.
He wasn’t catching feelings for Barty. No way. This was just… party vibes, right? Missing the chaos, not the git himself. He liked Elliot—sweet, shy Elliot, who held his hand and blushed at his flirty texts. That was the plan, the safe plan. Barty was a storm, a red flag with legs, and Sirius wasn’t stupid enough to get swept up in that.
“C’mon, let’s dance,” Sirius said, tugging Elliot toward the crowd of Gryffindors jumping to a new song, some banger James had probably picked. Elliot laughed, following, his moves a bit awkward but endearing, and Sirius threw himself into it, spinning Elliot and grinning when he stumbled, catching him with a wink. Across the room, James was twirling Regulus, who was pretending to hate it but smiling anyway. Evan was charming a bottle of Firewhisky to pour itself, cackling when it splashed a fourth-year. Remus was still on the couch, talking to Lily now, and Sirius forced himself not to look, focusing on Elliot’s green eyes instead.
But the feeling didn’t fade. Every laugh, every shot, every brush of Elliot’s hand—it was nice, but it wasn’t Barty. Sirius pictured him at a Ravenclaw rave, probably shirtless, tossing back shots, handing out Molly like a party favor, his snake tattoo glinting under neon lights. He’d be smirking, daring someone to match his chaos, and Sirius wanted to be there, trading jabs, dancing too close, feeling alive in a way only Barty’s brand of madness could spark.
“Fuck,” Sirius muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Elliot didn’t hear, too busy laughing as Marlene dragged him into a group dance, shouting about “Gryffindor pride.” Sirius grabbed another Firewhisky, leaning against a table, watching the party swirl around him. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Barty’s name. you at a rave? he typed, then deleted it. miss me, prick? Deleted that too. He wasn’t texting him. Not tonight. He was here with Elliot, who was perfect, who didn’t come with a rap sheet or a penchant for hexing first-years.
James appeared, sweaty and beaming, slinging an arm around Sirius’s shoulders. “Having fun, Padfoot? Where’s your Ravenclaw boy?”
“Not my boy,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes but grinning. “He’s dancing with Marls. I’m just… vibing.”
“Liar,” James laughed, stealing his Firewhisky for a sip. “You look like you’re plotting something. Don’t blow up my party, yeah?”
“No promises,” Sirius said, smirking, and James cackled, dragging him back to join Regulus and Evan, who were now arguing over who’d win a duel—James or Barty. Sirius stayed out of it, his mind elsewhere, but threw in a quick, “Crouch’d cheat first,” earning a laugh from Evan and an eye-roll from Regulus.
The party raged on, and Sirius danced with Elliot again, kissed him under the charmed fairy lights, laughed at Marlene’s drunken Quidditch reenactment. But Barty’s absence was a hole he couldn’t ignore, and when he checked his phone later—no texts, just Evan’s COME OVER I HAVE VODKA from earlier—it stung. He stumbled to his dorm after, alone, Elliot back to Ravenclaw with a sleepy kiss goodbye and Sirius flopped onto his bed.
He wasn’t falling for Barty. He couldn’t. Elliot was the plan—soft, sweet, safe. But as he drifted off, it was Barty’s smirk, Barty’s chaos, Barty’s voice growling in his ear that followed him into his dreams. Eighteen was a fucking mess, and Sirius was drowning in it, one kiss, one party, one git at a time.
Chapter Text
Sirius woke up in the Gryffindor dorm for the first time in weeks, his head pounding like a Bludger had taken up residence in his skull. He’d been too busy crashing at Regulus’s dorm or passing out in the Room of Requirement, wrecked from drugs and marathon sex with Barty. The familiar red curtains of his four-poster felt weirdly foreign, and as soon as he cracked his eyes open, the hangover clawing at him, he remembered why he’d been avoiding this place.
Remus was asleep in the bed across from him, his soft brown hair a mess, scars faint on his peaceful face in the morning light filtering through the window. For the first time since May, Sirius didn’t feel that usual pang in his chest at the sight of him.
Sure, he was still fucking hurt—God, the breakup had gutted him—but now? Now he was more pissed. Pissed that Remus had never given him a chance to explain, just shut him out like their years together meant nothing. Acting like Sirius was some ghost he could ignore, while he cozied up with that Hufflepuff twat.
Honestly? Even Sirius wasn’t that cruel to his exes—and, God, he had plenty. He still nodded at them in the corridors, chatted occasionally, did all the mature shit. Yeah, he’d hurt Remus, hurt him badly, fine. But what Remus was doing now—blanking him completely, pretending they never happened—was just… fucking cruel.
Fine.
Sirius didn’t care. Didn’t care now, wouldn’t care later.
He’d graduate in a couple of months, leave Hogwarts, and never see Remus again. Good riddance.
He rolled onto his stomach, his head throbbing from too much Firewhisky and too many thoughts, the mattress creaking under him. His mind drifted to Elliot, and that’s when the real problem hit.
Elliot was cute—adorable, even. Sweet, soft, kind, good, all the things that should’ve been perfect. The guy was clearly crazy about Sirius—damn, who wasn’t? —but Sirius needed more. He needed someone obsessed with him, someone who couldn’t go a day without groping him, dragging him to bed, or kissing him like the world was ending. And Elliot? Two weeks of dating, and it was just kisses. Soft, sweet kisses, sure, but nothing more. No blowjobs, no grinding, no dry humping, zilch. Nada. Zero. Sirius could initiate, could push for more, but… no. He was Sirius Fucking Black. People wanted him first, not the other way around. He wasn’t chasing anyone’s desire—he was the one chased.
So, bye-bye to Elliot and his gentle touches.
Sirius wanted someone who burned for him like Barty did in bed—because, let’s be real, Barty was obsessed there, and he wasn’t even hiding it anymore. The way he kissed, licked, nipped, and roamed his hands over Sirius’s body, like he couldn’t get enough? Yeah, Sirius couldn’t either. Barty was a storm, all heat and chaos, and Sirius was hooked on it, even if he’d never admit it outside the neon-lit Room of Requirement.
With a groan and a decision forming, Sirius grabbed his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen through his hangover haze. Zero texts from Barty—rude. He’d been half-expecting a “come over” sent at 3 a.m. or some snarky quip about the match. One text from Elliot, sent an hour ago: wanna hang out? Sirius’s heart didn’t even flip, didn’t skip a beat. That was the sign he needed. He typed back, yeah, let’s meet up, but not to hang out. To end whatever this was.
And maybe hook up with Barty later for good measure, because why the hell not?
He dragged himself out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and rummaged for clean clothes—black jeans, a ripped band tee, his leather jacket, because he needed to feel like himself today. A quick Scourgify spell cleaned the Firewhisky stink off him, and he charmed his hair into its usual effortless mess, smirking at his reflection in the dorm mirror. Hungover or not, he still looked like trouble, and that was enough.
Down in the common room, James was sprawled on a couch, glasses askew, nursing a hangover of his own, with Regulus perched beside him, reading a book but clearly just there to fuss over his boyfriend.
“Morning, Padfoot,” James croaked, waving a hand. “You look like shit.”
“Cheers, Prongs,” Sirius grinned, flopping into an armchair. “You’re not exactly a poster boy yourself.”
Regulus glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “You actually slept here? Thought you’d moved into mine permanently.”
“Fuck off, Reggie,” Sirius said, but he laughed, tossing a cushion at his brother.
Regulus dodged, smirking, and went back to his book, but not before muttering, “Slut.”
“Love you too,” Sirius shot back, stretching out, his head still pounding. He checked his phone again—Elliot had replied, cool, three broomsticks at noon? —and Sirius confirmed, his stomach twisting. Breaking things off with Elliot wouldn’t be fun. The guy was sweet, didn’t deserve it, but Sirius couldn’t fake it.
He needed fire, not warmth, and Elliot was all cozy hearth when Sirius craved a wildfire.
Breakfast was a blur of coffee and toast, James ranting about Quidditch while Regulus nodded indulgently. Sirius half-listened, his mind on Elliot’s shy smile and Barty’s smirk, the two pulling him in opposite directions. He caught Remus at the Gryffindor table, laughing with Peter, and felt that anger flare again—not hurt, just pissed. Remus didn’t get to act like Sirius was invisible. Not after everything. He shoved it down, focusing on his coffee, and left early to meet Elliot, needing air.
The Three Broomsticks was quiet, the post-match weekend crowd still sleeping off hangovers. Elliot was already there, in a corner booth, his dark hair falling into his green eyes, a smile lighting up when he saw Sirius.
“Hey,” he said, standing to hug him, and Sirius hugged back, his heart sinking. This was gonna suck.
“Hey, cutie,” Sirius said, sliding into the booth, keeping his voice light.
They ordered butterbeers, and Elliot chatted about the match, how Sirius had been “bloody brilliant” on the pitch, his hands gesturing animatedly. Sirius smiled, nodded, but his mind was racing, searching for the right words. He didn’t want to hurt Elliot, but dragging this out would be worse.
“Listen, El,” Sirius said finally, setting his glass down, his voice softer now. “You’re… you’re great. Like, really great. Sweet, cute, all that. But I don’t think this is working for me.”
Elliot’s smile faltered, his eyes widening. “Oh… okay. Did I do something wrong?”
“Nah, it’s not you,” Sirius said quickly, leaning forward. “You’re perfect, seriously. I just… I need something different, y’know? Something more… intense.” He cringed at how vague it sounded, but Elliot nodded slowly, his face falling but not angry.
“Yeah, I get it,” Elliot said, his voice quiet. “I kinda figured you were… I dunno, out of my league or something.” He laughed, but it was forced, and Sirius’s chest tightened.
“Don’t say that,” Sirius said, reaching for his hand, squeezing it. “You’re awesome, El. Someone’s gonna be mad for you. Just… not me.”
Elliot managed a small smile, squeezing back. “Thanks, Sirius. Still friends?”
“Course,” Sirius said, grinning, though he knew “friends” probably meant polite nods in the corridors.
They finished their drinks, the conversation lighter but awkward, and Sirius walked him partway to Ravenclaw Tower, giving him a quick hug before heading off. He felt lighter, but also like a prick. Elliot deserved better, but Sirius couldn’t be that guy—not when his head was full of Barty’s chaos.
Back at the castle, he texted Barty: room, now? No reply yet, but Sirius knew he’d show. He wandered to the seventh floor, pacing to summon the Room of Requirement, his heart racing. The door appeared, and inside was the usual—neon red LEDs, The Weeknd humming, a bed that screamed trouble. Barty wasn’t there yet, so Sirius flopped onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, his hangover dulling but his thoughts loud.
He liked Barty—too much, maybe—but this was still casual, right? Just sex, drugs, and snark. Not feelings. Never feelings.
His phone buzzed—Barty: omw, princess. Sirius grinned, his pulse kicking up, and when the door opened, Barty sauntered in, all leather jacket and smirk, a Ziploc of Molly dangling from his fingers.
“Miss me, Black?”
“Keep dreaming, Crouch,” Sirius shot back, but he was already sitting up, ready for the storm.
Barty tossed the bag onto the bed, climbing over Sirius, his hands finding his hips, and Sirius laughed, pulling him down. No soft kisses here—just heat, chaos, and Barty’s piercing against his tongue. Exactly what he needed.
They hooked up twice, the Molly buzzing through their veins, the Room of Requirement’s music drowning out the world. Afterward, Sirius sprawled across the bed, panting, his skin still tingling, and stole Barty’s gum from his lips mid-kiss, smirking when Barty cursed under his breath.
“Still pissed I beat your arse on the pitch yesterday?” Sirius teased, popping a bubble, feeling weirdly detached, like nothing mattered.
Post-Molly crash, he figured.
“Delusional,” Barty muttered, but he was grinning, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, casual but possessive, his thumb brushing the edge of Sirius’s hipbone scar. “Now give me back my gum, prick,” he said, leaning in to kiss Sirius, stealing it back with that damn piercing tongue, the cool metal sparking against Sirius’s lips.
Sirius laughed into the kiss, the sound muffled, and straddled Barty out of habit, the kiss grounding him, making him feel alive again, like the Molly had kicked back in. Barty’s hands found his hips, gripping tight, and Sirius grinned, rolling his hips just to hear that low groan. But when he pulled away, catching his breath, his gaze wandered down Barty’s torso—tattoos curling over his chest, sweat glistening under the neon red LEDs—and he blinked at something he hadn’t noticed before, too distracted by Barty’s cock earlier to care.
A small red hickey, fresh and unmistakable, sat on the side of Barty’s neck.
It wasn’t from Sirius.
He was all about collarbones and throats, not the side of the neck. Never there.
“You hooked up with someone?” Sirius asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them, his voice light but his eyes narrowing.
Barty popped the gum lazily, his hand still tracing Sirius’s hip scar, unfazed. “Yeah, yesterday,” he shrugged, his smirk creeping in, sharp and knowing.
Sirius kept his face unreadable, his trademark cocky grin locked in place, but his mind? Fucking screaming.
So Barty didn’t text him to hook up last night because he was already busy with someone else? After Sirius had been at that Gryffindor party, kissing Elliot, missing Barty’s chaos?
The realization stung, sharp and unexpected, like a hex to the chest. He didn’t have a right to care—Barty wasn’t his boyfriend, this was casual, just sex and Molly and snark—but the thought of someone else’s lips on Barty’s neck made his stomach twist.
Barty’s smirk widened, like he could read every thought in Sirius’s head. “Jealous, Black?”
“Keep dreaming,” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes, and rolled his hips again for good measure, drawing a low curse from Barty.
He wasn’t jealous. No way. Sirius Black didn’t do jealous.
Barty laughed, rough and teasing, and yanked Sirius down by his hair, his grip just shy of painful. “Come on, princess, I’m not done with you,” he said, his voice low, before kissing him again, all teeth and piercing, the gum forgotten. Sirius kissed back, hard, pouring that weird, burning feeling into it, determined to make Barty forget whoever the hell had left that hickey.
So they went for round three, the bed creaking, Sirius screaming Barty’s name, his mind screaming you’re not the only one. The Molly amplified everything—Barty’s hands, his growls, the way he pinned Sirius to the mattress, relentless and possessive. Sirius clawed at his back, leaving marks of his own, staking a claim he’d never admit to wanting. By the end, they were a sweaty, gasping mess, the neon lights pulsing in time with their racing hearts, the music fading to a slower beat.
“Fuck,” Sirius panted, flopping onto his back, his chest heaving, the Molly’s buzz fading into a warm haze. Barty collapsed beside him, smirking, his hand still on Sirius’s thigh, like it belonged there. Sirius stole the water bottle from the bedside table, chugging half of it, then tossed it to Barty, who caught it one-handed, drinking without breaking eye contact.
“Not bad, Black,” Barty said, his voice rough but amused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Almost made me forget that Ravenclaw git from last night.”
Sirius snorted, rolling his eyes, but his mind was still racing. “Git, huh? Didn’t know you had such low standards, Crouch.”
“Standards?” Barty laughed, propping himself on an elbow, his snake tattoo shifting as he moved. “Says the guy who snogged half the school before Lupin.”
“Quality over quantity,” Sirius shot back, smirking, but the hickey was still there in his head, a red flag he couldn’t ignore.
He wasn’t jealous— fuck no —but the idea of Barty with someone else, laughing, touching, maybe even sharing Molly with them, made his skin crawl. He shoved it down, focusing on Barty’s smirk, the way his mismatched eyes glinted under the LEDs.
“So, who was it?” Sirius asked, keeping his tone casual. “Some Ravenclaw desperate for your… what, charm?”
Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning wicked. “Curious, princess? Didn’t peg you for the nosy type.”
“Just making conversation,” Sirius said, shrugging, but his heart was pounding, and he hated it. He didn’t care. He didn’t.
“Some fifth year,” Barty said, vague as hell, leaning back and stretching, his arms behind his head. “Showed up at the rave, wanted a good time. I delivered.” He winked, and Sirius wanted to hex him, or kiss him, or both.
“Fifth year,” Sirius repeated, rolling his eyes. “Classy, Crouch.”
“Says the guy who just ended it with Mr. Perfect,” Barty shot back, his grin sharp. “How’d Harper take it, anyway? Cry into his butterbeer?”
Sirius flipped him off, but laughed, the tension easing a bit. “He’s fine. We’re… friends or whatever. Unlike you, I don’t burn bridges.”
“Liar,” Barty said, smirking, and Sirius shoved him, the bed dipping as they wrestled lazily, trading insults until Barty pinned him again, his hands on Sirius’s wrists, grinning. “Admit it, Black. You’re jealous.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius said, but he was laughing, wriggling free and straddling Barty again, mostly to shut him up. “I’m Sirius Black. I don’t do jealous. I do hot.”
“Damn right,” Barty muttered, pulling him down for another kiss, slower this time, the Molly’s afterglow softening the edges. Sirius melted into it, his mind still buzzing but quieter now, Barty’s hands grounding him. The hickey, the other guy, the screaming—it was still there, but Sirius buried it, because this was what he wanted: chaos, heat, Barty’s piercing against his tongue. Not feelings, not jealousy, just this.
They didn’t go for round four—fucks’s sake, even Sirius had a limit—but they stayed in the Room, trading join and snark, the music lulling them into a hazy calm. Sirius’s phone buzzed, ignored, and he didn’t check it. Probably Elliot, or James, or Regulus calling him a slut again. He didn’t care. He was here, with Barty’s hand on his thigh, the neon lights casting shadows, and that was enough.
“You crashing here?” Barty asked, his voice low, almost soft, as he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling between them.
“Maybe,” Sirius said, stealing a drag, exhaling slowly. “You offering to cuddle, Crouch?”
“Fuck no,” Barty laughed, but he didn’t move away, his shoulder brushing Sirius’s. “Just don’t hog the sheets, Black.”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, mimicking Barty’s usual line, and they both laughed, the sound filling the Room.
The next week dragged like a bloody year, honestly. Sirius was trapped in his own head, his thoughts stuck on a maddening loop of Remus, Barty, and Elliot—over and over, like a cursed record. So, he did the only logical thing to shut it all down: hooked up with Barty. Constantly. Which, fuck that git, only made things worse, because Barty was shagging some fifth-year twat on the side. Sirius had no clue who it was—Barty wasn’t spilling a damn thing—but those hickeys kept popping up on the side of his neck, like cruel little reminders that Barty’s cock was wandering elsewhere.
Sirius was dying to know who the mystery git was, but it was impossible to find out, thanks to Barty’s infuriating spell on the Marauders’ Map. Every time Barty stepped into the Room of Requirement—if the Room was conjuring the same neon-lit sex den for Barty and this fifth-year that it did for Sirius and Barty, Sirius would personally hex Barty’s balls off—his name magically appeared in his dorm on the Map, fooling everyone. No way to catch him in the act, no way to confirm anything, and it was driving Sirius absolutely insane.
Not that he was jealous. Just… curious. Duh.
Monday morning brought a small distraction when Smith showed up at breakfast with a gloriously broken nose, swollen and purple, refusing to say who’d done it. The Great Hall buzzed with whispers, and Sirius, sitting with James and Evan at the Gryffindor table, couldn’t help but smirk.
“He said whoever punched him cast a spell to keep the nose from healing,” Evan cackled, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Dunno who it was, but, damn, I’d send them a bouquet of flowers.”
“Wish it was me,” James said, glaring at Smith with pure disgust. “Fucking straggot.”
Sirius just shrugged—fair, the git deserved it—but he was too preoccupied with his Barty obsession to care much about Smith’s face, even if the sight was satisfying.
Besides, the full moon was tonight, and he needed to pretend that he doesn’t give a fuck about it. That, and the whole Remus situation, was creeping into his head again, no matter how hard he tried to shove it out.
By evening, Sirius, James, and Regulus were sprawled in Regulus’s dorm, the air thick with the pre-full-moon tension. James and Regulus were tangled on Regulus’s bed, James looking a bit nervous, his glasses sliding down his nose, while Regulus acted like spending the night in his Animagus form keeping Remus’s werewolf in check was just another Tuesday. He was casually flipping through Potions notes for tomorrow’s quiz, his quill scratching absently, the perfect picture of calm. Sirius tried not to think about how Regulus had basically taken over his role in the full-moon crew.
“Hope he doesn’t freak out again,” James muttered suddenly, burying his face in Regulus’s stomach like a stressed-out kid.
Regulus, ever the perfect boyfriend, started stroking James’s hair, soothing him without missing a beat in his reading. “He won’t,” he said, shrugging. “Last time, he was probably just horny or something.”
Sirius perked up, his eyebrow shooting up. Interesting.
Or… no, whatever.
He didn’t care, remember?
“Yeah, no,” James half-laughed, half-groaned into Regulus’s jumper. “Turns out he and Truman never… y’know. Just talks and all. They haven’t even kissed. Pure mates or something.”
Sirius’s other eyebrow joined the first, but he kept his mouth shut. Remus and Gabriel weren’t shagging? Not even snogging? Just… mates? Well, fuck. That was news. Not that it changed anything—Remus could be a monk for all Sirius cared—but it threw him, just a bit. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, his mind already spiraling back to Barty and those fucking hickeys. Remus wasn’t his problem anymore. Barty, though? Barty was a problem he couldn’t quit.
The conversation shifted to the full moon—James worrying about Remus’s mood, Regulus reassuring him with that calm confidence that made Sirius both proud and annoyed. Sirius stayed quiet, his mind split between Barty’s hickeys and the fact that Remus wasn’t even with Gabriel like that. He didn’t care, he told himself, but the thought nagged, mixing with his Barty obsession into a messy mental stew.
After leaving Regulus’s dorm, Sirius wandered the castle, restless, his hangover gone but his head still a mess. He texted Barty: room, now? and got a quick gimme 10, princess. Smirking, Sirius headed to the seventh floor, pacing to summon the Room of Requirement. The door appeared, and inside was the usual—neon blue LEDs, Chase Atlantic humming, a bed that screamed trouble. Barty showed up, all leather and smirk, a fresh hickey on his neck that made Sirius’s jaw tighten. He didn’t ask, just shoved Barty onto the bed, kissing him hard, Molly buzzing through them, determined to make Barty forget whoever the hell was leaving those marks.
They hooked up twice, the sex rough and competitive, Sirius’s hands leaving scratches down Barty’s back, Barty’s teeth marking Sirius’s collarbone. Afterward, sprawled and panting, Sirius stole Barty’s gum, popping a bubble to hide the weird ache in his chest—worked, though. “Still shagging that fifth-year?” he asked, his tone light, casual.
Barty smirked, his hand on Sirius’s thigh, tracing lazy circles. “Why, Black? Wanna join us?”
“Fuck off,” Sirius laughed, shoving him, but his mind was screaming again. He wasn’t jealous—just curious, right? But as Barty pulled him into another kiss, stealing the gum back, that hickey burned in his vision, a reminder that Sirius wasn’t the only one in Barty’s orbit.
They stayed in the Room of Requirement, trading snark and cigarettes, the music—some sultry Chase Atlantic track—lulling them into a hazy calm, the neon blue LEDs casting soft shadows.
Sirius checked the Marauders’ Map later, sprawled across the bed, his skin still warm from the Molly and their earlier rounds. Remus was in the Hospital Wing, pre-moon prep, while James, Regulus, and Peter were in the Shrieking Shack, ready for the night. Barty was still beside him, his bare shoulder brushing Sirius’s. “Mischief managed,” Sirius muttered, folding the Map and tossing it onto the bedside table.
Barty squinted at him, chewing his gum with that annoying pop. “Still stalking Lupin, you freak?”
Sirius rolled his eyes, propping himself on an elbow. “Nah. I mean— yeah, but full moon and all that shit.”
Barty hummed, stealing a cigarette from Sirius’s pack and lighting it with a flick of his wand. “And how’s it like?” he asked, exhaling smoke, his voice curious but casual.
Sirius blinked. “Eh?”
“Full moon,” Barty said, rolling his eyes like Sirius’s confusion was personally offensive, the nerd. “Is Lupin chasing rabbits or what?”
Sirius snorted, grabbing a joint from the ashtray and lighting it with a charm. “I mean… yeah, actually. Kinda.”
Barty barked a laugh, rolling onto his stomach, and Sirius’s gaze flicked to his bare arse in a second, the sheets barely covering it. Damn him.
“Shit, that’s gotta be cool,” Barty muttered, propping himself on his elbows and stealing the joint from Sirius’s fingers, taking a drag like it was his by right.
“Being a werewolf?” Sirius asked, disbelief creeping into his voice, raising an eyebrow.
“No, idiot,” Barty said, rolling his eyes again, passing the joint back. “The Animagus thing. How’d you even learn that?”
Sirius shrugged, taking a drag, the weed smoothing out the edges of his thoughts. “Wasn’t that hard, honestly. Like Transfiguration mixed with Apparition, plus a shit-ton of itching skin. Took focus, though.”
“And when’d you nail it?” Barty asked, smirking, his mismatched eyes glinting with interest.
“End of third year,” Sirius said, grinning, leaning back against the headboard.
“Damn,” Barty said, genuinely impressed, his smirk softening. “Potter too?”
“Yeah, Prongs got it same time,” Sirius said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Pettigrew, the rat, took a few months longer, though.”
Barty laughed, rough and loud. “Not shocked he’s a rat. Fits like a fucking condom.”
Sirius cackled, the weed making it funnier than it should’ve been. “Damn, it does. You never wanted to try it, though? I mean, Reg did.”
Barty made a face, stealing the joint again. “Yeah, thought about it. But you can’t choose your Animagus form, and if I ended up as something humiliating—like a mosquito or a bloody pigeon—I’d off myself.”
Sirius laughed so hard he nearly choked, the mental image of Barty buzzing around as a mosquito too much. “Fair, fair. Wouldn’t wanna be a bug either.”
“Besides,” Barty said, shrugging, exhaling smoke in a lazy cloud, “don’t need an Animagus form to hide when I want to.”
Sirius squinted at him, curious now. “Meaning?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know, princess?” Barty smirked, that infuriating, leave-you-hanging grin, and Sirius groaned, shoving him.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius said, stealing the joint back and taking a long drag, blowing the smoke right in Barty’s face.
“Pot, kettle,” Barty shot back, rolling his eyes but smirking anyway, letting his head flop onto the pillow.
Chase Atlantic was humming something about staying right here instead, and Sirius caught himself humming along under his breath, the lyrics etched in his mind from Barty’s obsession with the band. Every hookup, every rave, it was their soundtrack, and now the words felt like they belonged to them.
Barty’s face was turned toward Sirius, eyes closed, his brown hair looking infuriatingly soft, like it was begging for fingers to tangle in it. Sirius didn’t, because Barty would probably bite his head off for trying something that soft. Those strands had a weird shade of brown, though—light and golden in the sun, almost black in the dark. Barty used to dye a streak green for years, but he’d stopped since the summer. Sirius kinda missed it, if he was honest. It suited the git’s chaos.
“You wanna watch something?” Barty’s voice snapped Sirius out of his thoughts, his eyes still closed, voice lazy.
Sirius stretched, his bare back brushing the sheets, and stubbed the joint in the ashtray. “Something new instead of Stranger Things for the millionth time?”
“American Horror Story?” Barty suggested, popping up on his elbow, suddenly animated. “Only saw the first season.”
Sirius grinned, liking the idea of something freaky. “Yeah, alright. Let’s do Freak Show. Wonder what that shit’s about.”
Barty flicked his wand, and a flat-screen TV materialized on the wall, courtesy of the Room’s magic. The opening credits of American Horror Story: Freak Show rolled, all eerie carnival vibes, and they settled in, naked under the sheets, not touching even for a second. Sirius was hyper-aware of the space between them, missing Barty’s hand on his thigh, a habit the git had picked up recently but seemed to skip now. It bugged him more than it should’ve, that absence, and he blamed the weed for making him notice.
They watched for hours, sprawled across the massive bed, the Room’s music muted to let the show’s creepy soundtrack take over. Barty snorted at the lobster-claw guy, muttering, “Bet he’s got a wild sex life,” and Sirius laughed, tossing a pillow at him. “You would think that, perv.” They traded jabs about the characters—Sirius rooting for the conjoined twins, Barty betting the clown was “the real MVP”—and passed a fresh joint back and forth, the smoke curling under the neon lights.
“Fuck, that’s twisted,” Sirius said when a particularly gnarly scene hit, his eyes wide but grinning. “Muggle shows don’t hold back.”
“Right?” Barty said, stealing the joint and taking a drag, his smirk lazy but his eyes bright. “Beats Hogwarts: A History any day.”
“Low bar,” Sirius snorted, stealing it back, their fingers brushing for a second. He ignored the spark that shot through him, focusing on the screen, but his mind wandered. Barty’s laugh, his stupid gum-popping, the way he got weirdly invested in Muggle TV—it was all too… likeable. And that fucking hickey on his neck, still there, a red mark Sirius hadn’t made, nagged at him. He wasn’t jealous—just curious, yeah? But the thought of Barty with some fifth-year git, maybe watching this same show, laughing like this, made his chest tight.
“You good, princess?” Barty asked, catching Sirius staring, his smirk creeping back. “Or you plotting how to steal my gum again?”
“Fuck off,” Sirius laughed, shoving him, and Barty shoved back, the bed creaking as they wrestled lazily, ending with Sirius pinned, Barty’s hands on his wrists, grinning down at him. “Get off, you heavy git.”
“Make me,” Barty said, his voice low, teasing, and Sirius rolled his eyes but didn’t try too hard to escape, the weed and Barty’s warmth making him lazy. They stayed like that for a second, Barty’s eyes searching his, and Sirius’s heart did a stupid flip. He wasn’t falling for him. No way. This was just… chill. Casual.
Barty let go, flopping back onto the bed, and they went back to the show, the moment passing. Sirius stole a glance at him—hair soft, eyes half-closed, that hickey mocking him—and sighed. “You crashing here?” he asked, echoing Barty’s earlier question, keeping it light.
“Maybe,” Barty said, smirking, lighting another cigarette. “You gonna hog the sheets again?”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, stealing a drag, the smoke mixing with the weed’s haze.
They watched another episode, the Room’s magic keeping the vibe perfect—cool sheets, low lights, no rush to leave. Sirius’s phone buzzed, ignored, probably James or Regulus checking in post-moon. He didn’t care. He was here, with Barty’s laugh filling the space, the TV’s glow on his face, and that was enough.
But as they drifted toward sleep, the sheets tangled around them, Sirius’s mind wouldn’t shut up. Barty’s hand wasn’t on his thigh, and he missed it. Missed the green streak in his hair. Missed him, even with him right there. And that fifth-year’s hickey burned, a reminder Sirius wasn’t the only one in Barty’s chaos. He wasn’t jealous—not really—but he was something, and it scared him.
Chapter Text
Sirius was fucking proud of himself for not asking James or Regulus about the full moon. Remus wasn’t in the Great Hall for breakfast, as usual after a transformation, and Sirius had sworn he didn’t give a fuck. His eyes scanned the room anyway, landing on Elliot for a second. The Ravenclaw smiled softly, and Sirius grinned back, genuinely relieved the cute boy didn’t hate him after their ‘breakup.’
James squinted at him from across the table, a strip of bacon dangling from his fork. “You didn’t ended it?”
“We did,” Sirius shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Pookie asked if he did something wrong, though.”
Evan pouted, pointing a sausage-laden fork at Sirius. “Damn, he’s cute. Hope you didn’t ruin him, Black.”
“I didn’t,” Sirius laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Kept it chill.”
Barty tilted his head, his smirk sharp as ever. “What, kept your dick in your pants for once?” he mocked, popping his gum.
Sirius rolled his eyes, wondering how the hell nobody had clocked that he and Barty were secretly hooking up. Merlin, they were getting more obvious by the day—sniping at each other with that flirty edge, the stolen glances, the way Barty’s knee brushed his under the table.
“I did, prick,” Sirius shot back, refilling his coffee to hide his grin. “He’s, like, pure. Better not ruin him with Black’s spunk.”
Regulus gagged, nearly choking on his toast. “God, Sirius.”
James cackled, loud and bright as always, his glasses slipping down his nose, but Barty’s face stayed unreadable, that smug mask locked in place. Damn, the git was good at this—playing it cool, like he hadn’t been moaning Sirius’s name in the Room of Requirement last night. Absolute prick.
Evan sighed as the bell echoed through the hall, signaling the end of breakfast. “Let’s go for Potions. If we’re late, Slug’ll pull some shit on that quiz.”
Sirius groaned, loud and dramatic, his head thudding against the table. He’d been so tangled up in Barty yesterday—literally, mentally, and, okay, maybe a tiny bit emotionally—that he’d completely forgotten to study. The Potions quiz was today, and he hadn’t cracked a book in weeks.
“Sirius, no,” Regulus glared, already gathering his things, his notes neatly stacked.
“I planned to study!” Sirius protested, lifting his head, but Regulus’s glare didn’t budge.
“Sirius,” Regulus said, voice flat, like he was scolding a toddler.
“Oh my God, Slug’ll give me detention if I hand in blank parchment again,” Sirius muttered, rolling his eyes as they strolled toward the dungeons, his boots scuffing the stone floor.
“God, you’re pathetic, Black,” Barty snorted, sauntering beside him.
Sirius shoved him against the corridor wall with all the dignity he had left—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t much, considering he lost most of it in the Room of Requirement nightly. Barty just laughed, shoving back, and they stumbled into the dungeon classroom, still sniping at each other, the rest trailing behind, shaking their heads.
The Potions classroom was its usual damp, gloomy self, cauldrons bubbling in the corner, the air thick with the smell of herbs and sulfur. Everyone was already seated, looking annoyingly prepared for Slughorn’s quiz, and Sirius rolled his eyes again, slumping into his usual square table with Regulus, Barty, and Evan. James, across the room, sat with Lily and Mary, flashing Sirius a sympathetic grin as he adjusted his glasses. Traitor, abandoning him for the smart kids.
Slughorn waddled in, his walrus mustache twitching, and with a wave of his wand, conjured parchments with quiz questions in front of each student. Regulus started scribbling the second his eyes hit the paper, his quill flying, the overachiever. Sirius glanced at the questions—something about Veritaserum properties and Wolfsbane brewing—and gave up immediately. He was fucked. He should’ve started studying again if he wanted to pass his NEWTs. For years, Remus had been the one dragging him to the library, making flashcards, quizzing him until he got it.
Now… nope, not going there. Remus wasn’t his tutor anymore, or anything else.
Minutes ticked by, the dungeon silent except for the scratch of quills and the occasional bubble from a cauldron. Barty, beside him, was writing with his usual calm cockiness, his answers neat but quick, like he’d memorized the textbook for fun. Sirius doodled a Snitch on his blank parchment, resigned to another detention, when Barty nudged his knee under the table. Sirius looked up, ready to glare—because, seriously, was Barty about to mock him now? —but Barty’s face was neutral, his eyes flicking to the parchment.
Then, smooth as hell, Barty slid his completed quiz to Sirius and, with a subtle wand flick under the table, swapped it with Sirius’s blank one. Sirius’s eyebrows shot up, but he glanced down at the parchment now in front of him. Every answer was written in Sirius’s handwriting, his name scrawled at the top in his own loopy script. Across the table, Barty was already writing new answers on Sirius’s old parchment, now signed as B. Crouch in Barty’s sharp, slanted hand.
Holy fucking shit. What the hell just happened?
Sirius stared at Barty, his mouth twitching into a grin, but Barty didn’t look up, just kept writing, his knee brushing Sirius’s again, like it was no big deal. Sirius glanced at Regulus and Evan, both too focused to notice, and then back at the parchment. The answers were solid—detailed, precise, the kind of shit Slughorn ate up. Barty had not only aced the quiz but somehow charmed it to look like Sirius’s work, down to the way he dotted his i’s. The git was a fucking genius, and Sirius was torn between hexing him for being so smug and kissing him for saving his arse.
He scribbled a quick cheers, prick on a scrap of parchment and slid it to Barty, who smirked without looking, pocketing it like it was nothing. Sirius leaned back, pretending to check his “work,” but his mind was racing. Why the hell had Barty done that? To flex? To mess with him? Or… something else? The knee nudge, the casual smirk, that damn hickey still on Barty’s neck—it was all too much, and Sirius’s brain was short-circuiting.
Slughorn collected the parchments, humming approvingly, and Sirius managed not to grin too obviously when the professor gave his a nod. “Well done, Mr. Black,” Slughorn said, and Sirius just shrugged, all cool, while Regulus shot him a suspicious look.
“How’d you pull that off?” Regulus muttered as they packed up.
“Natural talent,” Sirius said, winking, and Regulus rolled his eyes, not buying it but letting it go. Barty, meanwhile, was already sauntering out, Evan at his side, complaining about a question on antidotes. Sirius caught up, falling into step beside Barty, his shoulder brushing his.
“Gonna explain that little stunt, Crouch?” Sirius asked, keeping his voice low, teasing.
Barty smirked, popping his gum. “What, saving your sorry arse? Just felt like charity, princess.”
“Charity, my arse,” Sirius snorted, shoving him lightly. “You’re just showing off.”
“Always,” Barty said, his eyes glinting, and Sirius laughed, but that knee nudge lingered in his head, warm and confusing.
He headed to Transfiguration next, Barty’s hickey mocking him, and Sirius tried to focus on McGonagall’s lecture about human Transfiguration, but his mind was elsewhere. Barty’s stunt, that fifth-year git, the way Barty’s hand had been on his thigh last night but not during American Horror Story —it was all piling up.
Lunch brought more chaos—James ranting about Quidditch, Evan and Regulus arguing over who’d win in a duel, Barty mocking Sirius’s coffee addiction. Sirius kept stealing glances at Barty, trying to read him, but the git was a locked vault, all smirks and snark. Sirius texted him later: room, tonight? and got a quick bet, princess. Smirking, he pocketed his phone, ignoring the hickey, the fifth-year, the weird twist in his chest. He wasn’t falling for Barty. This was casual—sex, Molly, and now, apparently, quiz-saving stunts. But as he headed to the Room later, neon lights and Chase Atlantic waiting, Sirius couldn’t shake the feeling that Barty was under his skin, and he wasn’t sure he wanted him out.
The second Sirius stepped into the Room of Requirement, the door vanishing behind him, Barty was already there, sprawled on the massive bed, neon red LEDs casting a glow over his still-uniformed form. For once, the git wasn’t chewing gum, his leather jacket tossed aside, tie loose, shirt half-unbuttoned, looking like trouble incarnate. Sirius, in low-slung pajama pants and one of Regulus’s oversized hoodies, sauntered over and straddled him in one smooth motion, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Barty’s hips.
“Thanks,” Sirius said, looking down at him, his voice steady. Because he was grateful for the Potions quiz save, and man enough to admit it.
“Don’t make it a habit, princess,” Barty smirked, his hands sliding under Sirius’s hoodie, fingers grazing the bare skin of his waist, cool and possessive.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, pausing. He’d expected some crude quip like, “You can thank me with a blowjob” or “On your knees, Black.” But Barty’s reply was… weirdly human, at least for him, and it threw Sirius off. No sex joke? No filthy innuendo?
Or… was Barty just not in the mood because he’d already fucked that fifth-year git with the hickey obsession? The thought alone made Sirius’s blood boil, for absolutely no rational reason, and he hated how much it nagged at him.
“Wait—we gonna fuck, right?” Sirius asked, the words spilling out a bit dumbly, his hands braced on Barty’s chest.
Barty laughed, rough and loud, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement. “Hell yeah,” he said, and yanked Sirius down by his curls, crashing their lips together in a kiss that was all heat and edge, Barty’s piercing cool against Sirius’s tongue.
Thank fucking God.
Sirius melted into it, his body responding on instinct, hips grinding down as Barty’s hands roamed under the hoodie, tracing the lines of his ribs, thumbs brushing his nipple piercing and drawing a sharp gasp. The kiss was filthy—teeth clashing, tongues fighting, Barty biting Sirius’s lip just hard enough to sting, and Sirius retaliated, tugging Barty’s hair until he growled. The neon lights pulsed, Chase Atlantic’s slow, bass-heavy beat filling the Room, and Sirius was already hard, the friction of his pajama pants against Barty’s uniform trousers driving him wild.
“Fuck, you’re needy,” Barty muttered against his lips, smirking, but his voice was rough, his hands gripping Sirius’s arse to pull him closer, grinding up to meet him.
“Pot, kettle,” Sirius shot back, nipping Barty’s jaw, then his throat, sucking a mark just below his collarbone—deliberately avoiding that fifth-year’s hickey territory. No way was he touching that side of Barty’s neck. He shoved the thought down, focusing on the way Barty’s hands slid to his waistband, tugging the pajama pants down just enough to palm his arse, fingers digging in.
“Off,” Barty growled, yanking the hoodie over Sirius’s head and tossing it across the Room, leaving Sirius bare-chested, his nipple piercing glinting under the LEDs. Barty’s eyes darkened, and he leaned up, capturing the piercing between his teeth, tugging lightly, his tongue flicking over it. Sirius hissed, his head tipping back, hands fisting in Barty’s shirt as sparks shot through him.
“Fuck, Crouch,” Sirius panted, grinding harder, and Barty laughed, low and wicked, before flipping them in one swift move, pinning Sirius to the mattress, his wrists trapped above his head. Barty’s tie dangled, brushing Sirius’s chest, and Sirius smirked, wrapping his legs around Barty’s waist, pulling him down.
“Eager, princess?” Barty teased, grinding against him, the rough fabric of his trousers against Sirius’s bare thighs maddening. He released Sirius’s wrists, hands roaming to shove the pajama pants off completely, leaving Sirius naked, sprawled, and unashamed, his cock hard against his stomach.
“Shut up and fuck me,” Sirius said, smirking, and Barty didn’t need telling twice.
He shed his shirt and trousers in record time, his tattoo curling over his chest, another hickey— fucking hell —on his hip, but Sirius ignored it, pulling Barty down for another bruising kiss. Barty’s hands were everywhere—gripping Sirius’s thighs, tracing his scars, teasing his cock with a quick stroke that made Sirius curse and buck up.
“Patience,” Barty mocked, but his own cock was straining, and Sirius grinned, knowing he wasn’t the only one desperate. Barty summoned lube with a wandless charm—show-off—and slicked his fingers, circling Sirius’s hole before pushing one in, slow and deliberate, watching Sirius’s face with that infuriating smirk.
“Fuck—move,” Sirius growled, pushing back, and Barty obliged, adding a second finger, stretching him with a twist that made Sirius moan, his hands clawing at Barty’s back, leaving red lines. Barty’s piercing glinted as he leaned down, sucking another mark on Sirius’s collarbone, his fingers relentless, curling just right to hit that spot that made Sirius see stars.
“Ready, princess?” Barty asked, voice rough, pulling his fingers out and slicking his cock, his eyes locked on Sirius’s.
“Been ready,” Sirius shot back, smirking, and Barty laughed, lining up and pushing in, slow at first, the stretch burning just right. Sirius groaned, legs hooking over Barty’s shoulders, pulling him deeper, and Barty cursed, his hands gripping Sirius’s hips as he bottomed out.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Barty muttered, and Sirius grinned, clenching around him just to hear that growl again. Barty started moving, hard and fast, the bed creaking, the neon lights flashing in time with the music, and Sirius was lost in it—the slap of skin, Barty’s hands bruising his hips, the way his cock hit that spot with every thrust. Sirius’s moans were loud, shameless, and Barty’s smirks turned to gasps, his control slipping.
“Harder,” Sirius demanded, and Barty flipped him onto his stomach, yanking his hips up and slamming back in, the new angle making Sirius scream into the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets. Barty’s hand slid up his spine, gripping his hair, pulling his head back to kiss him, messy and desperate, their tongues tangling as Barty fucked him into the mattress.
“Fuck, Sirius,” Barty groaned, his voice wrecked, and hearing his name—not princess , not Black —sent a jolt through Sirius, his cock leaking onto the sheets. Barty’s hand found it, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Sirius was close, so fucking close, his body trembling.
“Gonna—fuck,” Sirius gasped, and Barty bit his shoulder, growling, “Come for me,” and that was it. Sirius came hard, shouting Barty’s name, his vision whiting out, cum spilling over Barty’s hand and the sheets. Barty followed, thrusting deep, groaning as he came, his grip on Sirius’s hips bruising.
They collapsed, panting, a sweaty tangle of limbs, the Room’s music slowing to a low hum. Barty pulled out, flopping beside Sirius, and Sirius rolled onto his back, chest heaving, a grin spreading despite the ache in his body. “Not bad, Crouch,” he panted, stealing a cigarette from Barty’s discarded jacket and lighting it with a charm.
“High praise,” Barty smirked, stealing it for a drag, his hand brushing Sirius’s thigh, casual but warm. Sirius’s eyes flicked to that hickey on Barty’s hip, and his grin faltered, but he shoved it down, focusing on the afterglow, the smoke curling between them.
“Round two?” Sirius asked, smirking, already half-hard again, because fuck it, he wasn’t done.
Barty laughed, rough and wicked, pulling Sirius on top of him. “Greedy, princess,” he said, but his hands were already roaming, and Sirius kissed him, hard and filthy, ready to lose himself in the chaos again. They went for round two—Sirius riding Barty, slow and teasing, then Barty bending him over the bed, fucking him until they were both screaming, the Room shaking with their noise. By round three, they were on the floor, Sirius’s back against the rug, Barty’s hands pinning his wrists, the sex slower but no less intense, their gasps mixing with the music.
Hours later, they were sprawled across the bed again, sheets tangled, bodies sore, the neon lights dimmed to a soft purple. Sirius stole Barty’s water bottle, chugging it, and Barty smirked, lighting another cigarette. “You’re gonna kill me, Black,” he said, but his voice was soft, almost fond, and Sirius’s heart did that stupid twist again.
“Worth it,” Sirius grinned, stealing a drag, his mind quieter now, the hickey nagging but distant.
He wasn’t jealous—just curious, remember? But as Barty’s hand rested on his thigh, Sirius leaned into it, missing it when it wasn’t there.
“Crashing here?” Barty asked, his voice low, exhaling smoke.
“Maybe,” Sirius said, smirking. “You gonna cuddle this time, Crouch?”
“Fuck no,” Barty laughed, but he didn’t move away, his shoulder warm against Sirius’s. They stayed like that, trading smoke and silence, the Room’s magic wrapping them in a haze. Sirius’s mind was still a mess—Barty’s hickeys, that fifth-year git, the way Barty had saved him today.
Sirius decided to give James the Map back. Because, damn, Barty was right— and Sirius hated how often the git was right —when he called him pathetic for stalking Remus like some lovesick Hufflepuff. He was a Black, for fuck’s sake, not a simpering fool chasing ghosts.
Besides, his mind was plenty occupied with Barty and who needed to check on an ex when you had someone dragging you into empty classrooms just to drop to their knees and blow you?
So, the rest of November blurred by like that—Sirius healing from the heartbreak day by day, he and Barty hooking up like they were addicted (Sirius totally was, no shame), and Barty still shagging that fifth-year git, those fucking hickeys on his neck or hips a constant jab.
But now, there was a new twist: Sirius and Barty were hanging out beyond just fucking. Mostly because Regulus had threatened to disown him as a brother if he didn’t pull his shit together and start studying for NEWTs. It was an empty threat—Regulus was too soft for that—but fair enough. Sirius cracked open his books.
With Barty, of all people.
Regulus was on the Quidditch pitch most days, training for Slytherin’s January match against Hufflepuff, his broom a streak of green against the grey sky. Evan and James, meanwhile, were practically glued at the hip, binge-watching Muggle rom-coms and cackling over TikToks in the common room. Their bromance was something Sirius never saw coming, but it was pure gold—James doing dramatic reenactments of 10 Things I Hate About You while Evan filmed, both of them losing it when James tripped over a couch. Sirius caught them once making friendship bracelets, and he’d never let James live it down.
Sirius and Barty, when they weren’t tangled in the Room of Requirement’s neon-lit bed, were studying. Sometimes in the library, dodging Madam Pince’s glares, but mostly in Regulus’s Slytherin dorm, where Sirius had basically moved permanently.
No way was he sleeping in Gryffindor Tower, risking Remus’s face every morning.
Barty, the nerdy git, was weirdly perfect for study sessions. He didn’t mind explaining shit Sirius had forgotten—like the difference between Draught of Peace and Calming Draught—and, get this, once even tossed him a compliment, or something remotely close to that.
“‘S funny, though,” Barty said, tilting his head at Sirius as they sat cross-legged on Sirius’s bed, Potions notes scattered between them. “You’re actually smart. Just lazy as hell.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, flipping through his textbook. “Yeah, well, spent years slacking off to piss off my parents. Not my fault I forgot how to brew basic potions.”
Barty snorted, popping his gum. “God, Black.”
They got back to studying, but Sirius’s mind kept snagging on that moment—Barty using his name, Sirius , that one time in the Room, all rough and raw during sex. He hadn’t repeated it, sticking to princess or Black, his own brand of insult, and Sirius wasn’t sure why it bugged him. The compliment, the name, Barty’s knee brushing his as they studied—it was all too… human, and it fucked with his head.
A few days into December, a glittering announcement appeared on the corkboards in every common room: 2024 Yule Ball, December 20th. The Great Hall buzzed with chatter, girls giggling over dresses, blokes arguing about who’d snag the best date.
“I need to find a date,” Evan declared over breakfast, stabbing his eggs like they’d offended him. “You think I can ask our Harper?” he asked Sirius, leaning forward.
“Like, the guy I was snogging?” Sirius asked, just to be sure he hadn’t misheard, pouring himself more coffee.
“Yes,” Evan said, dead serious.
Sirius smirked, leaning back. “Well, Rosier, if you wanna think about me every time you kiss him, then sure.”
Evan made a face, grimacing. “Fair enough, I’ll pass. Maybe he has an older brother or something,” he hummed, his eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table like a man possessed, fork still in hand.
“He has,” Barty said, munching on his plain toast, casual as ever. “Dude graduated last year.”
“Fuck my life,” Evan groaned, letting his head hit the table with a dramatic thud, his fork clattering. James cackled, Regulus rolled his eyes, and Sirius laughed, stealing a strip of bacon from Evan’s plate.
Sirius, honestly, couldn’t care less about finding a date for the Yule Ball. His plan was simple: get drunk, preferably high, and dress to kill—ideally frying Remus’s sanity in the process, and maybe Barty’s too, just for kicks. But, oh, apparently every girl from sixteen to eighteen, and way too many blokes, had other ideas. By lunch, he’d been asked out five times—three Hufflepuff girls, a Ravenclaw sixth-year, and a Slytherin bloke who’d blushed so hard he nearly passed out. Sirius grinned at each one, all charm, with a “Thanks, but no, sweetheart,” and moved on. He wasn’t in the mood for that shit. Dates meant expectations, and Sirius was too busy drowning in Barty’s chaos to deal.
By dinner, the tally was up to ten, including a bold Gryffindor fourth-year who’d slipped him a note charmed to sing his name. Sirius sent it back with a polite Nice try, kid, and Regulus snorted, muttering, “Slut.” Sirius just winked, unbothered, but his eyes kept drifting to Barty, who was arguing with Evan about whether Firewhisky or Ogden’s Old was better for shots. Barty hadn’t mentioned the ball, hadn’t asked anyone as far as Sirius knew, and that hickey on his neck—fresh again—made Sirius’s jaw tighten. Was he taking the fifth-year git? The thought made his coffee taste sour, but he shoved it down, focusing on James’s rant about dress robes.
“You going solo, Padfoot?” James asked, shoving a roll in his mouth. “Or you dragging someone to make Moony jealous?”
“Fuck off, Prongs,” Sirius said, but he laughed, tossing a pea at him. “Solo’s my vibe. Less drama.”
“Since when do you avoid drama?” Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow, his fork paused mid-air.
“Since I’m too busy studying, Reggie,” Sirius said, smirking, and Regulus scoffed, not buying it. Barty glanced at him, his smirk unreadable, and Sirius’s heart did that stupid flip. He wasn’t jealous of the fifth-year, wasn’t falling for Barty, just… oh, fuck, whatever.
The next day, study sessions with Barty got weirder. They were back in Regulus’s dorm, sprawled on Sirius’s bed, Charms notes everywhere, when Barty leaned over, explaining Flitwick’s wand movement for a tricky shield charm. His hand brushed Sirius’s, lingering a second too long, and Sirius froze, his brain glitching. Barty didn’t pull back, just kept talking, his voice low, and Sirius nodded, pretending he was listening, but all he could think was fucking hickey, fucking fifth-year, fucking Barty.
“Oi, princess, you with me?” Barty asked, snapping his fingers, smirking.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius muttered, grabbing his quill, ignoring the heat in his face. “Just… tired.”
“From all those ball proposals?” Barty teased, popping his gum, and Sirius shoved him, laughing to cover the way his chest tightened.
They got back to studying, but Sirius’s mind was split—Barty’s laugh, his hand, that one time he’d said Sirius instead of princess. He wasn’t catching feelings. No way. This was casual—sex, studying, snark. But when Barty left, muttering about a “thing” (probably the fifth-year, fuck), Sirius flopped back, staring at the dorm’s ceiling, his heart racing.
A few days after the Yule Ball announcement, and after far too many invitations—even for Sirius’s ego—something weird went down at breakfast. The five of them were camped out at the Slytherin table, Sirius sipping his coffee, trying to drown out the chaos of his own head. Evan was whining to James about his dateless dilemma, throwing out names like a desperate first-year, while Regulus and Barty were deep in Quidditch talk—Regulus planning to, “Just catch the Snitch in the first five minutes, duh,” like it was the easiest thing in the world (for him it was, since Regulus was a fucking fire on the pitch, though). Sirius half-listened, his eyes flicking to Barty’s neck, checking for new hickeys like a paranoid git.
Then, out of nowhere, the Great Hall went dead silent.
Some bloke from Slytherin—Sirius guessed, because he didn’t know the guy, but he had that nasty snake vibe—strolled in, all swagger, like he owned the place. Every head turned, forks froze mid-air, and the usual chatter stopped cold. Sirius blinked, his coffee halfway to his lips.
What the hell?
“Geez, I thought he transferred to Durmstrang,” Evan gasped under his breath, leaning forward, eyes wide.
“He should, fuckin’ straggot,” James muttered, stabbing his sausages with enough force to make the plate rattle.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, setting his mug down. “Who the fuck is he, even?”
Regulus rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with disgust. “Snyde. Sixth year. Vanished sometime in November, like a month ago or something.”
Evan nodded, all solemn, like he was delivering a eulogy. “We thought he got expelled for something nasty, but Slughorn didn’t spill. Figured he transferred or got dragged off to Azkaban, but… here he is.”
Sirius hummed, his gaze sliding back to the guy—Snyde—as the chatter in the hall picked up again, louder now, buzzing with speculation. The bloke was tall, wiry, with greasy dark hair and a smirk that screamed trouble. He slunk to the Slytherin table, a few seats down, and started piling food on his plate like nothing had happened. What was the deal? Sirius’s curiosity itched, but he played it cool, leaning back in his chair.
He glanced at Barty, who was sipping his black coffee, composed as ever, his face giving nothing away. Typical. Sirius nudged him under the table with his knee. “Cig?” he asked, already standing.
Barty nodded, setting his mug down, and the two of them slipped out to the snowy courtyard, leaving the Great Hall’s buzz behind. They headed to their usual bench, tucked behind a stone gargoyle, hidden from Filch’s prowling or any nosy prefects. Sirius flicked his wand, clearing the snow with a quick Scourgify and casting a Warming Charm to keep his arse from freezing off—because, yeah, it was too precious for that. They sat, lighting cigarettes, the smoke curling in the crisp air, the castle’s towers looming above, dusted white against the grey sky.
“So, what’s the deal with that Slytherin guy?” Sirius asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing at Barty.
Barty shrugged, crossing his legs, all casual in his leather jacket. “How’m I supposed to know?”
“You know everything, you prick,” Sirius said, squinting, leaning closer. “Come on, spill.”
Barty smirked, that infuriating, keep-you-hanging grin, and took a slow drag, letting Sirius stew in his curiosity. “Fine, I know,” he said, pausing just to be a dick.
Sirius groaned, shoving his shoulder. “So? What is it?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, princess?” Barty teased, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement under the weak winter sun.
“God, you’re useless,” Sirius snapped, but he was grinning, shoving Barty again, harder this time. Barty laughed, rough and bright, pulling away so their shoulders didn’t touch anymore, leaving a cold gap between them.
Jesus, that stung more than it should’ve, and Sirius blamed the wind for the heat creeping up his face.
“Chill, Black,” Barty said, still chuckling, flicking ash into the snow.
Sirius rolled his eyes, taking a drag, but his mind snagged on something else—James’s venom earlier, that word he’d spit out.
“Well, that’s just shady,” he shrugged, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I mean—did Prongs do that?” James’s “fuckin’ straggot” echoed in his head, sharp and familiar. Hadn’t he used the same word when Smith showed up with his nose smashed?
“Eh?” Barty raised an eyebrow, his cigarette paused mid-air.
“I mean,” Sirius said, slower, licking his lips, the pieces clicking. “Remember when someone beat Smith’s arse? Broke his nose, made it unhealable?”
Barty nodded, his face neutral, but his eyes flickered.
“Prongs said ‘fucking straggot’ then, too, and something about wishing he’d done it,” Sirius said, taking a drag, his voice casual but his brain racing. “He used the same word today for Snyde. Just… dunno. Maybe he kicked Snyde’s arse so hard the git spent a month in St. Mungo’s? Like in third year, when that prat from Hufflepuff called him a Paki and James sent him to the Hospital Wing for a week?”
Barty was chewing his cheek—miraculously not his gum—like he was biting back words, his jaw tight. It was a tell, one Sirius had clocked during their study sessions, when Barty was holding something back, but hadn’t gum to distract himself.
“Crouch,” Sirius said, turning to face him fully, his cigarette forgotten. “Spill.”
“No,” Barty said, flat.
“Come on,” Sirius pressed, leaning closer.
“No.”
“Crouch!”
“Black,” Barty snapped back, mimicking his tone, but his eyes were serious, a rare edge to them.
“Just fucking tell me,” Sirius whined—actually whined, helpless, his voice pitching up like a kid begging for sweets.
He was ready to bribe Barty with something ridiculous, like “I’ll let you do anything in bed” —as if he wasn’t already letting Barty do whatever the hell he wanted, but you get the point.
Barty pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering curses under his breath, looking like he was wrestling with himself. Then, finally, he sighed. “It wasn’t Potter.”
Sirius perked up, his eyes widening. “Then who?”
“Me,” Barty said, voice low, almost reluctant.
“YOU?!” Sirius blurted, loud enough that a couple of second-years nearby turned their heads.
“Shut up,” Barty snapped, glaring, his voice sharp as he flicked his cigarette away, the butt hissing in the snow. “Keep your voice down, Black.”
Sirius stared at him, baffled, his mouth half-open. “You? Why?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Barty said, his tone clipped, shutting down.
“But—”
“Black,” Barty cut him off, serious now, his mismatched eyes hard, and fuck, it was kind of terrifying—and, well, hot, if Sirius was honest. “I said something. Drop it.”
Sirius glared, his jaw tight, but he let it go. Barty’s serious face was rare, and it hit like a hex—unnerving, but enough to make Sirius back off. For now.
“Fine,” he sighed, leaning back on the bench, exhaling smoke. “But you’ll tell me? Like, someday?”
Barty glanced at him, his smirk creeping back, softer now. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Someday.”
They finished their cigarettes in silence, the courtyard’s chill seeping in despite the Warming Charm. Sirius’s mind was a whirlwind, replaying the conversation over and over. Barty had beaten up both Smith and Snyde? Why? Was he bored? Just felt like it? Or was there something deeper, some reason he was guarding like a dragon with gold? Fuck, Sirius was dying to know, and Barty’s cryptic bullshit only made it worse.
They headed back inside, the castle’s warmth hitting like a wave, and rejoined the others for Transfiguration. McGonagall was lecturing about Animagus ethics—ironic, given Sirius’s dog days—but Sirius barely heard her, his eyes flicking to Barty, who was doodling a snake on his parchment, all calm and smug. That serious look from the courtyard lingered in Sirius’s head, mixing with the hickey on Barty’s neck, the fifth-year git, the Yule Ball chaos. Why had Barty gone after Smith and Snyde? Was it random, or personal? And why wouldn’t he spill?
By lunch, Snyde was already stirring shit, leaning too close to a Ravenclaw girl who looked uncomfortable, his smirk oozing sleaze. James was glaring from the table, muttering to Regulus, while Evan was back to his date hunt, now pitching terrible pickup lines to a Hufflepuff seventh-year. Sirius caught Barty’s eye across the table, and Barty winked, popping his gum like nothing had happened. Sirius flipped him off, grinning, but his curiosity was a fire he couldn’t put out.
That night, they hooked up in the Room of Requirement—neon green LEDs, Chase Atlantic’s bass thumping, Barty pinning Sirius to the wall, their kisses bruising, desperate. Sirius clawed at Barty’s back, leaving marks to rival that fifth-year’s hickeys, and Barty fucked him into the mattress, rough and relentless, both of them shouting.
Afterward, sprawled and panting, Sirius stole Barty’s cigarette, smirking. “So, you gonna beat up Snyde again if he keeps being a prick?” he asked, testing the waters.
Barty snorted, stealing the cigarette back. “Maybe, princess. Depends if he pisses me off.” His hand rested on Sirius’s thigh, warm and grounding, but his eyes were guarded, that serious edge flickering again.
Sirius didn’t push, just leaned into the touch, exhaling smoke. “You’re a fucking mystery, Crouch,” he muttered, half-laughing.
“Keeps you coming back,” Barty smirked, and Sirius shoved him, laughing, but it was true. Barty’s secrets, his chaos, his hand on Sirius’s thigh—it was all under his skin, and Sirius wasn’t sure he wanted it out.
Chapter Text
On some random Wednesday, Sirius was holed up in the library with Barty, Evan, Regulus, James, Pandora, and Dorcas, supposedly prepping for yet another Potions quiz—seriously, why did Slughorn have such a hard-on for these things? Sirius had given up pretending to study about half an hour ago, his textbook open but ignored, doodling Snitches and curse words in the margins. He was halfway through a particularly creative hex when Pandora, sitting across from him with her wild blonde hair spilling over her notes, leaned forward, her silver rings glinting.
“Want a tarot reading, Sirius?” she asked, her voice all dreamy, like she was about to summon a fucking Patronus.
“Hell yeah,” Sirius said, dead serious, tossing his quill down and leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Regulus muttered, not looking up from his textbook, his quill scratching away like the overachiever he was.
But Pandora grinned, her eyes sparkling, and pulled a deck of tarot cards from her tote bag, the edges worn and gilded. Evan and Dorcas immediately leaned closer, their own notes forgotten, while Barty rolled his eyes and buried his head back in his Potions book, all smug and nerdy. James, pretending to study, was clearly eavesdropping, his quill hovering over his parchment, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Alright,” Pandora said, her voice soft but commanding, shuffling the cards with a practiced flick. She spread them out in a neat arc, the library’s dim light catching the intricate designs. “Let’s see what the universe has for you, Sirius.” She pulled the first card, placing it face-up. “This one says your first love has already happened.”
“Fuck me,” Sirius groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically and slumping further in his chair, his boots scuffing the floor.
First love? Yeah, Remus, and that ship had crashed and burned spectacularly.
James snickered, the traitor, hiding it behind a fake cough. Regulus shot him a glare, but Pandora just smiled, all sympathetic, and pulled another card. “This one says you’ll be successful if you follow someone’s will.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Better be Uncle Alphard leaving me his record shop and not my parents wanting me to be… whatever the hell they want. A Dark Lord? A lawyer? Fuck that.”
Evan snorted, and Dorcas grinned, twirling her quill. Pandora nodded, undeterred, and pulled another card, her fingers lingering on it. “This one’s about people in your life who failed you. They regret it, but they’re too proud to admit it.”
“Obviously,” Sirius said, flipping his hair with a cocky grin, making Evan giggle and Regulus mutter something about “arrogant prat” under his breath.
“Aaaand,” Pandora said, drawing out the moment as she pulled the final card, her eyes glinting with mischief. “This one says your soulmate is an earth sign.”
Sirius blinked, his grin faltering. “What?”
Pandora shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Remus is a water sign, right?”
“Yeah, Pisces,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes, trying to play it cool despite the weird twist in his chest at Remus’s name.
Pandora nodded, like it all made perfect sense. “Tracks. You’re a water sign too, Scorpio—”
“Red flag,” Dorcas interjected, smirking, and Sirius flipped her off, grinning despite himself.
“—and an earth sign is actually a match for you,” Pandora continued, ignoring the interruption. “I’m guessing Capricorn, personally.”
“Who the fuck is a Capricorn?” Sirius asked, genuinely confused, his brow furrowing.
“Crouch,” Evan said, smug as hell, leaning back in his chair with a shit-eating grin.
Barty’s head snapped up from his book, his quill freezing mid-sentence. “Keep me away from that shit,” he said, flat, his voice cutting through the giggles at the table.
“God, imagine,” James cackled, loud enough that Madam Pince shot a death glare from her desk, her lips pursed like she’d sucked a lemon. “The two of them together,” he said, gesturing wildly between Sirius and Barty, his glasses slipping down his nose.
Sirius’s heart did an annoying, traitorous flip, and he prayed his face didn’t betray him. Thank fucking Merlin nobody knew he and Barty were hooking up, because that would’ve been a disaster. Jesus, the idea of them as soulmates? Ridiculous. Hot, maybe, in a chaotic, burn-the-castle-down way, but… no. Just no.
“Can you fuckers,” Regulus hissed, leaning forward, his grey eyes blazing, “shut the fuck up finally?” He looked ready to hex the lot of them, his quill practically vibrating with irritation.
Pandora rolled her eyes, tossing her tarot cards back into her tote bag with a dramatic flourish, but she was smiling. Reluctantly, the group settled down—Evan and Dorcas flipping through their notes, James pretending to read, Regulus scribbling furiously, Barty back to his book, all calm and smug. Sirius, though, just sat there, his quill idle, staring at the table, his mind a fucking mess. What the hell just happened? Soulmate? Earth sign? Barty? Pandora’s dreamy voice echoed in his head, and he couldn’t shake it.
He glanced at Barty, who was underlining something in his notes, his brown hair falling into his eyes, no gum for once, just focused. That hickey on his neck—faint now, but still there—mocked Sirius, and he gritted his teeth. Soulmate, his arse. Barty was a storm, not a forever thing, and Sirius wasn’t some sap chasing destiny.
But the way Evan had said Crouch, all smug, and James’s cackle—it hit too close. Sirius wasn’t catching feelings. He was just… addicted to the sex, maybe. Definitely not in love or whatever Pandora’s cards were implying.
“Oi, Black,” Barty said, not looking up, his voice low. “Stop staring or Pince’ll think you’re plotting to burn the place down.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius muttered, but he grinned, grabbing his quill and doodling again to cover the heat in his face. He tried to focus on the Potions quiz—something about Amortentia’s effects—but his mind kept drifting. Pandora’s cards, Barty’s smirk, that one time Barty had said Sirius. It was all too much, and he hated how it stuck.
The study session dragged on, Madam Pince circling like a vulture, her glares keeping their chatter to whispers. Evan and Dorcas started quizzing each other, Regulus was practically writing an essay, and James was charming his quill to dance when he thought no one was looking. Sirius caught Barty’s eye once, and Barty winked, popping a fresh piece of gum—where did he even get it?—and Sirius flipped him off, his heart doing that stupid flip again.
Fuck’s sake, he needed to get a grip.
After the library, they split up—Regulus and James heading to the pitch to fly a little, Evan and Dorcas off to the common room to “study” (probably to gossip), Pandora muttering about Divination homework. Sirius and Barty ended up in Regulus’s dorm, their usual study spot, sprawled on Sirius’s bed with Charms notes. Barty was explaining a Levitation Charm variant, his hands gesturing, and Sirius was half-listening, distracted by the way Barty’s fingers brushed his when he passed the textbook.
“You good, princess?” Barty asked, smirking, catching Sirius staring.
“Yeah, just… tarot bullshit,” Sirius lied, shrugging, grabbing his quill. “Pandora’s lost it.”
Barty snorted, leaning back on his elbows. “She’s always on some mystic crap. Soulmate, my arse. You buying that?”
“Nah,” Sirius said, too quick, his voice light but his chest tight. “Just funny, y’know? You as my soulmate? We’d kill each other.”
“Or fuck each other to death,” Barty said, his smirk wicked, and Sirius laughed, shoving him, but his mind was screaming. They dropped the topic, getting back to Charms, but Pandora’s words lingered, mixing with Barty’s laugh, his hickey, the fifth-year git.
That night, they hooked up in the Room—neon blue LEDs, The Weeknd slow beat, Barty pinning Sirius to the bed, their sex filthy and loud, Sirius’s moans echoing.
Afterward, sprawled and panting, Sirius stole Barty’s cigarette, smirking. “No soulmate shit, right, Crouch?” he teased, testing.
Barty laughed, stealing it back. “Fuck that, princess. Just you, me, and this.” His hand rested on Sirius’s thigh, warm, and Sirius leaned into it, ignoring the hickey, the tarot, the weird ache in his chest.
Sirius could pretend all he wanted—and, God, he was trying so fucking hard —that he hadn’t caught feelings.
But he had, and it was unbearable, like a hex he couldn’t counter. Barty was a fucking crypt, his smirks and snark giving nothing away, and Sirius could never tell if he felt anything beyond lust and a shared joint. He blamed the weed, the Molly, the meth, the sex—hell, he blamed everything, because admitting he was falling for Barty Crouch Jr. was too much for his Gryffindor pride to handle.
God, he was desperate for a distraction, dreaming of some Ravenclaw rave to pull him out of his head, but Barty hadn’t thrown one since the Halloween party. When Sirius asked why, Barty just smirked that eat-shit grin and said, “NEWTs coming, princess. People need to study, not take drugs.”
Study, my arse.
What a fucking nightmare.
Still, he kept hooking up with Barty for weeks, the same raw, mind-blowing sex that left him wrecked and craving more. But as much as he loved the heat—the way Barty pinned him down, fucked him into the mattress, left bruises on his hips—Sirius was starting to want… something else. Maybe Barty kissing him just because, soft and slow, not as a prelude to getting in his pants. Or Barty playing with his hair instead of yanking it to make him moan. Some fucking warmth instead of just hotness. The thought alone made his chest ache, because he knew Barty saw him as an arse to fuck, a mate to smoke with, nothing more.
The Yule Ball was looming, and Sirius was a ball of nerves, his feelings for Barty twisting him up worse than any hangover. The night before, they were sprawled in the Room of Requirement, naked under the sheets, the neon purple LEDs casting a soft glow, American Horror Story playing on the TV. The air smelled of weed and sex, and Sirius, in a burst of sheer Gryffindor stupidity, decided to open his mouth .
“You taking your git to the Yule Ball?” he asked, passing the joint to Barty, keeping his voice casual, like his heart wasn’t pounding.
Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk sharp as ever. “Jealous?”
“Just askin’,” Sirius shrugged, staring at the TV to avoid those mismatched eyes.
“Mmm,” Barty hummed, the sound unfairly sexy, taking a drag. “I’m not.”
Sirius’s head snapped up. “Really?”
Barty shrugged, exhaling smoke in a lazy cloud. “I’d have to give him attention, and what’s the point when you’ll probably dress too hot and distract me all night?” His smirk turned wicked, his thumb brushing the scar on Sirius’s thigh.
Sirius laughed, half-relieved, half-high, his heart doing a stupid flip. “God, you’re such a slut,” he said, stealing the joint back, grinning to hide the warmth spreading through him.
“Makes two of us, princess,” Barty winked, his voice teasing, and they fell back into their easy rhythm—Barty’s thumb tracing lazy circles on Sirius’s skin, Sirius trapped in his own head, overthinking every word.
Barty wasn’t taking the fifth-year git. That was something, right? But the hickey on Barty’s neck mocked him, and Sirius’s relief was tinged with that nagging ache.
The Yule Ball was tomorrow, and after that, Sirius, Regulus, and James were heading to Godric’s Hollow for the Christmas break—or just a break, since the Potters were atheist, but whatever. A few weeks ago, the thought of a Remus-free Christmas would’ve made Sirius want to punch a wall, but now? Now he was dreading spending two weeks without Barty, and that stung way more than it should’ve. The idea of no smirks, no hookups, no Barty’s hand on his thigh—it was fucking with him, and he hated it.
“What you doing for Christmas?” Sirius asked, passing the joint back, keeping his tone light but his eyes on Barty’s profile, the TV’s glow flickering across his face.
Barty side-glanced at him, brief and guarded. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Sirius frowned, propping himself on an elbow.
“My parents are off to Hungary to visit my mum’s family,” Barty said, shrugging, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen.
“And you’re… not going?” Sirius pressed, his brow furrowing.
Barty just shook his head, his expression closed off, and Sirius’s stomach twisted. He didn’t push—Barty’s family shit was a minefield, and Sirius knew better than to poke—but the silence was heavy, the joint burning down between them.
Then, because the weed was making him stupidly brave (or just stupid), Sirius said, quiet and raw, “I’m gonna kinda miss your stupid face.”
He braced for the worst—Barty laughing in his face, being a mean git, pulling his hand off Sirius’s thigh, or straight-up telling him to fuck off.
Instead, Barty’s smirk softened, his eyes flicking to Sirius. “Kinda gonna miss your pretty face,” he said, voice low, almost gentle.
Sirius’s heart did a fucking cartwheel, but he played it cool, grinning. “Pretty, huh? High praise, Crouch.”
He expected Barty to laugh it off, to keep the vibe light, but Barty just hummed, his thumb still on Sirius’s scar, and they didn’t speak again. The moment hung there, fragile and weirdly warm, until Barty stubbed out the joint and rolled to the other side of the bed to sleep, leaving a cold gap between them. It stung way more than usual, that distance, and Sirius stared at the ceiling, the TV’s murmur fading, his mind a mess.
The next day, the Yule Ball was chaos—Hogwarts decked out in glittering snowflakes, the Great Hall transformed into a winter wonderland, students in dresses and suits tripping over themselves to impress their dates. Sirius went solo, as planned, in black suit with silver trim, his sheer shirt showing off his nipple piercing, his hair charmed to fall just right. He was there to get drunk, high, and fuck with everyone’s heads, especially Remus’s and maybe Barty’s. He spotted Remus early, dancing with some Hufflepuff girl, looking annoyingly good in a navy suit, but Sirius didn’t feel the usual pang—just a flicker of irritation.
Progress, maybe.
Barty, solo like Sirius, was leaning against a wall in the Great Hall, sipping Firewhisky, his all-black suit fitting him way too well, sharp and dangerous. Much to Sirius’s delight, he’d dyed a strand of his hair black—not the green Sirius missed, but it matched the outfit perfectly, sleek and rebellious. Sirius caught his eye, nodding approval, and Barty smirked, that slow, lethal grin that made Sirius’s heart do a traitorous flip. But before he could saunter over, Evan grabbed his arm, dragging him to the dancefloor, and the moment passed.
Sirius told himself he was having fun—and he was, a bit. Drinking, dancing, causing a scene in his sheer shirt and black suit, his nipple piercing glinting under the enchanted snowflakes. James and Regulus were disgustingly in love, twirling like idiots, Regulus stepping on James’s toes but both laughing. Remus was dancing with Lily now, looking annoyingly good, but Sirius barely felt a twinge—just a flicker of whatever. Evan was off in the courtyard with his mystery date, some guy he refused to name, because apparently everyone had secrets now. Sirius danced with random girls, random blokes, and even Elliot, who was sweet and single, spinning him with a grin.
“So you really didn’t bring anyone?” Elliot asked, baffled, his tie loose.
Sirius cackled, tossing his hair. “Yeah, cutie. Guess I’m too hot for the blokes here. No offense.”
Elliot rolled his eyes, no heat in it, and they fell into easy chatter—judging girls’ dresses, mocking a Hufflepuff’s tragic attempt at a bowtie, all light and irrelevant. Because, yeah, the days of stuffy dress robes were long gone, thank God—wizards in suits, witches in gowns, and Sirius in his sheer shirt were the vibe now.
But Barty kept his distance, talking with randoms across the hall, and Sirius was losing his fucking mind. Every time Barty leaned close to someone, laughing or smirking, Sirius’s brain screamed: Is that the fifth-year git? But it was impossible to tell, and the not-knowing was torture. By midnight, when the music slowed to sappy ballads and couples started swaying, Sirius felt like he was suffocating, the air too thick with glitter and feelings he couldn’t name. He made a beeline for Barty, who was still by the wall, Firewhisky in hand, looking bored but dangerous.
“Cig?” Sirius asked, voice casual but his heart pounding.
“Come on, Black,” Barty said, his smirk flickering, and they slipped out of the Great Hall’s sappy glow, heading to their hidden balcony on the second floor.
Snow was falling outside, the Black Lake frozen under the stars, the moon nearly full—tomorrow, maybe, but for the first time since he was twelve and learned Remus was a werewolf, Sirius didn’t give a shit about the full moon.
Barty muttered, “I’m gonna freeze my balls off,” casting a Warming Charm on the balcony with a flick of his wand, and they leaned against the railing, lighting cigarettes, the smoke curling in the air.
“You having fun, prick?” Sirius asked, glancing at Barty, his black suit and dyed hair stupidly perfect under the moonlight.
Barty chuckled, low and rough. “Nah, not really. You, princess?”
Sirius shook his head, exhaling smoke. “Nah.”
“Bummer. You’re almost the hottest one out there,” Barty said, smirking, popping his gum—where did he even get it?
“Almost?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, feigning offense.
“I’m there too, right? Obvious who’s got first place,” Barty shot back, his grin wicked.
“You git,” Sirius laughed, shoving him, and Barty shoved back, their shoulders brushing, the contact electric.
They smoked in silence for a bit, the snow falling soft and quiet, the castle’s hum distant. Sirius’s mind was a mess—Barty’s smirk, that black strand, the fifth-year git’s hickeys—but the balcony felt like their own world, just them and the smoke.
Barty broke the silence, his voice casual but curious. “What you doing for Christmas, though?”
Sirius shrugged, flicking ash into the snow. “I’ll be at Prongs’s. Probably hit London to check on the record shop.”
Barty nodded, his eyes on the lake, and Sirius hesitated, then went for it, cautious. “And… you’ll be at Prongs’s for New Year’s Eve, right? And, like, your birthday?”
Barty nodded, his smirk faint. “Yeah, but if anyone starts singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ I’ll go feral.”
Sirius laughed, the sound bright in the quiet. “Damn, only you’d be broody enough to hate having your birthday on literal New Year’s Eve.”
“I don’t hate it,” Barty said, rolling his eyes. “Just… y’know. Don’t like it.”
“God, you’re so broody,” Sirius snorted, taking a drag.
“Said the guy who’s been pining after his ex for months,” Barty shot back, his smirk sharp.
Sirius paused, the cigarette halfway to his lips, and shook his head. “I’m not.”
Barty’s eyebrow shot up, surprised. “Eh? Since when?”
Sirius shrugged, his gaze fixed on the frozen lake, the words heavy but true. “Dunno. A month, maybe, or something.”
“Not checking the Map anymore?” Barty asked, genuinely baffled, leaning closer.
“Yeah, I’m not,” Sirius said, his voice steady, the weight of it settling between them.
They finished their cigarettes in silence, the snow dusting their shoulders, and Barty broke it again, turning to face him, his hip against the railing. “Why’d he dump you?” he asked, his voice low, curious but not mocking.
Sirius snorted, lighting another cigarette to keep his hands busy. “What, you know everything about everyone but not that?” he teased, trying to keep it light.
Barty rolled his eyes, stealing a drag from Sirius’s cigarette before handing it back. “Never cared enough to dig.”
Ouch.
That stung, sharp and unexpected, and Sirius’s face went blank, his chest tight. He took a drag, staring at the lake, and decided—
Fuck it.
“I told Snape that Remus is a werewolf, and the idiot almost walked into the room where he was transformed,” he said, voice flat, the memory bitter. “Remus would’ve killed him, probably, but Prongs dragged Snape out, so nothing happened. Except Remus dumped me, hates me now, and hasn’t talked to me since.”
Barty frowned, his smirk gone, studying Sirius like he was a puzzle. “Really? He doesn’t talk to you?”
Sirius shook his head, a humorless laugh escaping. “Doesn’t even look at me.”
Barty stared for a long moment, so long that Sirius finished his cigarette, his mind spiraling, braced for mockery or worse. You’re a fucking idiot, Black. Should’ve kept your mouth shut.
But Barty just shrugged, his voice blunt but not cruel. “Well, Lupin’s a fucking idiot.”
Sirius blinked, baffled. “Eh?”
“I mean, yeah, that was a shit thing to do, but shutting you off like that… is shittier,” Barty said, his eyes steady, no smirk, just… honest.
Sirius swallowed hard, his throat tight, Barty’s words hitting deeper than he expected.
Fuck it.
He stepped closer, grabbed Barty’s neck, and pulled him into a kiss—not the usual hot, raw, all-teeth-and-tongue promise of sex, but something else. Just a kiss, slow and soft, maybe even a little sweet, like he’d been craving for weeks. Barty kissed back, matching Sirius’s pace, his hand cupping Sirius’s jaw to tilt his head, the other resting on his waist, no rush, no heat—just them.
The world could’ve been burning, and Sirius wouldn’t have noticed, lost in Barty’s warmth, the snow falling around them.
They pulled apart, breaths visible in the cold, and Barty’s smirk was back, softer now, his thumb brushing Sirius’s cheek. “What was that, princess?” he teased, but his voice was low, almost fond.
“Dunno,” Sirius said, grinning, his heart racing. “Felt like it.”
Barty chuckled, stealing Sirius’s cigarette butt to light a new one, their shoulders brushing again. They stayed there, smoking, the balcony their bubble, the Yule Ball’s noise a distant hum. Sirius’s mind was quieter now, Barty’s kiss lingering, but the fifth-year git’s hickeys still nagged, and he couldn’t help himself.
“So, no git tonight?” he asked, keeping it light.
Barty smirked, exhaling smoke. “Told you, princess. You’re distraction enough.”
Sirius laughed, relief flooding him as Barty’s words settled in, warm and teasing. He didn’t push, just leaned into Barty’s warmth, the snow dusting their hair as they stood on the balcony, the Yule Ball’s sappy music a faint hum below. They talked more, the conversation easy—slagging off Peter’s tragic suit that looked like it was stolen from a Muggle funeral, speculating about Evan’s secret date who was probably snogging him senseless in the courtyard, and cackling over James’s dance moves, all flailing arms and stepped-on toes. Sirius called Barty gross for spitting his gum behind the railing, the wad landing in the snow with a soft plop.
“That’s vile, Crouch,” Sirius said, wrinkling his nose.
Barty smirked, unfazed. “Says the freak who tries to steal my gum every time we’re kissing.”
“Fuck off, it’s your fault for making it taste good,” Sirius shot back, shoving him, and Barty laughed, rough and bright, the sound cutting through the cold.
“So,” Sirius said, glancing at him, his voice light but his heart racing, “we going to the Room?”
Barty’s grin was all mischief and sin, his eyes glinting under the moonlight. “Duh. Been dying to rip that suit off you, Black.”
Sirius laughed, his chest light as they stepped back inside, the castle’s warmth hitting them like a wave. “You’re such a prick.”
“And your arse is a crime in those trousers, Black,” Barty shot back, smirking, his hand brushing Sirius’s lower back as they headed up the stairs, the contact sending sparks through him.
They made their way to the seventh floor, dodging a giggling Hufflepuff couple and a prefect who looked too tired to care. The second they paced in front of the blank wall, the Room of Requirement’s door materialized, and they slipped inside, the familiar setup waiting—neon red LEDs pulsing, Arctic Monkeys’ AM album blaring, the bed massive and inviting, the air thick with promise. Their lips crashed together to the beat of Do I Wanna Know?, all heat and hunger, blazers tossed to the floor in a heap. Barty, true to his word, grabbed Sirius’s sheer shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying like overpriced confetti, scattering across the floor.
“You’re so fucking easy,” Sirius laughed, shoving Barty down onto the bed, climbing on top of him, his knees straddling Barty’s hips.
Barty pulled him down into a kiss, his pierced tongue doing that thing that made Sirius’s knees weak, a slow, filthy slide that had Sirius groaning into his mouth. The rest of their clothes vanished in a frenzy—Barty’s suit trousers, Sirius’s tight pants, shirts, ties, all gone in seconds, a trail of fabric leading to the bed. Barty flicked his wand with a muttered spell, slicking Sirius with that charm they’d perfected, the cool sensation making Sirius hiss, his hips bucking instinctively.
“Fuck, Crouch,” Sirius panted, grinding down, Barty’s cock hard against his thigh, his hands gripping Sirius’s arse, spreading him open. Barty’s fingers teased, circling his hole before slipping one in, slow and deliberate, watching Sirius’s face with that smug smirk.
“Already desperate, princess?” Barty teased, adding a second finger, curling them just right to hit that spot, and Sirius moaned, loud and shameless, his hands fisting Barty’s hair, the black-dyed strand catching the neon light.
“Shut up and fuck me,” Sirius growled, pushing back onto Barty’s fingers, his cock leaking against Barty’s stomach. Barty laughed, low and wicked, pulling his fingers out and slicking his cock with another spell, lining up. He pushed in, slow at first, the stretch burning perfectly, and Sirius groaned, his head tipping back, legs hooking over Barty’s shoulders to take him deeper.
“Fuck,” Barty muttered, his voice rough, his hands bruising Sirius’s hips as he bottomed out. Sirius clenched around him, smirking at the growl it pulled from Barty, and then Barty started moving—hard, fast, the bed creaking, the music’s bass thumping in time with their rhythm. Sirius’s moans were obscene, echoing over Alex Turner’s voice, and Barty’s smirks turned to gasps, his control fraying with every thrust.
“Harder,” Sirius demanded, his nails digging into Barty’s back, leaving red lines, and Barty flipped him onto his stomach, yanking his hips up and slamming back in, the new angle making Sirius scream into the pillow, his fists clutching the sheets. Barty’s hand slid up his spine, grabbing his hair, pulling his head back for a messy, desperate kiss, their tongues tangling as Barty fucked him into oblivion.
“Fuck, Sirius,” Barty groaned, his voice wrecked, using his name—not princess, not Black —and it sent a jolt through Sirius, his cock throbbing against the sheets. Barty’s hand found it, stroking fast and rough, and Sirius was close, trembling, his moans turning to gasps.
“Gonna—fuck,” Sirius panted, and Barty bit his shoulder, growling, “Come for me,” and Sirius did, shouting Barty’s name, his vision whiting out as he came hard, spilling over Barty’s hand and the sheets. Barty followed, thrusting deep, groaning as he came, his grip on Sirius’s hips bruising, collapsing onto him, both of them a sweaty, panting mess.
They lay there, catching their breath, Arctic Monkeys’ Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High? filling the silence. Sirius rolled onto his back, grinning, his body buzzing with afterglow.
“Not bad, Crouch,” he said, stealing a cigarette from Barty’s discarded suit jacket and lighting it with a charm.
“High praise, princess,” Barty smirked, stealing it for a drag, his hand brushing Sirius’s thigh, warm and lazy. Sirius’s eyes flicked to Barty’s neck—no new hickeys, thank God—but the fifth-year git’s mark was still there, faint and mocking. He shoved the thought down, focusing on the neon glow, Barty’s black-dyed hair, the way his thumb traced Sirius’s scar.
“Round two?” Sirius asked, smirking, already half-hard again, because fuck it, one time was never enough with Barty.
Barty laughed, rough and wicked, pulling Sirius on top of him. “Greedy fucker,” he said, but his hands were already roaming, gripping Sirius’s arse, and Sirius kissed him, hard and filthy, ready to lose himself again.
Round two was slower, Sirius riding Barty, teasing, rolling his hips until Barty was cursing, his hands guiding Sirius’s pace. Then Barty flipped them, pinning Sirius’s wrists, fucking him deep and deliberate, their gasps mixing with the music, the bed shaking. By round three, they were on the floor, Sirius’s back against the rug, Barty’s mouth on his cock, fingers inside him, driving him wild until they both came again, shouting, collapsing in a heap.
Hours later, they were back on the bed, sheets tangled, bodies sore, the neon lights dimmed to a soft purple. Sirius chugged Barty’s water bottle, grinning, while Barty lit another cigarette, his smirk lazy but warm. “You’re gonna kill me, Black,” he said, exhaling smoke, his voice soft, almost fond.
“Worth it,” Sirius shot back, stealing a drag, his mind quieter now, the hickey nagging but distant.
They talked shit—Peter’s suit again, Evan’s mystery guy, the fact that Regulus had somehow survived James’s dancing. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Regulus, probably, checking in—but he ignored it, content in the haze, Barty’s hand on his thigh grounding him.
“You crashing here?” Sirius asked, echoing their usual post-hookup question, his voice light but his chest tight, hoping Barty wouldn’t roll to the other side of the bed again.
“Maybe,” Barty said, smirking, his fingers tracing Sirius’s scar. “You gonna hog the sheets, princess?”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, leaning into Barty’s warmth, the black-dyed strand catching his eye. They didn’t sleep right away, watching the end of American Horror Story on the Room’s TV, trading snark and smoke, Barty’s hand staying on Sirius’s thigh. Sirius’s mind was a mess—Barty’s kiss on the balcony, the fifth-year git, his own stupid feelings—but for now, he was here, fucked out and content, and that was enough.
Chapter Text
Sirius bolted awake to his phone blaring somewhere on the floor, the shrill ring cutting through the haze of last night’s Yule Ball chaos. The Room of Requirement was still dim, neon purple LEDs casting a soft glow over the tangled sheets and scattered clothes.
“What the hell,” Barty groaned, his voice deep and gravelly, unfairly hot even half-asleep. The fucker was sprawled on the opposite side of the bed, of course, hogging the pillow like it was his birthright.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Shut up, I’m sleeping,” Sirius mumbled, burrowing into the mattress, willing the phone to die.
But the damn thing rang again. And again. And again, relentless, dragging them both out of their post-sex, post-weed stupor.
“Pick that up before I throw it out the fucking window,” Barty snapped, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow, his black-dyed hair a mess.
“There’s no window here, prick,” Sirius groaned, but he reached over the bed’s edge anyway, fumbling through their discarded suits—his ripped shirt, Barty’s tie—until he found his phone, buzzing like a possessed Snitch. The screen flashed: Reggie 🐈⬛🖤.
Of course.
Sirius picked up, flopping back onto the bed, pressing the phone to his ear with a sigh. “What?”
“Where the fuck are you?” Regulus snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through Sirius’s hangover.
“What?” Sirius asked, brain still half-fried from Firewhisky, weed, and Barty’s hands.
“We’re leaving in twenty, Sirius,” Regulus hissed. “Get your arse to the dorm before I hex your hair off.” He hung up, the line going dead.
Sirius blinked at the ceiling, the neon lights blurring. “Fuck,” he sighed, sitting up, his body aching in all the best ways—Barty’s bruises on his hips, his thighs sore from round three on the rug. Showing up in his tattered Yule Ball suit would be humiliating, but at least no one would know he’d spent the night getting fucked senseless by his brother’s best mate. Small mercies.
Barty mumbled something incoherent into the pillow, probably a curse or an insult, his bare back rising and falling. Sirius rolled out of bed, pulling on his boxers, trousers, and the remains of his sheer shirt—half the buttons were gone anyway, thanks to Barty’s impatience. His suit jacket was crumpled by the door, and he slung it over his shoulder, running a hand through his hair to look less like he’d just rolled out of a rave.
“Don’t die here,” Sirius said, smirking at Barty’s prone form.
Barty flipped him off without looking, his middle finger a lazy salute from the pillow.
Fucking charmer.
Sirius stepped out of the Room without another word, the door vanishing behind him, and made a beeline for Regulus’s dorm, dodging early-rising Hufflepuffs and a house-elf carrying a tray of scones. He kept his head down, praying he didn’t run into Remus or, worse, McGonagall, who’d probably sniff out his debauchery in a second. His boots echoed in the dungeons, his open shirt flapping, and he tried to look less like he’d been fucked three ways to Sunday by Barty Crouch Jr. Jesus.
The second he stepped into the dorm, Regulus was waiting, arms crossed, grey eyes blazing. “You absolute slut,” he spat, his voice dripping with disdain.
James was lounging on Regulus’s bed, the Marauders’ Map spread out in his hands, smirking like he knew too much. Sirius was never more grateful for Barty’s charm on the Map.
“Morning to you too, Reggie,” Sirius said, grinning to deflect, tossing his ruined suit jacket onto a chair and heading for his trunk. Regulus launched into a rant about responsibility, punctuality, and “disgracing the Black name,” but Sirius tuned him out, pulling on jeans and a hoodie, his body protesting every move. He packed his suitcase with a lazy Pack, clothes flying in haphazardly, while Regulus’s voice rose to a pitch that could shatter glass.
“—and if you think I’m Flooing to Godric’s Hollow with you looking like a hungover Kneazle, you’re delusional,” Regulus finished, glaring.
“Love you too,” Sirius said, winking, zipping his suitcase. James snorted, folding the Map and standing, already in his jacket and trainers, looking annoyingly put-together.
“You owe me for covering your arse last night,” James said, slinging an arm around Sirius’s shoulders as they headed out. “McGonagall was asking where you were after midnight.”
“Tell her I was saving orphans,” Sirius said, grinning, and James laughed, shoving him.
Fourteen minutes later, the three of them were trudging to McGonagall’s office, suitcases levitating behind them, Regulus still muttering about Sirius’s “chronic irresponsibility.” The castle was quiet, most students still sleeping off the ball, the halls glittering with leftover snowflake charms. McGonagall’s office was warm, her desk piled with parchment, and she raised an eyebrow at Sirius’s disheveled state but said nothing, just gestured to the Floo.
“Godric’s Hollow, Potter residence,” she said, tossing Floo powder into the fireplace. “Behave yourselves.”
“No promises, Minnie,” Sirius grinned, earning a glare as he stepped into the green flames, suitcase in tow. He stumbled out into the Potters’ cozy living room, the smell of Euphemia’s fresh bread hitting him like a hug. James and Regulus followed, James immediately yelling, “Mum, we’re here!”
Euphemia swept in, all warmth and flour-dusted apron, kissing their cheeks and fussing over Regulus’s “too-thin frame.” Monty poked his head in, waving, already holding a glass of Ogden’s Old despite it being barely noon. Sirius dropped his suitcase by the stairs, sinking into the couch, the familiar chaos of the Potter house washing over him. But his mind was still in the Room—Barty’s black-dyed hair, his hand on Sirius’s thigh, that slow kiss on the balcony.
Fucking hell.
Regulus kicked his shin. “Stop moping. Help with lunch.”
“I’m not moping,” Sirius lied, standing, but his grin was half-hearted.
He followed Regulus to the kitchen, chopping vegetables under Euphemia’s watchful eye, while James and Monty argued about Quidditch in the living room. The break stretched ahead—Christmas, New Year’s, Barty’s birthday—and Sirius was already counting the days until he’d see that smirk again. He texted Barty later, sprawled on the bed: you dead yet? The reply came quick: not yet, princess. miss me already? with a smirking emoji.
Sirius grinned, his chest tight, typing back: keep dreaming, prick.
But he did miss him, more than he’d admit, and it was a problem.
He spent the evening holed up in his room, sprawled on the bed, lazily plucking strings on his guitar, the notes soft and aimless. He lit a joint, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, mixing with the faint smell of Euphemia’s shepherd’s pie wafting from downstairs. Monty had poked his head in earlier, his glasses fogged from the kitchen’s heat, asking Sirius to join them for dinner and cards, but Sirius just mumbled, “Not in the mood,” and Monty didn’t pry. Probably because he’d seen too many of Sirius’s moods over the years—stormy, reckless, or just plain sulky—and knew when to leave him be.
Barty hadn’t texted again and Sirius was trying— failing, but trying —not to read into it. It wasn’t like they were inseparable or some sappy couple.
Except… weren’t they kind of inseparable? Same friend group, shared classes, study sessions in Regulus’s dorm, hookups in the Room of Requirement—they were always together, trading smirks, smokes, and chaos. And now, barely a day into the Christmas break, Sirius missed him, the ache in his chest sharp and annoying.
He glanced at the TV, mounted on the wall, but didn’t turn it on. He didn’t know what to watch without Barty, no American Horror Story or Stranger Things to argue over, no snarky commentary to fill the silence.
He didn’t play music either, his phone silent on the bedside table. Lately, his Spotify was just Barty’s ‘fuck’ playlist—Chase Atlantic, Arctic Monkeys, The Weeknd—sex tracks that sounded like neon lights and Barty’s moans in his head. And yet, as Sirius plucked the strings lazily, the notes started to sound suspiciously like 505, all moody and yearning. He groaned, tossing the guitar to the foot of the bed, the strings twanging in protest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his face, the joint smoldering in the ashtray. He was fucked, and he knew it.
He knew damn fucking well how he got when he had feelings for someone—falling head-first, no brakes, no hinting, no self-preservation. All in, like a Gryffindor charging into a dragon’s lair. And now, he was all-in for a guy who probably wasn’t even there a little bit in.
His fingers itched to text Barty, to fire off something dumb like jerking off thinking abt me? or send bicep, prick —anything to tease, push his buttons, get a reaction. Barty would probably shoot back something like “send nudes and i’ll, princess” —it’d happened before, shut up—and Sirius could laugh it off, keep the vibe light. But it wouldn’t be enough. It’d be… just shit. Meaningless, like their hookups were to Barty, and Sirius was done with that. He wanted it to mean something. He wanted Barty to be obsessed with him—not only just in bed, but all the time, on a daily basis, always—texting him first, stealing his coffee, smirking at him just because. He wanted Barty to fall like Sirius was falling, and the thought that it might be impossible was fucking him up.
Because, let’s be real: Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t do feelings. Everyone knew that. He was all sharp edges, snark, and secrets, the guy who’d hex you for fun and fuck you senseless without a second thought. Feelings? Commitment? Not in his thing.
And Sirius was the idiot who’d gotten too close, close enough to crave his slow kisses, his hand on his thigh, his stupid black-dyed hair and that “Kinda gonna miss your pretty face”. The thought that Barty might never care about him made his chest feel like a fucking cave-in, and he hated how pathetic that was.
He grabbed his phone, staring at their last texts, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could send something now, something flirty, keep the chaos going, but what was the point? Another smirk, another princess, another hookup when they got back—and Sirius would be right back to spiraling, chasing a guy who didn’t do soulmates or whatever Pandora’s tarot bullshit had implied. He tossed the phone onto the bed, groaning again, louder this time, and lit another cigarette, stuck, alone with his guitar, his joint, and his fucking feelings.
He stood, pacing the room, his bare feet scuffing the carpet. The room was cozy—posters of rock bands, a Quidditch Snitch model on the shelf, a photo of him and Regulus from last summer, all sunburned and grinning. He stopped at the mirror, staring at himself—his messy hair, the bruise on his collarbone from Barty’s teeth, his eyes too raw, too open. “Get a grip, Black,” he muttered, but his reflection looked like a lovesick fool, and he hated it.
He flopped back onto the bed, grabbing his phone again, but instead of texting Barty, he scrolled through Spotify, landing on 505 —because of course he did. The song started, all sultry and haunting, and Sirius closed his eyes, picturing Barty’s smirk, his black-dyed strand, the way he’d kissed him on Sirius on the balcony, slow and sweet. He wanted that Barty, not the one who rolled away to sleep, who fucked a fifth-year git, who kept his secrets locked up tighter than Gringotts.
But what if that Barty didn’t exist? What if Sirius was just chasing a high that’d crash and burn, like with Remus?
He stubbed out the cigarette, the joint long gone, and Sirius pulled the guitar back into his lap, strumming aimlessly. The notes were messy, raw, but they felt like him —all chaos and longing. He didn’t text Barty. Instead, he played, letting the music say what he couldn’t. Maybe the break would clear his head—Godric’s Hollow, the Potters’ chaos, no Barty to distract him. Or maybe he’d spend the whole time moping, missing that stupid face, those stupid hickeys, that stupid everything.
By midnight, the house was quiet, James and Regulus probably passed out, Euphemia and Monty asleep. Sirius lit another cigarette, his phone still silent, and checked Instagram out of boredom. Barty had posted a story—a blurry shot of a neon-lit club in London, no caption, just like every of his Instastory. But on that one, Sirius’s stomach twisted, his mind racing. Was the fifth-year git there? Was Barty alone? He swiped away, cursing himself. He lay there for hours—just him, his guitar, and a fucking disaster of a heart.
The next day, Sirius was too busy sulking and moping to notice how nervous James was or how Regulus kept his face carefully blank during breakfast. He barely touched his eggs, pushing them around his plate, his mind stuck on Barty’s silence—no texts, no smirks, no nothing. By mid-morning, he’d retreated to his room, sprawling flat on the floor, arms spread, staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets to his fucked-up heart. In a fit of rage that morning, he’d slammed his phone against the wall, the screen shattering into a million pieces, now scattered by the bed, mocking him with he didn’t even text you when he was drunk.
God, it stung. And, yeah, he was emotionally unstable, just to be clear.
Around noon, James and Regulus appeared in the doorway, James looking like he’d swallowed a lemon and Regulus cautious, his grey eyes unreadable. Sirius propped himself up on his elbows, trying not to look as pathetic as he felt, already bracing for Regulus’s usual snark. But Regulus said nothing, which was alarming as hell.
“What?” Sirius asked, straightening up, his hoodie rumpled, hair a mess.
James winced, running a hand through his already chaotic hair. “So, uh, full moon’s tonight, right?”
Sirius blinked.
Shit, he’d forgotten about the moon, the world, everything, lost in his Barty spiral.
“Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “And?”
“And,” James said slowly, like he was defusing a bomb, “my mum kinda… she…”
“She said you lot were idiots for keeping Lupin company during his transformations,” Regulus cut in, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And since you’re not with Lupin, the risk he’ll escape and hurt someone is higher since only James can stop him now.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his stomach twisting. “And?”
“And Lupin’s coming here tonight to transform in the attic, like he used to during summer breaks when you were underage,” Regulus said, shrugging, his voice casual but his eyes sharp.
Sirius blinked, the words sinking in. “Him? Here? ”
James winced again, collapsing onto the bed, looking resigned. “Look, mate, I know it’s not—”
But Sirius stood slowly, his jaw tight, the ache in his chest dull but present. “He survived six full moons without me. Now he, what, can’t?”
James shrugged, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I don’t know, mate. He asked us to come as usual, but… fuck, it’s getting worse with every full moon.”
Sirius’s eyebrows shot up, the dull ache sharpening, but less painful than it would’ve been months ago. “Really?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” Regulus said, sitting beside James, his usual smirk gone. “Last time, he crashed half his body, and Pomfrey couldn’t heal him properly. He was healing too fast, so she had to keep breaking his bones to… y’know.” He grimaced, his face twisting with rare discomfort.
Holy shit.
Sirius bit his cheek, the image of Remus broken and bleeding flashing through his mind, unbidden. He shoved it down, reaching for his drawer, already stripping off his hoodie and pajama pants, his movements sharp and deliberate.
Because, fuck, Remus had made it crystal clear he wanted nothing to do with Sirius, and Sirius wasn’t about to beg for scraps.
“That’s not my problem,” he said, voice hard, pulling on a black jumper and loose jeans, rummaging through his clothes like he was on a mission.
“What?” James blinked, sitting up.
Sirius yanked open his suitcase, grabbing socks and his boots. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me, so he’s on his own. I’m not gonna beg him to let me help so he won’t hurt himself,” he said, his voice firm, the truth bitter but solid on his tongue.
James blinked again, mouth half-open, but Regulus? Oh, the snake looked proud, his lips twitching into a faint smirk, like he was saying, about time, Siri.
“But—” James started, his voice desperate.
“Listen, Prongs,” Sirius cut him off, waving his wand with a sharp “Pack!” to stuff his backpack with clothes, books, and his guitar case. “He could’ve asked me to help during the full moon. I would’ve, and he knew I would’ve. But he kept pushing me away, and I’m not—I don’t care anymore, okay?”
The words tasted like ash, but they were true, or true enough. He flicked his wand again, muttering “Reparo,” to fix his shattered phone, the pieces snapping back together. He pocketed it, ignoring the blank screen.
“I’m heading to our flat,” Sirius said to Regulus, grabbing his leather jacket from the closet. “Let me know when he’s gone.”
He slung his backpack over his shoulder, boots scuffing the floor, and headed out, pausing to shout, “Goin’ to London!” to Monty, who waved from the kitchen, unfazed.
Sirius stepped to the Apparition spot behind the Potters’ estate, the crisp December air biting his face, and Disapparated with a crack, landing in the grimy alley behind his and Regulus’s tenement in Camden. He jogged up the creaky stairs to their flat, the smell of damp and old vinyl hitting him as he unlocked the door. He dropped his backpack by the couch, collapsing onto it, the springs groaning under him.
He was so fucking done.
Done with Remus’s silence, done with Barty’s silence, done with his own stupid heart. He lit a cigarette, staring at the cracked ceiling, the flat quiet except for the hum of London outside—cars, distant sirens, life moving on. His phone stayed blank—no texts from Barty, no drunk “miss me, princess?” like he’d half-hoped. Just nothing. He opened Spotify, scrolling through Barty’s playlist, but didn’t play anything, the silence louder than Chase Atlantic could ever be.
He stood, restless, and grabbed his guitar from its case, strumming aimlessly, the notes raw and jagged, like his head. He wanted to text Barty, something stupid like you alive, prick? but didn’t. Instead, he played, the chords turning into I Wanna Be Yours, because of course they fucking did. He groaned, setting the guitar down, and lit another cigarette, pacing the flat. The full moon loomed, Remus transforming in the Potters’ attic, but Sirius shoved it away. Remus had made his choice, and Sirius was making his—London, this flat, his life, without begging for anyone’s scraps.
By evening, he ordered takeaway—greasy chips and a burger from the shop downstairs—sprawling on the couch, flicking through TV channels but not watching. His phone buzzed once—Regulus, saying he’s here. will let you know when he’s gone. Sirius didn’t reply, just took another drag, the smoke curling around him. He missed Barty’s smirk, his chaos, that black-dyed hair, but he wasn’t chasing it. Not today. Maybe not ever, if Barty didn’t care. But the thought of never —no more hookups, no more balcony kisses—stung worse than Remus’s silence.
Sirius was teetering on the edge of losing his shit when, out of nowhere, his phone lit up, vibrating against the coffee table. Not a text, not a meme, not a TikTok, not even one of Barty’s infamous Snapchat dick pics. A call. From Barty.
Sirius’s heart did a stupid flip, but he let it ring three times—because he wasn’t pathetic (he was, but only on the inside, alright?). He grabbed the phone, swiping to answer, leaning back into the couch’s sagging cushions.
“Hi, prick,” he said, voice casual, like he hadn’t been spiraling for hours.
“Hi, princess,” Barty mocked, and Sirius could hear the smirk in his voice, that cocky drawl that made him feel lighter, like the world wasn’t such a shitshow. “Wanna hang out?”
Sirius slumped deeper, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “What, no party to crash tonight?”
“Don’t be jealous just ‘cause I didn’t bring you,” Barty said, a total dick as usual, but there was a tease in his tone, warm and familiar.
“I’m not jealous,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes, though he totally was, just a bit. “We can hang out. Come over to my flat.”
“What?” Barty asked, genuinely baffled, his voice losing its smug edge. “Thought you were at Potter’s?”
“Long story,” Sirius said, shrugging even though Barty couldn’t see it, his fingers picking at a frayed couch seam. “Just come here. And bring weed—I smoked everything I stole from you.”
Barty gasped, dramatic and loud. “You fucker.”
Sirius grinned, his chest loosening for the first time all day. “Come over, prick.”
Barty muttered something—could’ve been “on my way” or “I’ll kill you,” hard to tell with his muffled cursing—but either way, Sirius was thrilled. He hung up, tossing the phone onto the couch, and stood, suddenly restless. The flat was a mess—empty takeaway containers, cigarette butts, his guitar case open—but he didn’t care. Barty was coming over.
Barty, with his smirks, his black-dyed hair, his chaos, and Sirius’s heart was already racing, traitor that it was.
He flicked his wand, half-heartedly tidying the place—a quick Scourgify for the ashtray, a charm to stack the takeaway boxes by the sink. He caught his reflection in the smudged mirror—hair wild, bruise from Barty’s teeth still faint on his collarbone, eyes too bright, too hopeful. “Chill, Black,” he muttered, but his grin betrayed him. He swapped his jumper for a ripped Black Sabbath tee, kept the loose jeans, and lit a cigarette, pacing until he heard the buzzer.
Barty showed up twenty minutes later, leather jacket dusted with snow, a joint tucked behind his ear, his smirk lethal as he leaned against the doorframe. “Nice place, princess,” he said, eyes scanning the flat, lingering on the turntable and Sirius’s vinyl stack. “Didn’t know you were slumming it.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius laughed, shoving him inside, stealing the joint from behind Barty’s ear and lighting it with a charm. “You bring the good shit?”
“Always,” Barty said, pulling a baggie from his jacket, tossing it onto the coffee table. He shed his jacket, revealing a tight band tee—Joy Division, because of course—and flopped onto the couch, kicking his boots up like he owned the place. “So, what’s the long story? Why’d you ditch Potter’s?”
Sirius took a drag, exhaling smoke, and sat next to him, closer than necessary, their thighs brushing. “Full moon drama,” he said, keeping it vague, not ready to dive into the Remus mess. “Needed a break.”
Barty raised an eyebrow, smirking but not pushing. “Fair. Potter’s is too wholesome for your moody arse anyway.” He stole the joint, his fingers brushing Sirius’s, and Sirius’s heart did that stupid flip again.
Fucking hell.
They smoked, the flat filling with haze, the tension from earlier melting away. Barty grabbed Sirius’s phone, connecting it to the turntable’s Bluetooth speaker, and queued up his Fuck playlist—Chase Atlantic’s Swim kicking in, all sultry and heavy. Sirius laughed, shaking his head. “Predictable, Crouch.”
“Works, don’t it?” Barty winked, passing the joint back, his hand lingering on Sirius’s knee for a second, warm and deliberate. Sirius grinned, leaning into it, his mind buzzing—not just from the weed, but from Barty, here, now, no fifth-year git, no secrets, just them.
They talked shit—London’s club scene, the Yule Ball’s cringe moments, how Evan’s mystery date was probably a Beauxbatons guy based on his dodgy excuses. Sirius teased Barty about his black-dyed hair, still perfect despite the snow. “What, no green for the holidays?”
“Green’s retired, princess,” Barty said, smirking, running a hand through his hair. “Black’s your vibe, right?”
Sirius’s chest tightened, but he played it cool, taking a drag. “Keep dreaming, prick.” But he was dreaming too, of Barty’s hands, his slow balcony kiss, his “Kinda gonna miss your pretty face.” He wanted that Barty, not just the one who fucked him senseless, but the one who stayed, who cared.
The joint burned down, and Barty pulled out another, lighting it with a Muggle lighter—because he was a show-off like that. They sprawled on the couch, music thumping, and Sirius’s restraint was fraying. He wanted to kiss Barty, not hot and desperate, but soft, like on the balcony, just because. But Barty was a crypt, and Sirius’s feelings were a fucking minefield, so he settled for stealing the joint, their fingers brushing again, electric.
“Miss me, Black?” Barty asked, smirking, his voice low, teasing but with an edge Sirius couldn’t read.
“Maybe,” Sirius said, grinning, bold from the weed. “Miss my pretty face, Crouch?”
Barty laughed, rough and warm, his hand sliding to Sirius’s thigh, staying there. “Maybe,” he echoed, and Sirius’s heart cartwheeled, hope flickering despite his better judgment.
They didn’t kiss, didn’t hook up—just smoked, laughed, and vibed, the flat their bubble, London’s hum outside. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Regulus, probably—but he ignored it, content with Barty’s weight against him, his smirk, his chaos.
By midnight, the Camden flat was hazy with weed, the neon glow from the street outside mixing with the soft purple of the turntable’s Bluetooth speaker. Barty was sprawled on the couch, head tipped back on the headrest, Arctic Monkeys’ 505 playing low, its sultry hum filling the silence. Sirius was too busy watching Barty’s Adam’s apple bob every time he swallowed, the black-dyed strand of hair falling into his eyes, to pay attention to the music. His heart was a traitor, thumping too loud, and the weed wasn’t helping, making every glance feel like a fucking revelation.
“So,” Sirius said, tilting his head, voice light but his pulse racing, trying to mask the chaos in his chest. “Any hookups last night?” He flicked ash from the joint, aiming for casual, but his eyes betrayed him, locked on Barty’s profile.
Barty cracked open one eye, his smirk slow and wicked, like he knew exactly what Sirius was fishing for. “Jealous?”
“That your new catchphrase or what?” Sirius shot back, rolling his eyes to hide the spark of hope—and, yeah, maybe a twinge of jealousy.
“Kinda,” Barty drawled, stretching, his Joy Division tee riding up to show a sliver of pale skin, the waistband of his jeans low enough to make Sirius’s mouth dry.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius muttered, tipping his head back against the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling to avoid Barty’s gaze, his fingers twitching around the joint.
“You’ve said that, like, ten times today,” Barty fired back, smooth and smug, stealing the joint from Sirius’s hand, their fingers brushing, electric.
Sirius wanted to scream, to shake Barty and demand what the fuck are we?
His feelings were a wildfire, scorching through his restraint, and Barty’s infuriating calm was pouring fuel on it. Instead, he sighed, loud and dramatic, and kicked his boots up onto the coffee table, the clunk echoing in the small flat.
“You’re so full of shit,” he said, half-laughing, half-ready to hex something.
“I know,” Barty said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, his smirk unshaken, his eyes glinting under the neon.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” Sirius added, his voice sharper, the truth slipping out, raw and reckless.
“Cheers, princess,” Barty grinned, leaning closer, their shoulders brushing, and Sirius’s heart lurched, traitorously hopeful.
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” Sirius lied, his voice cracking, because Barty was the best kind of worst—chaotic, addictive, dangerous—and that was the fucking problem.
“Heard that one before,” Barty said, his smirk softening, almost fond, and he nudged Sirius’s knee with his own, the contact warm, grounding.
“Do you even give a shit about anyone but yourself?” Sirius asked, the question spilling out, raw and desperate, his heart pounding so hard he was sure Barty could hear it.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, princess?” Barty teased, but his smirk faltered, his eyes flickering with something Sirius couldn’t read—something real, maybe, buried under the snark.
Sirius inhaled, slow and shaky. Exhaled. Repeated, again and again and again, trying to keep his cool, but his chest was tight, his mind a fucking storm.
“Why’d you even call me, Crouch?” he asked, voice low, resigned, almost pleading, the weed stripping away his defenses.
Barty’s gaze locked onto his, his smirk gone, his jaw working as he chewed his cheek, like he was wrestling with an answer. Then, quiet and steady, he said, “‘S full moon tonight.”
“So fucking what?” Sirius snapped, his guard slamming up, the mention of the moon hitting like a Bludger, dragging up Remus’s scars, the attic, all the shit he’d fled to London to escape.
“You freak out during it,” Barty said, softer now, his voice cutting through Sirius’s spiral, his eyes searching Sirius’s face, no smirk, just… honest.
Sirius froze, scanning Barty’s expression, hunting for the usual snark, the deflection, anything to dismiss it. But Barty looked real —honest, soft, like he gave a damn, and Sirius’s throat tightened, his breath catching.
“I don’t,” he lied, voice flat, but his hands were shaking, betraying him.
Barty raised an eyebrow, calling his bluff without a word. “Don’t lie to me, princess.”
Sirius sighed, slumping deeper into the couch, the fight draining out of him. “God, you’re a prick,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a tired laugh.
Barty’s grin crept back, lazy and warm, his body relaxing. “And yet, you let me get in your pants,” he teased, his voice light but his hand brushing Sirius’s knee, staying there, warm and steady.
Sirius laughed, the sound bright and raw, cutting through the haze. “Shut up,” he said, shoving Barty’s shoulder, but he leaned into the touch, his heart doing that stupid cartwheel again.
“I’ll never shut up about it,” Barty said, stretching out, all smug, his arms behind his head, looking like he owned the flat, the couch, Sirius’s whole fucking world.
In a rush of sheer stupidity—weed, feelings, that damn soft look in Barty’s eyes—Sirius swung a leg over, straddling Barty’s lap, his knees bracketing Barty’s hips. Barty’s hands landed on Sirius’s hips, instinctive, like they belonged there, his grip firm, his smirk turning sinful. Git probably thought it was his birthright.
Sirius leaned down, expecting the usual—heat, rawness, all teeth and hunger—but Barty’s lips were soft, slow, almost lazy, kissing him like they had forever, like Sirius was the only thing that mattered. Sirius melted, his hands cupping Barty’s stupidly symmetrical face, thumbs brushing his jaw, his heart hammering so loud it drowned out 505.
“Barty,” Sirius whispered, pulling back, voice raw, barely audible, his pulse a wild thing. He hadn’t meant to say it—not Barty, not like that, all vulnerable and real.
Barty’s eyes widened, flickering with surprise, his hands freezing under Sirius’s Black Sabbath tee, warm against his skin. “What?” he asked, voice rough, like Sirius’s name had thrown him off his game.
“Don’t hook up with that git again,” Sirius said, the words tumbling out, reckless and raw, his heart ready to leap out of his chest.
“What?” Barty blinked, baffled, his smirk gone, his mismatched eyes searching Sirius’s face.
“Or anyone else.” Sirius added, voice shaking but steady, locking eyes with Barty, willing him to get it, to feel the same fucking fire.
Barty stared, his gaze intense, like he was looking for a lie, a joke, something to deflect or maybe just honesty. Whatever he was searching for, he found it, because his expression softened, his voice low and raw.
“You too.”
Sirius nodded, relief crashing through him like a tidal wave, his grin breaking free.
“Yeah, me too. No more boys.”
“Yeah, no more boys,” Barty echoed, pulling Sirius down for another kiss, slow and deep, his hands sliding up Sirius’s back, holding him close, like he meant it.
It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a deal, fragile but real, and Sirius’s heart was soaring, weed and hope making him dizzy.
They stayed tangled, kissing soft and lazy, I Wanna Be Yours fading in, the flat’s haze wrapping them in their own world. Barty’s hands roamed, not rushing, just tracing Sirius’s sides, his scars, his ribs, like he was learning him by heart. Sirius grinned into the kiss, nipping Barty’s lip, earning a low laugh that vibrated against his chest.
“You’re gonna kill me, Black,” Barty murmured, his voice warm, his thumb brushing Sirius’s lips, lingering there.
“Worth it,” Sirius smirked, stealing another kiss, his hands in Barty’s hair, tugging the black-dyed strand, the neon catching it like a fucking halo.
They didn’t push for more—no ripping clothes, no spells for slick—just kissed, slow and sweet, trading teasing barbs between breaths. Barty mocked Sirius’s “moody arse” freaking out over the full moon, and Sirius flipped him off, laughing, admitting, “Alright, fine, maybe I was a bit fucked up about it.”
“Knew it,” Barty smirked, but his hand stayed on Sirius’s thigh, warm and grounding, and Sirius leaned into it, his chest lighter than it’d been in weeks—months, maybe.
They talked, weed loosening their tongues—about the Yule Ball’s chaos, Regulus’s new obsession with The Last of Us, Evan’s secret date who Barty swore was “some posh Beauxbatons git” again. Sirius teased Barty about his black-dyed hair, asking if he’d keep it.
“Depends,” Barty said, smirking. “You into it, princess?”
“Fuck yeah,” Sirius said, too quick, and Barty laughed, pulling him closer, their foreheads brushing. Sirius’s mind was quiet for once—no Remus, no fifth-year git, just Barty, his smirk, his hands, his “No more boys.” He wanted to ask— what are we now? are you in this? —but didn’t, too scared to break the spell.
By 3 a.m., they were half-high, half-drunk on each other, stumbling to the bedroom, laughing as they tripped over Sirius’s guitar case. They collapsed onto the mattress, clothes still on—Sirius’s ripped tee, Barty’s jeans—Barty’s arm slung over Sirius’s waist, his breath warm against Sirius’s neck. “You staying, Crouch?” Sirius asked, voice soft, his heart pounding, hopeful.
“Yeah, princess,” Barty mumbled, half-asleep, his grip tightening. “Don’t hog the sheets, you twerp.”
“No promises,” Sirius grinned, his voice quiet, and they drifted off, tangled together, no cold gap between them.
The flat was silent, save for the city’s hum—cars, distant laughter, London alive outside. Sirius’s phone buzzed on the coffee table—Regulus, probably, about the full moon—but he didn’t check it, didn’t care. Just Barty, here, warm, real, his black-dyed hair tickling Sirius’s cheek, his promise of no more boys echoing in Sirius’s head.
He woke up hours later, dawn creeping through the curtains, Barty still pressed against him, breathing against his neck, his arm heavy across Sirius’s chest. Sirius grinned, his heart stupidly full, and reached for his phone, ignoring Regulus’s texts to snap a sneaky photo of Barty—hair a mess, lips parted, looking softer than he ever did awake. He didn’t post it, just saved it, a secret for himself. Maybe Barty wasn’t all in—yet—but he’d called, he’d come, he’d stayed, and that was enough for now. Sirius lit a cigarette, careful not to wake Barty, and stared at the ceiling, the flat’s quiet wrapping around them.
Chapter Text
The second Barty stirred from sleep, his arm slung lazily around Sirius’s hip, he blinked groggily, his black-dyed hair a mess against the pillow. Dawn’s light crept through the curtains, painting the room in soft greys. He yawned, then seemed to register where his hand was, snatching it back like Sirius’s skin had burned him, creating a deliberate gap between them on the mattress.
“That never happened,” Barty said, voice rough with sleep, his eyes narrowing as he propped himself on an elbow, trying to look nonchalant.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head. “You’re full of shit.”
“I mean it,” Barty insisted, his smirk flickering but weak, like he was fighting a losing battle.
“What you meant was to cuddle me like I’m your teddy bear,” Sirius teased, his grin smug, relishing Barty’s discomfort.
“Black—” Barty started, warning in his tone, but Sirius cut him off, undeterred.
“You were so soft,” Sirius said, drawing out the word, his smirk widening as Barty’s face twitched.
“I was high,” Barty shot back, rolling his eyes, flopping back onto the pillow like he could escape the conversation.
“You’re always high,” Sirius pointed out, turning onto his side to face him, his voice light but his heart doing that annoying flip at Barty’s proximity.
“God, you fucker,” Barty groaned, exasperated, rubbing his face with both hands, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a grin.
“Yes?” Sirius batted his eyelashes, all mock-innocence, leaning closer just to mess with him.
“Just shut up,” Barty muttered, his voice half-exhausted, half-resigned, shooting Sirius a look that was equal parts annoyed and amused.
“Make me,” Sirius challenged, his smirk daring, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Barty held his gaze for a beat, then moved fast, straddling Sirius in one smooth motion, his knees pinning Sirius’s hips to the bed. He crashed their lips together, tugging Sirius’s Black Sabbath tee up and off, tossing it to the floor. Sirius grinned into the kiss, his hands already in Barty’s hair, because, fuck, Barty could be the most emotionally unavailable prick in the world, but he was his prick, and that was enough for now.
Their clothes vanished in seconds—Barty’s Joy Division tee, Sirius’s loose jeans, boxers, all scattered across the room like a crime scene. Barty’s kisses were hard and raw, all teeth and hunger, his hands steady on Sirius’s skin, mapping him with practiced ease. Sirius kissed back with the same force, his lips trailing to Barty’s neck, sucking hard over the fading hickey from that fifth-year git, determined to cover it with his own mark. Barty laughed through a moan, his head tipping back.
“You possessive shit,” Barty teased, his voice rough, his hands gripping Sirius’s shoulders.
“Shut up,” Sirius fired back, smirking, and flipped them over, straddling Barty’s hips, their cocks brushing as he rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, pulling a groan from Barty’s throat. “You’re so fucking easy.”
Barty yanked him down by his hair, his smirk wicked, muttering a spell for slick, his fingers sliding to Sirius’s hole with infuriating precision. He pushed one in, curling it just right, and Sirius moaned, “Fuck,” his head dropping forward, his hands braced on Barty’s chest.
“So desperate,” Barty teased, adding a second finger, his smirk smug as Sirius rocked back, chasing the sensation, his cock leaking against Barty’s thigh.
“Fuck—God—off,” Sirius panted, half-laughing, half-wrecked, his nails digging into Barty’s shoulders. Barty’s laugh was low and filthy, his fingers working Sirius open, slow and torturous, until Sirius was trembling, his moans louder, echoing in the small bedroom.
“Gonna fuck you proper, princess,” Barty murmured, pulling his fingers out and slicking his cock with another spell, flipping them over again and lining up. He pushed in, slow at first, the stretch burning just right, and Sirius groaned, his legs hooking over Barty’s shoulders, pulling him deeper. Barty’s hands gripped Sirius’s hips, bruising, and he started moving—hard, fast, the bed creaking, the city’s morning hum drowned out by Sirius’s gasps and Barty’s growls.
“Fuck, Barty,” Sirius moaned, his hands fisting in the sheets, his head thrown back as Barty hit that spot, relentless. Barty’s control was fraying, his smirks gone, replaced by raw, desperate gasps, his thrusts growing erratic. Sirius clenched around him, smirking at the curse it pulled from Barty, and reached for his own cock, stroking fast.
“Greedy fucker,” Barty groaned, batting Sirius’s hand away to stroke him himself, rough and perfect, his other hand pinning Sirius’s wrist above his head. Sirius was close, trembling, his moans turning to shouts, and Barty leaned down, biting his collarbone, growling, “Come for me, Sirius.”
Hearing his name—not princess, not Black —sent Sirius over the edge. He came hard, shouting Barty’s name, his vision whiting out, spilling over Barty’s hand and his stomach. Barty followed, thrusting deep, groaning as he came, his grip on Sirius’s hips bruising, collapsing onto him, both of them a sweaty, panting mess.
They lay there, catching their breath, the bed a wreck, the morning light brighter now, filtering through the curtains. Sirius grinned, his body buzzing, and reached for a cigarette from the bedside table, lighting it with a charm.
“Not bad, Crouch,” he said, exhaling smoke, his voice teasing but warm.
“High praise, princess,” Barty smirked, stealing the cigarette for a drag, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, tracing lazy circles over a scar. Sirius’s eyes flicked to Barty’s neck—his fresh mark over the old hickey, bold and claiming, and he grinned, satisfied. No fifth-year git here, just them, fucked out and tangled.
“Round two?” Sirius asked, smirking, already half-hard again, because, fuck it, he was insatiable, and Barty’s smirk was too tempting.
Barty laughed, rough and wicked, rolling to pin Sirius again. “You’re gonna kill me, Black,” he said, but his hands were already roaming, gripping Sirius’s arse, and Sirius kissed him, hard and filthy, ready to lose himself. Round two was slower, Sirius riding Barty, teasing, rolling his hips until Barty was cursing, his hands guiding Sirius’s pace, his moans wrecked. Then Barty flipped them, fucking Sirius deep and deliberate, their gasps mixing, the bed shaking until they came again, shouting, collapsing in a heap.
By noon, they were sprawled across the bed, sheets tangled, bodies sore, the flat smelling of smoke, sex, and takeaway coffee Sirius had charmed from the shop downstairs. Barty was doodling on Sirius’s arm with a Muggle pen—some snake design, because of course—and Sirius was half-asleep, content, Barty’s warmth grounding him.
“You’re such a sap,” Sirius teased, eyeing the doodle, his voice soft.
“Fuck off,” Barty said, smirking, but he didn’t stop drawing, his fingers brushing Sirius’s skin, gentle in a way that made Sirius’s heart flip.
They talked shit—about London’s shite weather, Regulus’s inevitable rant when he found out Sirius was AWOL, how James probably tripped over his own feet during the full moon watch. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Regulus, no doubt—but he ignored it, stealing Barty’s coffee instead, grinning at his mock outrage.
“You staying today?” Sirius asked, echoing their usual post-hookup question, but this time it felt heavier, laced with no more boys promise.
Barty smirked, leaning back, his snake doodle half-done. “Maybe, princess. Got no other boys to run to, right?”
“Right,” Sirius grinned, his chest warm, and he pulled Barty into a lazy kiss, soft and unhurried, just because he could.
They spent the day in the flat—smoking, fucking again by evening, ordering pizza, arguing over movies. Barty picked Fight Club, Sirius called it “pretentious wank,” but they watched it anyway, Sirius’s head on Barty’s shoulder and Barty’s smirk Sirius’s new addiction.
As the clock ticked close to ten p.m., the flat was a cozy mess—pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table, the ashtray overflowing, and the faint hum of London seeping through the window. Sirius and Barty were sprawled in bed, naked under the sheets, the neon glow from the streetlights casting soft shadows across their skin. Sirius was half-dozing, Barty’s arm lazily draped over his thigh, when his phone started buzzing like a possessed Snitch. Regulus. Again. The screen lit up with texts: PICK UP YOU NERK and SIRIUS ISTG IM GOIN TO FUCKING KILL YOU. Sirius sighed, rolling his eyes, but the buzzing didn’t stop, Regulus calling like a man possessed.
“Fuck’s sake,” Sirius muttered, grabbing the phone after the fifth ring, swiping to answer. “Yes?” he said, all innocent, pretending he wasn’t tangled in bed with his brother’s best mate, Barty’s smirk already forming beside him.
“Why the fuck aren’t you picking up?” Regulus snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, the classic Black temper in full swing.
“I’ve been busy,” Sirius said, evasive, stealing a cigarette from Barty’s pack on the bedside table and lighting it with a charm. Barty, the nosy git, leaned closer, clearly eavesdropping, his grin wicked. “What’s up?”
“I had a fight with James,” Regulus said, his tone bitter, dripping with that my-boyfriend-is-an-idiot vibe Sirius had heard way too many times.
“About?” Sirius asked, taking a drag, passing the cigarette to Barty, who smirked like he was enjoying the drama.
“You,” Regulus said, and Sirius nearly choked on his exhale.
“Me?!” he asked, sitting up slightly, the sheets slipping to his waist.
“He said you should’ve at least offered to help during the full moon,” Regulus explained, his voice tight, like he was reliving the argument. “I said you should at most turn into a dog and piss on Lupin, and he was all, ‘Reg, it’s not fucking funny!’ and I was like, ‘James, you’re such a Gryffindor idiot.’”
Barty, the absolute motherfucker, let out a soundless laugh, his shoulders shaking, and Sirius kicked his shin under the sheets, but—damn—he was laughing too, biting his lip to keep it quiet. Regulus was relentless, and Sirius loved him for it, even if he was a prick sometimes.
“Anyway,” Regulus sighed, the fight clearly draining him. “I gave him the talk, he apologized— because, of course —and said I was right, obviously. But now he’s locked in the guest room with Lupin and that rat.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, exhaling smoke. “And you’re okay?” he asked, deciding to sidestep the full moon drama. James was Gryffindor to the bone, all noble and guilty, but Regulus seemed to have shaken some sense into him.
“Yeah,” Regulus said, his voice softening. “But, um, I think you need to stay in London for another day or two.”
Sirius cocked an eyebrow, leaning back against the headboard. “Why?”
“Lupin kinda… you know what, never mind,” Regulus said, backtracking fast, like he’d almost spilled something he shouldn’t.
Sirius decided—yeah, never mind. He wasn’t touching that mess.
“Alright,” he said, stretching out, the sheets rustling. “You can come over if Prongs pisses you off again,” he added, grinning.
Regulus snorted, the sound almost fond. “Yeah, maybe I will. What’re you even doing there?”
Sirius needed every ounce of willpower not to blurt Barty Crouch Jr. is currently naked next to me. “Binge-watching and shit, y’know,” he said instead, keeping it vague. “Gonna check on Liz tomorrow, though.”
Regulus hummed, sounding satisfied. “Alright. Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
“You too,” Sirius said, hanging up and tossing the phone onto the bedside table with a clatter. He took a drag from the cigarette, exhaling slowly, and caught Barty eyeing him, one eyebrow raised, his smirk curious.
“So why really you’re here instead of at Potter’s?” Barty asked, stealing the cigarette, his voice teasing but probing.
Sirius rolled his eyes, snatching it back. “Told you already. Full moon shit.”
“You’re full of shit,” Barty said, smirking, leaning closer, his bare shoulder brushing Sirius’s.
“Yeah, but I’m not spilling,” Sirius shrugged, grinning to deflect. “Gonna stay here for a couple more days, though.”
Barty squinted, like he was trying to crack Sirius’s skull open and read his thoughts, but he let it go, his smirk softening. “Fine,” he said, stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he added, “Shower sex?”
Sirius laughed, already swinging his legs off the bed. “If you make that ‘drop the soap’ joke again, I’m hexing your balls off,” he warned, but his grin was wide, his heart light.
Barty just smirked, smacking Sirius’s arse as they headed to the bathroom, the prick he was. The flat’s tiny bathroom was barely big enough for two, the tiles cracked, the showerhead temperamental, but they made it work. Barty pushed Sirius against the wall, the cold tiles making him hiss, and kissed him hard, water spraying around them, steam filling the air. Sirius kissed back, his hands in Barty’s wet hair, tugging the black-dyed strand, laughing into his mouth when Barty muttered a spell for slick, his fingers already teasing.
“Fucking impatient,” Sirius gasped, his legs wrapping around Barty’s waist as Barty lifted him, pinning him against the wall, the water making everything slick and messy.
“Says you,” Barty shot back, smirking, pushing in slow, the stretch perfect, Sirius’s moans echoing off the tiles.
It was fast, rough, the showerhead rattling, Barty’s hands bruising Sirius’s hips, Sirius’s nails leaving red lines down Barty’s back. They came shouting, laughing, slipping in the cramped space, Barty’s smirk smug as he steadied Sirius, both of them panting under the lukewarm spray.
“Worth the hex risk?” Barty teased, grabbing a towel, tossing one to Sirius.
“Barely,” Sirius grinned, drying off, his body buzzing, his heart stupidly full.
They stumbled back to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed, still damp, the sheets a wreck. Barty lit another cigarette, passing it to Sirius, their fingers brushing, and they sprawled there, talking shit—Regulus’s savage takedown of James, how Peter probably squeaked during the full moon watch, whether Liz’s shop had any new vinyl worth stealing.
“You sticking around tomorrow?” Sirius asked, voice casual but his chest tight, the no more boys promise hanging between them.
Barty smirked, exhaling smoke, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh. “Maybe, princess. Got no other plans, and you’re a decent distraction.”
“Decent?” Sirius scoffed, shoving him, but he was grinning, leaning into Barty’s warmth.
They stayed up past midnight, watching Pulp Fiction, arguing over whether Tarantino was a genius or a wanker, Barty’s head on Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Regulus again, probably—but he ignored it, content with Barty’s snark, his cigarette, his maybe.
For the sake of his own sanity, Sirius spent the days leading up to Christmas dinner in London, holed up in his Camden flat. He didn’t need to risk running into Remus by accident at Godric’s Hollow or sulk alone in one of the Potters’ rooms when Barty was right here, all smirks and chaos, keeping his days and nights electric. They hadn’t labeled whatever they were—no boyfriends, no sappy declarations, just that no more boys promise keeping things exclusive. Sirius was fine with it, honestly. He knew better than to push Barty, who’d probably bolt at the first hint of anything too serious. Besides, things weren’t that different—except now they kissed just because, soft and lazy in the morning light, and Barty fell asleep pressed against him, his arm slung over Sirius’s waist (still insisting it wasn’t cuddling, the git).
They didn’t snuggle on the couch, didn’t hold hands, and neither played with the other’s hair—though Sirius was dying to run his fingers through Barty’s, just to see if he’d melt or hex him. They stuck to their usual chaos: smoking joints, popping Molly, fucking over and over until the flat smelled of sex and weed, the sheets a permanent wreck. One night, high as a kite and half-asleep, Sirius mumbled, “Liked your green hair strand you had for years,” his voice slurring into the pillow. He woke the next morning to Barty’s black-dyed strand gone, replaced with that vibrant green, catching the dawn light like a charm. Sirius laughed, his heart stupidly full, and called him a sap, which ended with Barty bending him over the tiny kitchen table, leaving bruises on his hips and a smug grin on both their faces.
“Worth it,” Sirius panted afterward, stealing Barty’s coffee, his body buzzing, Barty’s green strand a neon tease in his peripheral vision.
The record shop Uncle Alphard left him was doing fine, and Liz reassured him she was cool handling things for a few more months. “Go live your rockstar life, Black,” she said, tossing him a new Joy Division vinyl. Barty, predictably, nicked a Cramps record when Liz wasn’t looking, and Sirius didn’t bat an eye—he’d have done the same. They had fun outside the flat too, grabbing greasy burgers at a diner, coffees at a hipster café, and—for the first time—kissing in public, quick and defiant under London’s grey skies. It was stupidly nice, and Sirius was already rolling his eyes at their decision to keep it secret.
Because, yeah, they’d had that talk. Sirius’s “Reg is gonna freak out,” met with Barty’s “He’ll fucking kill me.” They’d agreed to keep their… whatever it was under wraps, at least for now.
“We’ll tell them one day,” Sirius had said, shrugging, sprawled on the couch, joint in hand. “Like, when you finally admit you actually like me.”
“Bite me,” Barty fired back, smirking from the floor, his head tipped back against Sirius’s knee.
So Sirius leaned down, bit his shoulder, and they fucked right there, classic move, laughing through their moans. Some things never changed.
The real kicker came the day before Sirius was set to head back to Godric’s Hollow. Barty, lounging in bed, cigarette dangling from his lips, mentioned he had an appointment for a new tattoo and maybe a piercing or two. “Wanna come, princess?” he asked, smirking, like he knew Sirius couldn’t resist.
“Obviously,” Sirius said, already pulling on his leather jacket, his heart racing at the thought of Barty under the needle, all inked and reckless.
The studio was tucked between an old bookshop and a flower shop in Diagon Alley’s shadier end, run by a grizzled mid-aged wizard named Dax, who’d done all of Barty’s tattoos and piercings. The place smelled of ink, antiseptic, and sage, walls plastered with spell-enchanted sketches that slithered and glowed. Dax greeted Barty with a nod, eyeing Sirius like he was trouble—which, fair. Sirius sprawled in a chair, watching Barty strip off his shirt, revealing the constellation of ink across his chest and arms, and settle into the tattoo chair like it was a throne.
Barty got thorns etched along his V-line, sharp and winding, the needle buzzing as Dax worked, Barty’s jaw tight but his smirk intact. Sirius couldn’t stop staring, his mouth dry, the design screaming Barty —dangerous, untamed, fucking hot. When Dax finished, Barty stood, stretching, the fresh ink glistening, and Sirius had to grip the chair to stay put, his jeans suddenly too tight.
“Your turn, Black,” Barty teased, winking, and Sirius grinned, reckless and ready.
He hadn’t planned on it, but fuck it. He peeled off his shirt, ignoring Dax’s raised eyebrow, and told him, “Something big. Snake, maybe, down my spine.” Dax sketched a massive serpent, its scales shimmering with a charm to shift colors under light, and Sirius lay face-down, the needle’s sting grounding him as Barty watched, his smirk lethal.
“Gonna cry, princess?” Barty taunted, leaning close, his green strand brushing Sirius’s cheek.
“Bite me,” Sirius shot back, grinning through the pain, and Barty laughed, staying there, his hand brushing Sirius’s arm, warm and distracting.
Sirius left with the snake curling from his neck to his lower back, its eyes glowing faintly, and—on a whim—a silver belly piercing that caught the light when he moved. Barty’s eyes darkened when he saw it, his smirk turning predatory, and Sirius knew he’d made the right call.
Back at the flat, they barely made it through the door before tearing each other’s clothes off, the new ink and piercing driving them wild. Barty’s hands traced Sirius’s snake, his lips on the belly piercing, muttering, “Fuck, Black, you’re unreal.” Sirius returned the favor, his tongue teasing Barty’s V-line thorns, earning moans that echoed off the walls. They fucked on the couch, then the bed, then against the kitchen counter, the new piercings and tattoos adding a thrill to every touch, every gasp.
After, sprawled in bed, pizza box between them, Sirius stole a slice, grinning at Barty’s mock glare. “You’re a sap for the green hair,” he teased, nodding at Barty’s strand, now vivid against the pillow.
“Shut up,” Barty said, smirking, tossing a crust at him, but his hand stayed on Sirius’s thigh.
They talked—about Dax’s weird stories, how Regulus would lose it over their ink, whether Liz’s shop had any Sex Pistols vinyl left. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Regulus, probably checking—but Sirius didn’t check it, too caught up in Barty’s laugh, his warmth, the promise of another day in London.
“You coming to Potter’s for New Year’s?” Sirius asked, voice casual but hopeful, the thought of Barty’s birthday looming.
“Princess,” Barty said, smirking. “If I can survive you, I can survive that.”
Sirius laughed, leaning into him, their kiss soft, pizza-flavored, no rush.
“What’re you gonna do when I’m gone, though? Cry after me?” he teased, smirking, his voice light but his chest tight at the thought of leaving for Godric’s Hollow tomorrow.
“You wish,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, his smirk sharp but warm. “I’m going to Christmas dinner at Rosie’s.”
Sirius blinked, his smirk faltering. “Huh?”
“What?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly amused by Sirius’s confusion.
“Really?” Sirius asked, baffled, sitting up slightly, the sheets pooling at his waist.
Barty laughed, the sound a little humorless, his gaze flicking to the ceiling. “What, you think you and Archie are the only ones who got adopted?”
Sirius blinked again, his mouth opening, then closing. They never talked about family shit—Sirius’s parents disowning him, Barty’s dad being a Ministry prick—it was too raw, too vulnerable, and they didn’t do vulnerable. Not really.
“Well…” Sirius shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, his snake tattoo shifting under the movement. “I mean, kinda, yeah. You never said anything.”
Barty shrugged back, his smirk faint, his eyes guarded for a moment. “No need to dwell on that, Black. Life’s shit enough without dragging it up.”
“God, you’re so broody,” Sirius said, grinning to lighten the mood, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing Barty’s.
“You’re a sucker for it,” Barty shot back, his smirk returning, his voice teasing, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, warm and steady.
“I’m a sucker in general,” Sirius said smoothly, winking, stealing a quick kiss just because he could.
Barty laughed, loud and unguarded, the sound bright and rare, echoing in the small room. Sirius was hearing it more often lately—those real, unfiltered laughs—and, fuck, he was living for it, his heart doing that traitorous flip every time. He wanted to bottle that sound, keep it for the days when Barty’s walls went back up, when his smirks hid more than they showed.
They fell asleep tangled together, Barty’s arm slung around Sirius’s waist, Sirius’s face buried in the crook of Barty’s neck, inhaling the mix of sex-sweat, smoke, and that faint cologne that still clung to Barty’s skin, sharp and cedar-like. Sirius wondered, half-drifting, how the hell that was possible—Barty had been crashing here for days, no cologne bottle in sight. But they were wizards, after all. Weirder shit happened, like falling for a git who claimed he didn’t cuddle but held Sirius like he was afraid he’d vanish.
The next morning, Sirius woke to Barty’s green strand tickling his cheek, the git still asleep, his breath steady, his arm heavy across Sirius’s chest. He grinned, snapping a mental picture—Barty soft, vulnerable, no smirk in sight. He didn’t move, not wanting to break the spell, but his phone buzzed on the bedside table, pulling him back to reality. Probably Regulus, nagging about Christmas dinner. Sirius ignored it, stealing a cigarette instead, lighting it with a charm, the smoke curling toward the ceiling.
Barty stirred, groaning, his hand sliding to Sirius’s hip, gripping lightly. “Too early, princess,” he mumbled, voice rough, eyes still closed.
“Lazy git,” Sirius teased, exhaling smoke, passing the cigarette to Barty, who took it without opening his eyes, dragging like it was muscle memory.
They stayed in bed, trading lazy kisses, the kind that weren’t leading anywhere, just soft and warm, Barty’s piercing catching Sirius’s lip, making him laugh. “Fancy,” Sirius said, smirking, tugging the green strand. “This staying for Rosier’s dinner?”
“Maybe,” Barty said, smirking back, his hand tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo, slow and deliberate. “You jealous, Black?”
“Of Rosier? Nah,” Sirius lied, grinning, because—okay, maybe a tiny bit, but he wasn’t admitting that. “Just don’t let him steal my spot.”
Barty laughed, that unguarded sound again, and pulled Sirius closer, their legs tangling. “No one’s stealing shit, princess,” he said, his voice low, almost serious, and Sirius’s heart flipped, hope sparking despite his better judgment.
They spent the morning in the flat, Barty stealing Sirius’s coffee, Sirius nicking Barty’s hoodie—green, to match the hair, because he was a sap. They argued over breakfast—Sirius wanted to charm pancakes, Barty demanded bacon—and ended up with burnt toast, laughing through their complaints. Sirius checked on the record shop later, Liz waving him off with, “All good, Black, go snog your mystery boy.” Sirius didn’t correct her, just grinned, pocketing a Clash vinyl for Barty, who’d probably nick it anyway.
Back at the flat, they smoked a joint, sprawled on the couch, Pulp Fiction playing again because Barty insisted it was “classic.” Sirius called it overrated, sparking another debate, Barty’s hand on his thigh, Sirius’s head resting on his shoulder. “You’re gonna miss this when I’m at Prongs’s,” Sirius teased, nudging him.
“Keep dreaming,” Barty said, smirking, but his hand tightened, and Sirius grinned, knowing he wasn’t imagining the warmth in Barty’s voice.
Before Sirius left for Godric’s Hollow, they fucked one last time—slow, almost gentle, Barty’s hands tracing Sirius’s new piercing, Sirius’s lips on Barty’s V-line thorns, their gasps quiet, the flat their bubble. After, Sirius packed his bag, Barty lounging on the bed, watching him with that unreadable smirk.
“Don’t do anything stupid at Rosier’s,” Sirius said, zipping his backpack, his voice light but his chest tight.
“No promises,” Barty said, winking, tossing Sirius’s leather jacket at him. “Don’t cry without me, princess.”
Sirius laughed, catching it, and stole a final kiss, Barty’s green strand brushing his cheek, his cologne lingering. “See you for New Year’s, prick,” he said, heading out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The Potter house was a warm, chaotic bubble of Christmas prep when Sirius stepped in, the smell of Euphemia’s roasting turkey and fresh pine hitting him like a hug. He barely had time to drop his backpack before Regulus cornered him in the hallway, grey eyes narrowing, ready to launch into his usual mix of complaints and interrogation.
“What were you doing in London?” Regulus demanded, arms crossed, his tone half-annoyed, half-curious, already ranting about James. “James was insufferable, going on about you and the full moon, and I had to deal with his Gryffindor guilt trip all week.”
“Nothing, really,” Sirius shrugged, leaning against the wall, his leather jacket still on, trying to keep his grin neutral. “Watched a few movies, smoked some weed.”
Regulus sighed, rolling his eyes. “So, better than it was here,” he summarized, and—yep—he was right, even if he had no clue what he was actually summarizing.
“Pretty much,” Sirius said, smirking, dodging further questions as Regulus launched into another rant about James’s “hero complex”. Sirius cackled, shoving past him to head upstairs, but his mind was already drifting to Barty—his laugh, his thorns tattoo, that almost-soft last fuck before Sirius left London.
He’d barely kicked off his boots in his room when James strolled in, closing the door behind him, looking like a kicked puppy, all slumped shoulders and messy hair. “Mate, I don’t actually think what I said to Reg,” he said, his Gryffindor bravery on full display, like he was confessing to a crime.
Sirius just laughed, flopping onto the bed, his mood too high to care—Barty’s chaos had him floating, and no amount of full moon drama could drag him down. In any other circumstances, he’d probably have rioted, but today? Nah.
“It’s fine, Prongs,” he grinned, tossing a pillow at him. “At least Reg made you see sense, huh?”
“Yeah,” James said, rolling his eyes, but there was a fond smile tugging at his lips. “And banned me from sex, the git.”
Sirius cackled, loud and bright. “Dude, too much info.”
“Yeah, sorry,” James grinned, perching on the edge of the bed. “So, what’d you do in London? You look all… glowy.”
Sirius cursed internally, his grin freezing. He remembered teasing Barty about Regulus saying he was glowing after a hookup, and now James was pulling the same shit. No way was he telling Barty about this—the prick would never let him live it down, smirking and calling him sap for weeks.
“Well,” Sirius said, recovering, his grin turning sly, “got a new tattoo. And a belly piercing.”
“What?! Show me!” James gasped, eyes wide, leaning forward like a kid at a Quidditch match.
Sirius laughed, standing to pull off his shirt, turning to show off the massive snake tattoo curling down his spine, its scales shimmering faintly under the charmed ink. He lifted his shirt higher, flashing the silver belly piercing, catching the lamplight.
James whistled, low and impressed. “Damn, mate.”
“I know,” Sirius said, smirking, tugging his shirt back on.
“That’s such a bottom thing to do,” James said, laughing, dodging the pillow Sirius chucked at him.
“Obviously,” Sirius shot back, grinning, unbothered.
He didn’t ask about the full moon, and James didn’t bring it up, thank Merlin. They fell into easy chatter, slagging off the Christmas dinner prep—James with his usual, “We’re literally atheists! And Egyptian!” and Sirius with a fond, “Can’t wait to see Andy, though. You know Nymphadora’s, like, four now? She’s probably causing havoc.”
“Bet she’s got Ted wrapped around her finger,” James said, grinning, and they laughed, picturing Andromeda’s kid running wild, probably changing her hair color every five minutes.
But no matter how much Sirius leaned into the Potter house chaos—Euphemia’s cooking, Monty’s terrible Muggle Christmas records, Regulus’s snark—his mind kept circling back to Barty. The way he stayed close during sleep now, his arm slung over Sirius’s waist, no gap between them. The way they kissed just because—okay, Sirius initiated most of those, soft and quick in the flat’s quiet moments, but Barty kissed back, slow and warm, and Sirius didn’t mind being the instigator. That last fuck, almost gentle, Barty’s hands tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo, his lips on the nipple piercing, had Sirius’s heart racing even now, hours later.
Damn it.
He was falling for Barty faster than he’d ever fallen for anyone, and he prayed to every deity—Muggle, wizard, whatever—that he wouldn’t get his heart shattered again.
Later, at dinner, the table was a riot—Euphemia piling plates with turkey and mash, Monty pouring wine, Andromeda and Ted arriving with Nymphadora, who immediately turned her hair neon pink and demanded Sirius’s attention. “Unca Sirius!” she squealed, climbing into his lap, and he laughed, letting her steal his roast potatoes, his heart warm. Regulus shot him a look across the table, like he knew Sirius was hiding something, but didn’t push. James, still on thin ice, was extra attentive to Regulus, earning an eye-roll but a faint smile.
Dumbledore was there too, twinkling eyes and all, sipping wine like he wasn’t running a school full of chaos. Alastor Moody stumped around, muttering about “constant vigilance” between bites of turkey, his magical eye swiveling. Hagrid, massive and grinning, took up half the table, swapping stories with Sirius and James, who loved the guy’s knack for trouble—obviously. Half the Ministry showed up too, suits and all, probably sniffing for gossip or a free meal. Peter was there with his parents, looking twitchy, and Sirius deliberately avoided him. The twat had picked Remus’s side over staying neutral, so screw him—Sirius wasn’t wasting his night on that traitor.
Instead, he spent most of the evening with Nymphadora, who was the best distraction in the room. The four-year-old was a riot, showing off her Metamorphmagus tricks like a tiny rockstar. They were sprawled on the living room floor, legs crossed, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and Euphemia’s enchanted fairy lights flickering overhead.
“Do the piggy one,” Sirius grinned, leaning back on his hands, his leather jacket slung over a chair nearby.
Nymphadora giggled, her pink hair a wild halo around her little head, and scrunched her face, turning her nose into a perfect pig snout. Sirius laughed, loud and unapologetic, the sound cutting through the Ministry chatter in the next room. “That’s brilliant, Dora,” he said, clapping.
“Y’know,” she said, tilting her head, her nose popping back to normal, “maybe I’ll have hair like yours. Super cool.”
“Thanks,” Sirius beamed, ruffling her hair, now shifting to a bright purple. “But yours are cute.” He pouted, pinching her cheek, because—God—she was absolutely adorable, gap-toothed grin and all.
“I know!” she said, puffing out her chest, her hair flashing bubblegum pink again. “That’s Daddy’s favorite color of my hair!”
Ted, passing by with a plate of mince pies, chuckled. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, Sirius.”
“Damn right,” Sirius said, winking at Nymphadora, who stuck out her tongue, turning it green for effect. He laughed, but even her Metamorphmagus chaos couldn’t stop his mind from drifting to Barty—his green hair strand, that unguarded laugh, the way he’d kissed Sirius soft and slow before he left London.
Fuck, he missed him.
When Nymphadora ran off to show Andromeda her latest trick—a pair of cat ears—Sirius slipped out to the backyard, the cold December air sharp against his face. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling under the starry sky, and pulled out his phone. Barty hadn’t texted since that morning, just a random felix asked me to charm his quill to answer for him on quizzes, little twink, which had made Sirius snort but also left him itching for more. He typed, leaning against the garden wall.
sirius: miss me, prick?
It took Barty a whole three minutes to reply, and Sirius grinned when his phone buzzed, already knowing he’d won this round.
crouch 💀🔫: u wish
sirius: so you do
crouch 💀🔫: shut up
Sirius laughed, his breath fogging in the cold, his fingers flying over the screen.
sirius: how’s your dinner tho?
crouch 💀🔫: evan’s mum keeps trying to feed me more potatoes. send help
sirius: well my niece is a metamorphmagus and kept doing shit like changing her entire face and that’s like the coolest shit ever
crouch 💀🔫: really?
sirius:
duh
sirius:
if i was one i’d make my dick smaller since you choke on it, just to be nice
crouch 💀🔫: that’s so delusional of you
sirius: that you choke?
crouch 💀🔫: that you have a big dick
Sirius gasped, mock-betrayed, his laugh echoing in the quiet garden.
sirius: you prick
crouch 💀🔫: 😌
He was still grinning, cigarette forgotten, when James poked his head out the back door. “Oi, mate, you hiding from Moody’s war stories or what?”
“Nah, just needed a smoke,” Sirius said, pocketing his phone, his mood too high to be dragged down, even by Moody’s paranoia. He followed James back inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him, Nymphadora immediately latching onto his arm, demanding he watch her turn her hair into a rainbow. “Look, Unca Sirius!” she squealed, and he laughed, hoisting her onto his shoulders, her giggles infectious.
The night rolled on—Dumbledore telling some cryptic story about a phoenix, Hagrid knocking over a wine glass, Regulus shooting Sirius suspicious looks across the room, like he knew Sirius was hiding something. Sirius just winked at him, dodging questions, keeping Barty’s name locked tight. He didn’t need Regulus’s freakout, not when things with Barty were good—better than good, honestly.
Later, sprawled on the couch with James, both of them stealing mince pies from a tray Euphemia left out, Sirius let himself relax. “Dora’s gonna be trouble when she’s older,” he said, grinning, picturing her hexing her way through Hogwarts.
“Like you’re not trouble now,” James teased, nudging him. “That tattoo’s wild, mate. Reg said it’s ‘peak Sirius chaos.’”
“Damn right,” Sirius said, smirking.
His phone buzzed again—Barty, with a blurry photo of Evan passed out on a couch, captioned lightweight. Sirius snorted, typing back: you’re next, sap. Barty’s reply was instant: keep dreaming, princess.
Sirius’s heart flipped, and he shoved his phone away before James could notice his grin. He didn’t want to think about the full moon, Peter’s betrayal, or Remus’s silence—just Barty, London, and the promise of New Year’s, Barty’s birthday, their next collision. He rejoined Nymphadora, who was now turning her eyes into stars, and laughed, letting her drag him into her chaos.
The days after Christmas dinner at the Potter house were a blur of lazy chaos for Sirius. He split his time between texting Barty— fine, it was mostly sexting, but who cared when Barty’s texts were that filthy? —and lounging with James and Regulus on James’s massive bed, the three of them sprawled like a pile of puppies. They drank butterbeers, demolished bags of crisps and chocolate frogs, and watched Muggle football on James’s TV, half-baffled by the sport’s appeal.
“I mean,” James said, tilting his head at the screen, a butterbeer dangling from his hand, “maybe, like, straight guys are into it or something.”
Regulus, sprawled half on the bed and half across James’s chest, snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, very straight to get worked up over twenty-two guys chasing one ball.”
Sirius cackled, nearly spilling his drink, tossing a crisp at Regulus. “God, Reg, you’re brutal.”
They were also deep in planning—well, stressing—about the New Year’s Eve party James was hosting. James was already regretting it, muttering about how half of Hogwarts was bound to crash, Regulus whining that Evan would inevitably get wasted and break something, like the vase he’d smashed last year. Sirius just grinned, lounging against the headboard, saying, “You’ll see the slutty top I’m gonna wear. Absolute game-changer.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, predictably. “You’re insufferable.”
Sirius’s phone buzzed mid-conversation, a text from Barty: bet you’ll last ten minutes when i finally fuck you. Sirius smirked, typing back: bold of you to assume i’m not jerking off daily to keep form, his grin widening at Barty’s near-instant reply: prove it, princess. He bit his lip, half-tempted to send a photo, but James’s voice snapped him back.
“Oi, Pads,” James said, nudging him with his foot. “Why’re you looking like you just watched an edit of Pedro Pascal?”
Sirius laughed, tossing his phone onto the bed. “Told you, mate. Tattoo’s making me glow.” He winked, dodging the truth, because no way was he spilling about Barty—not with Regulus right there, ready to sniff out secrets.
Regulus rolled his eyes again, muttering, “God, you’re unbearable,” but there was a fond edge to it, and Sirius just grinned, stealing another crisp.
The night before New Year’s Eve, Sirius was sprawled in his room, mid-text to Barty, when Regulus slipped in, looking soft and vulnerable in James’s oversized hoodie and dark green pajama pants. Sirius squinted, locking his phone— thank God he wasn’t jerking off—and sat up.
“You have a nightmare, Reggie?” he asked, voice gentle.
Regulus winced, nodding slightly. “Yeah.”
“C’mon,” Sirius said, scooting over to make space on the bed. Regulus slipped in beside him, resting his head on Sirius’s shoulder in a rare show of affection, his breathing uneven.
Sirius stayed quiet, knowing better than to babble when Regulus was like this, letting the silence settle like a charm.
“So,” Regulus finally said, breaking the quiet, his voice low. “You’re seeing someone, huh?”
Sirius cursed their twin-telepathy, or whatever freaky Black sibling bond let Regulus read him like a book.
“Yeah,” he admitted, keeping it vague, his heart picking up.
“Who?” Regulus pressed, lifting his head to look at him, eyes sharp despite the nightmare’s shadow.
“Can’t say,” Sirius said, dodging, running a hand through his hair.
“Sirius—”
“I will someday, really,” Sirius said, almost whining, his voice earnest. “But… it’s kinda fresh, and… y’know.”
Regulus exhaled, studying him, then nodded. “Anyone I know?”
Oh, you have no idea how well.
“Yeah,” he said, careful. “But we’re keeping it lowkey, so can you not yap to Prongs? He’ll start digging immediately.”
Regulus chuckled, weak but genuine. “Yeah, fair. He’d start planning your wedding.”
Sirius grinned, relaxing. “Obviously.”
They talked about the party—Barty’s eighteenth birthday, Evan probably spilling his mystery boyfriend’s name while drunk, the inevitable chaos of a hundred Hogwarts kids crashing James’s place. Regulus’s voice grew heavy, his nightmare fading, and by midnight, he was dozing off, his head still on Sirius’s arm, his breathing steady. Sirius smiled, soft and protective, and grabbed his phone as it buzzed.
crouch 💀🔫: u sleep, princess?
sirius:
nah, reg came over
sirius:
asked me if im seeing someone
sirius:
istg it’s the damn twin telepathy
crouch 💀🔫: yk that’s not a real thing, right?
sirius:
ur saying that cause u dont have a twin lol
sirius:
ask evan and panda, they’ll confirm
crouch 💀🔫: they’d lie just to mess with me
sirius: twins supremacy, baby
crouch 💀🔫:
🙄
crouch 💀🔫:
ur useless
crouch 💀🔫:
kinda an idiot
sirius:
aw, not a total idiot?
sirius:
that’s almost a compliment by ur standards
sirius:
ur getting soft on me
crouch 💀🔫 : keep dreaming, black
Sirius rolled his eyes, grinning, but then midnight struck, and—call him a sentimental idiot—Barty’s birthday officially began.
sirius: happy birthday, prick
crouch 💀🔫:
thanks, princess
crouch 💀🔫:
countin on birthday sex, just so y’know
Sirius snorted, careful not to wake Regulus.
sirius:
obvi
sirius:
i may let u tie me up to the bed or whatever kinky shit ur into
crouch 💀🔫: wow, birthday just got better
Sirius chuckled, his heart stupidly warm, and kept texting Barty, their banter flowing—Barty teasing about the party, Sirius promising to wear that slutty top, Barty demanding photos. They traded jabs about Evan’s mystery boyfriend, Pandora’s tarot obsession, and whether James’s party would end in a fire. Sirius’s eyes grew heavy, but he didn’t stop, Barty’s texts keeping him buzzing, the promise of tomorrow sparking in his chest.
By dawn, light crept through the curtains, and Sirius was still awake, Regulus snoring softly beside him, Barty’s last text— see u tomorrow, princess. don’t choke on that top —glowing on his screen. He grinned, typing back: choke on me instead, sap. He set his phone down, careful not to jostle Regulus, and stared at the ceiling, the Potter house quiet except for Monty’s faint snores downstairs.
Chapter Text
By morning, the Potter house was buzzing with pre-party prep, and Euphemia and Monty gathered Sirius, James, and Regulus in the living room, the fireplace crackling behind them, their trunks packed for a quick trip. Effie stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at James and Sirius like they were already guilty of something.
“Do not,” she began, her voice sharp, “I repeat, do not let anyone go to the basement and touch my potions.”
“Yes, Mum,” Sirius and James said in unison, nodding like obedient schoolboys, though Sirius’s grin was all mischief.
Effie squinted, unconvinced, then turned to Regulus. “Keep them in line, Reggie,” she sighed, her tone softer.
“We can control the party!” James huffed, crossing his arms, his glasses slipping down his nose.
“Your mother meant you two,” Monty said, grinning, his eyes twinkling. “And stay away from my stash,” he added, pointing at Sirius.
Sirius’s grin turned sinful. “Of course.”
Monty just sighed, shaking his head. “Just don’t drink all of it, son,” he said, resigned, and Sirius laughed, loud and bright.
After a flurry of warnings— no hexes in the house, no fireworks indoors, no sneaking into the attic —goodbye hugs, and a promise to be back in a few days, Effie and Monty vanished through the Floo, off to Luxor. James clapped his hands, grinning at Sirius and Regulus like a general rallying his troops.
“Chop chop, we need to hide everything breakable,” he said, already levitating a vase toward a closet.
And so they did—vases, paintings, half the kitchenware, all charmed into cupboards or banished to the attic. Gooney, the Potters’ house-elf, was in the kitchen, whipping up trays of snacks, muttering under his breath, “At least we have Master Regulus to control the inevitable chaos.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, leaning close to Regulus as they charmed the dining room chandelier to stay put. “Isn’t it funny how all the Potters think you’re innocent?”
Regulus grinned, his wand flicking. “If you tell them how I got high, turned into a cat, and couldn’t change back for two days at that rave in September, I’m disowning you,” he said, his voice low but teasing.
Sirius cackled, nudging him. “My lips are sealed, you feral little beast.”
By afternoon Barty and Evan stepped through, bringing a wave of chaos with them. Sirius’s heart did at least ten cartwheels the second he saw Barty—fuck, he’d either missed him bad or forgotten how unfairly hot the git was. Barty wore baggy black jeans, a tight turtleneck hugging his frame, and a long leather coat, his green hair strand vivid, his smirk sharp enough to cut when he caught Sirius’s stare. Sirius’s jeans felt tighter already, his new belly piercing tingling under his shirt.
James, oblivious, sighed with relief. “Alright,” he said, ever the party planner, “we need to hit Tesco or something and buy, like, everything. You drove here, right?” he asked Evan.
“Yeah, parked on the curb,” Evan grinned, tossing his keys in the air.
Sirius half-listened as Evan launched into a story about casting Confundus on his driving examiner because he couldn’t parallel park for shit—five times, apparently. But a car was priceless for this mission: gallons of vodka, tequila, gin, and enough six-packs to drown a Quidditch team.
“Great,” James said, clapping his hands. “Pads and I’ll drive with you, c’mon.”
Sirius cursed inwardly, his eyes flicking to Barty, who was already smirking like he knew Sirius wanted to drag him upstairs and fuck him senseless. Not now, Prongs, he thought, but kept his face blank.
“No, no, no,” Evan said, raising a hand. “I want Archie. He can, like, handle logistics and shit.”
Evan’s gaze flickered to Barty for the briefest second, and Barty rolled his eyes, barely noticeable. Sirius squinted, his stomach twisting. Fuck, did the prick tell Evan about us?
But James, bless his oblivious heart, nodded. “Fair enough. Babe, you’re with us. Let’s go.”
The three of them headed out, leaving Sirius alone with Barty in the now-quiet house.
The door barely clicked shut before Sirius rounded on him, arms crossed.
“You told him?” he snapped, voice low.
“No, I didn’t,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto an armchair, his turtleneck stretching over his chest. “Now, come on, I haven’t fucked you in four days, and I’m already hard.” He grabbed Sirius’s wrist, dragging him toward the stairs, his smirk wicked.
And that—fuck—that shut Sirius up, his protests dying as heat pooled in his gut. He followed Barty to his room, the door slamming shut behind them, Barty’s hands already on him, yanking his shirt off, lips crashing against his.
“Happy fucking birthday to me,” Barty growled, pushing Sirius onto the bed, his green hair catching the light, his tongue piercing glinting as he smirked.
“Cocky git,” Sirius grinned, kicking off his jeans, his belly piercing sparkling as he sprawled back, legs spread, Barty’s eyes darkening at the sight, raking over the snake tattoo curling down Sirius’s spine. “Gonna tie me up like you promised, birthday boy?”
Barty’s smirk turned positively feral, and he flicked his wand, muttering a charm. Silky black ropes materialized, slithering like snakes, coiling around Sirius’s wrists and ankles, pinning him spread-eagle to the bed, tight enough to bite but not hurt. The ropes tugged, stretching him open, vulnerable, and Sirius moaned, his cock twitching against his stomach, already leaking.
“Keep talking, princess,” Barty said, straddling his thighs, ripping Sirius’s boxers off, leaving him bare, his hands tracing the belly piercing, thumbing it until Sirius arched, gasping. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t walk.”
“Big fucking talk,” Sirius teased, voice cracking, tugging at the ropes, the restraint sending fire through his veins.
Barty laughed, low and dirty, muttering a spell for slick, his fingers coated as he pushed two into Sirius without warning, curling them, hitting that spot that made Sirius’s vision blur.
“Fuck—Barty—” he gasped, hips bucking, the ropes holding him down, Barty’s smirk lethal as he watched him unravel.
“So desperate already,” Barty taunted, adding a third finger, stretching him slow and filthy, scissoring, his other hand stroking Sirius’s cock, teasing, feather-light, not enough.
Sirius cursed, thrashing, the ropes chafing his wrists, his moans loud, echoing off the walls. Barty leaned down, his tongue piercing dragging over Sirius’s nipple, sucking a bruise next to the belly piercing, his teeth grazing, making Sirius shout, “God—fucking move, you prick—”
Barty pulled his fingers out, slicking his cock with another charm, and pushed in—slow, relentless, the stretch burning, filling Sirius so perfectly he saw stars. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Barty groaned, his hands gripping Sirius’s hips, bruising, his V-line thorns tattoo driving Sirius wild.
He started fucking him, hard and deep, hips snapping, the bed creaking, Sirius’s moans a chant— “Barty, fuck, harder—” —his legs straining against the ropes, trying to pull him closer.
Barty obliged, slamming into him, his tongue piercing catching Sirius’s lips as he kissed him, messy and raw, all teeth and spit. “Look at you,” Barty growled, one hand wrapping around Sirius’s cock, stroking fast, rough, the other pinning Sirius’s bound wrists harder to the headboard. “Fucking made for me, yeah?”
“God—yes—fuck,” Sirius shouted, his body electric, Barty’s thrusts hitting that spot over and over, relentless, his hand a blur on Sirius’s cock.
Barty leaned down, biting Sirius’s collarbone, sucking a mark, his hips stuttering, control fraying. “Gonna come for me, princess?” he rasped, his voice wrecked, thrusting deeper, his hand tightening, stroking Sirius to the edge.
Sirius was gone, shouting Barty’s name as he came, hard and messy, spilling over Barty’s hand, his stomach, his vision whiting out, the ropes biting his wrists. Barty groaned, thrusting deep, coming inside him, his grip bruising Sirius’s hips, collapsing onto him, their sweaty, panting bodies tangled, the bed a fucking disaster.
“Happy birthday, git,” Sirius panted, grinning, wrists and ankles still bound, Barty’s weight grounding him, his green hair tickling Sirius’s cheek.
“Best fucking gift,” Barty smirked, kissing him slow and filthy, his tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lip, tasting of salt and heat.
With a lazy flick of his wand, Barty made the silky black ropes vanish, leaving Sirius’s wrists and ankles free, red marks blooming where they’d bitten into his skin. Sirius rubbed his wrists, wincing slightly, his body still buzzing, his mind reeling— fucking hell, what just happened?
“You good?” Barty asked, his voice quieter, stripped of its usual cocky edge, his green hair strand falling into his eyes as he leaned on one elbow, watching Sirius.
Sirius froze mid-rub, his hands stilling, and slowly turned his head to stare at him. Since when did Barty Crouch Jr. ask if he was okay after sex?
“Did you just—” Sirius blurted, his voice caught between shock and amusement.
Barty raised an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, his smirk faint but curious. “Are you?” he repeated, his eyes searching Sirius’s face, no trace of a joke.
Sirius swallowed hard, his throat tight, because—fucking hell—how the hell did that feel more intimate than the half-hour of filthy, rope-bound sex they’d just had? His heart did a stupid flip, traitor that it was.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he said finally, his voice softer, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself.
Barty nodded, exhaling through his nose, and grabbed a cigarette from the bedside table, lighting it with a charm. “Alright, c’mon,” he said, the cigarette dangling between his lips as he reached for Sirius’s wrists, red and rashy from the ropes. “No idea how you’d explain this to anyone,” he muttered, casting a healing spell with a flick of his wand. The redness faded, the skin smoothing out, leaving only faint pink lines that would vanish by morning.
Sirius kept blinking, his jaw practically on the floor, because who the hell was Barty Crouch Jr. tonight? The git who’d once laughed when Sirius tripped post-hookup was now playing healer?
“Did you hit your head this morning, Crouch?” he asked, half-laughing, as Barty released his wrists and leaned back against the headboard, exhaling smoke.
Barty shot him a side-eye, passing the cigarette, his smirk returning but softer. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he said, his voice gruff, like he was already regretting the moment.
“It’s the biggest deal!” Sirius protested, sitting up, his thighs screaming in protest from the rough fucking, making him wince but grin wider. “All I had to do to make you care about me was let you tie me up? Should’ve done that months ago!”
“Black, for fuck’s sake—” Barty groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a laugh.
“I think someone switched you. This isn’t you,” Sirius said, pointing at him, his grin full-blown now, his heart racing with the absurdity of it. “You’re, like, nice tonight.”
“I only asked if you’re okay!” Barty said, flopping back onto the mattress, arms spread, the cigarette nearly falling from his lips. “Fuck, you’re dramatic.”
“Oh my God, you really like me,” Sirius gasped, leaning over him, his eyes wide with mock-revelation, though his chest was warm with something dangerously close to hope.
“I’m out,” Barty declared, rolling off the bed with exaggerated exasperation, grabbing his boxers and jeans from the floor. “You’re a freak.”
“Says the guy who just tied me up, fucked me for half an hour, asked if I’m okay, and healed me,” Sirius shot back, grinning ear to ear, sprawling back on the bed, his body still tingling. “You’re gone for me, Crouch.”
“Get dressed, you wanker,” Barty snapped, but he was laughing now, pulling on his turtleneck, his green hair a mess, his smirk softer than usual as he tossed Sirius’s jeans at him.
Sirius caught them, laughing, and dragged himself up, his legs wobbly, his belly piercing catching the lamplight as he dressed. “You’re not living this down, birthday boy,” he teased, tugging on his shirt, stealing the cigarette from Barty’s fingers for a drag. “Caring’s a good look on you.”
“Fuck off,” Barty said, but he leaned in, kissing Sirius quick and rough, his tongue piercing grazing Sirius’s lip, making him grin into it.
They cleaned up the room with a charm—sheets back in place, ropes long gone—and headed downstairs where James, Regulus, and Evan returned, arms full of Tesco bags clinking with bottles.
“Oi, where’ve you two been?” James called, dumping a bag of vodka bottles on the kitchen counter, oblivious as ever. “We got enough booze to sink a ship.”
“Helping Crouch with his birthday vibes,” Sirius said, smirking, dodging Evan’s suspicious glance. Barty snorted, grabbing a gin bottle, already twisting the cap.
Evan raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between them, but didn’t say anything, just started unloading six-packs. Sirius’s heart skipped— did Evan know? —but Barty’s casual shrug told him to drop it, so he did, for now. They dove into party prep, charming fairy lights to float above the living room, banishing furniture to make space for dancing, Gooney muttering about “reckless youths” as he levitated trays of snacks.
Later, as they sprawled on the couch, passing a joint, Barty’s thigh pressed against Sirius’s, their fingers brushing when they traded the smoke. “You’re still a prick,” Sirius muttered, grinning, his voice low enough for only Barty to hear.
“And you’re still a sap,” Barty shot back, his smirk sharp, but his hand lingered on Sirius’s knee, warm and deliberate. Sirius’s phone buzzed—Barty, texting from right beside him: r ound two later? gonna gag you this time. Sirius laughed, typing: only if I get to return the favor, sap.
The party was hours away, Barty’s eighteenth just starting, and Sirius was buzzing—high on weed, on Barty’s rare softness, on the promise of more.
Evan, lounging with his legs draped over the armrest, nudged Sirius with his foot, his grin lazy. “What’ya wearing tonight?” he asked, taking a drag from the joint before passing it to James.
Sirius stretched, his muscles protesting from the birthday sex, a dull ache in his thighs making him grin to himself. “Those jeans I wore on my birthday,” he said, leaning back, his snake tattoo shifting under his loose tee. “And a cropped mesh top. Black, obviously.” He winked, knowing the sheer fabric would show off his belly piercing and drive Barty up the wall.
“Valid,” Evan said, nodding approvingly, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. “I’m going with leather trousers and this ripped band tee I nicked from a shop. Maybe a choker if I’m feeling extra.” He launched into a detailed breakdown of his outfit, gesturing wildly about the silver rings he’d pair with it, oblivious to Sirius leaning closer to Barty on the couch.
“No boxers, though,” Sirius whispered, his breath hot against Barty’s ear, his smirk pure mischief.
Barty, mid-drag on the joint, choked, coughing out a cloud of smoke, that green hair strand falling into his eyes as he shot Sirius a glare that was half-annoyed, half-turned-on. “You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, but his hand slid to Sirius’s thigh under the guise of passing the joint, squeezing just hard enough to make Sirius’s grin widen.
“Worth it,” Sirius mouthed, winking, his heart doing that stupid flip at Barty’s flushed cheeks. He leaned back, casual as ever, while Evan rambled on about whether to wear boots or trainers, James chiming in with, “Mate, no one’s looking at your feet when you’re dancing.”
Regulus, perched on the armrest beside James, rolled his eyes. “You’re all ridiculous,” he said, stealing a crisp from the bag in James’s lap. “I’m just wearing a black shirt and jeans. No need to flash my nipples like some people.” He shot Sirius a pointed look, smirking.
“Jealousy’s not a good look, Reggie,” Sirius teased, tossing a cushion at him, which Regulus caught and lobbed back, nearly knocking over a gin bottle. “My nipples are a gift to the party.”
The banter rolled on, James fretting about the guest list—“If Smith shows up, I’m hexing him myself”—and Regulus predicting Evan would get drunk and break another vase. “It’s tradition at this point,” he said, smirking, while Evan protested, “That was one time!” Sirius laughed, but his mind was half on Barty, the warmth of his hand, the promise of round two later, maybe with that gag Barty had teased about.
As the afternoon faded, they got to work setting up—charming speakers to blast rock, levitating tables to clear a dance floor, and hiding Monty’s whiskey stash (though Sirius pocketed a bottle for later, grinning at Barty’s approving nod). Gooney delivered trays of sandwiches and sausage rolls, muttering about “Master James’s parties always ending in disaster,” but Sirius caught him sneaking a butterbeer, the old elf’s ears twitching.
By evening, the house was ready, the air electric with anticipation. Sirius slipped upstairs to change, pulling on the jeans that hugged his arse just right and the cropped mesh top, the sheer black fabric showing off his belly piercing and the snake tattoo curling down his spine. He checked himself in the mirror, grinning— Barty’s gonna lose it. He left his boxers in the drawer, just to fuck with him, and headed downstairs, catching Barty’s stare the second he hit the living room.
Barty, now in a ripped black tee and those baggy jeans, his leather coat slung over a chair, froze mid-sip of vodka, his eyes raking over Sirius, lingering on the piercing, the exposed skin. “Fucking hell, Black,” he muttered, stepping closer, his voice low. “You trying to kill me?”
“Trying to make you beg,” Sirius shot back, smirking, leaning in just enough to brush their shoulders, the party prep chaos fading around them.
“Keep it up, and I’m dragging you back upstairs now,” Barty said, his smirk promising trouble.
“Patience, birthday boy,” Sirius teased, stealing his drink for a sip, winking as he sauntered off to help James with the speakers.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—Barty: no boxers? you’re dead later. Sirius grinned, typing: counting on it, sap.
Guests started trickling in—Pandora with her tarot deck, Dorcas in a leather skirt, even Marlene, who brought a charmed disco ball that spun on its own. The music kicked up, the living room filling with bodies, laughter, and the clink of bottles. Sirius danced with Regulus, then Evan, dodging James’s drunken attempt at a group hug, but his eyes kept finding Barty’s across the room, their shared secret hotter than the party trick. When Barty pulled him into a dark corner for a quick, filthy kiss, his hands under the mesh top, Sirius grinned against his lips. “Save it for midnight,” he murmured, nipping Barty’s tongue piercing, his heart racing.
Predictably, half of Hogwarts showed up—Gryffindors with their loud laughter, Ravenclaws debating charms in corners, a handful of Hufflepuffs passing around a joint, and even some Slytherins, their smirks sharp as they sipped gin. The charmed disco ball spun overhead, casting sparkles across the crowd, and Sirius was in his element, dancing with Pandora, then Dorcas, his belly piercing glinting, his snake tattoo a tease under the sheer fabric. Barty’s eyes followed him from across the room, his green hair a beacon, their secret heating the air between them.
An hour before midnight, the front door swung open, and a hush rippled through the crowd. Sirius glanced up, mid-laugh, and froze, along with a few around him. Remus stood there, all gangly limbs and scarred face, with Lily Evans at his side, her red hair catching the firelight.
Regulus snapped his head to James in a fraction of a second, his grey eyes blazing. “You invited them?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the music.
James winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Moony, yeah. Her… kinda.”
Regulus’s glare was lethal, the kind only a boyfriend could muster when his boyfriend invited his ex to a party. He set his glass down on a nearby table with deliberate slowness, the clink echoing.
“James,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “A word.” He turned on his heel and stalked toward the backyard, his dark shirt blending into the shadows.
“Fucking Christ, I’ll never get laid again,” James groaned, his shoulders slumping as he trailed after Regulus, dodging dancers and spilled drinks.
Evan cackled, loud and unapologetic, his hair flopping as he wandered straight to Felix, shoving another shot into his hands like the responsible older brother he definitely wasn’t. “Drink up, kid,” he said, grinning, already half-pissed himself.
Barty stayed close to Sirius, his shoulder brushing against him, grounding. Surprisingly—or maybe not, given how deep Sirius was into Barty’s now—he didn’t feel much at the sight of Remus. A twinge of nostalgia, maybe, like flipping through an old photo album, but no ache, no anger. Just… nothing, really, and that felt like freedom.
“Wanna do some Molly, princess?” Barty leaned down, his breath hot against Sirius’s ear, his voice low, cutting through the party’s roar.
Sirius grinned, turning to meet Barty’s mismatched eyes, his heart kicking up. “You wanna sniff it off my cock?” he asked, voice quiet, just for Barty, his smirk pure filth.
Barty laughed, a rough, wicked sound that sent a shiver down Sirius’s spine, and tilted his head toward the bathroom. “Lead the way, Black,” he said, already moving through the crowd.
The bathroom was a cramped oasis, the door locking with a charm as Barty pushed Sirius against the sink, the cold porcelain biting into his hips. “You’re a fucking tease,” Barty growled, pulling a small vial of Molly from his pocket, tapping out a line on the counter. Sirius grinned, leaning back, his mesh top riding up, belly piercing catching the dim light.
“Only for you, birthday boy,” he said, winking, watching Barty’s eyes darken as he leaned down, sniffing the line with a quick inhale, his green strand brushing the counter.
Barty passed the vial, and Sirius followed, the rush hitting fast, his skin buzzing, the world sharpening. He grabbed Barty’s neck, pulling him into a kiss, hard and messy, their tongues tangling, Barty’s piercing teasing his lip.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” Barty muttered, his hands under Sirius’s top, thumbs brushing his nipples, making Sirius gasp into his mouth. They were high, reckless, the party a dull roar outside, and Sirius was already half-hard, grinding against Barty’s thigh.
“Bedroom?” Sirius panted, nipping Barty’s jaw, his hands in Barty’s hair, tugging the green strand.
“Too far,” Barty said, smirking, and dropped to his knees, unbuttoning Sirius’s jeans with practiced ease, his breath hot against Sirius’s skin. “No boxers, huh? Fucking slut,” he teased, but his voice was wrecked, and Sirius laughed, head tipping back as Barty’s mouth closed around him, hot and wet, his tongue piercing dragging just right.
“Fuck—Barty—” Sirius moaned, his hands gripping the sink, legs shaking as Barty worked him, relentless, the Molly making every sensation electric.
The music pulsed through the walls, the party raging, but here it was just them, Barty’s hands on his thighs, Sirius’s gasps filling the small space. He came fast, shouting, Barty swallowing, smirking as he stood, kissing Sirius deep, letting him taste himself.
“My turn later,” Barty said, wiping his mouth, his smirk lethal as he adjusted Sirius’s jeans, stealing another kiss.
“Count on it,” Sirius grinned, still catching his breath, the Molly high keeping him floaty.
They slipped back into the party, Barty’s hand brushing Sirius’s lower back, subtle but possessive. The crowd was wilder now, Pandora reading tarot in a corner, Dorcas shotgunning tequila with Marlene, Evan and Felix slurring through a duet on a charmed karaoke spell. Remus and Lily were by the drinks table, but Sirius barely glanced their way, too caught up in Barty’s orbit.
James and Regulus reappeared, Regulus’s glare softened but still sharp, James looking like he’d just promised his soul to make amends. “Sorted?” Sirius asked, smirking, passing Regulus a shot.
“For now,” Regulus said, downing it, his eyes flicking to James, who grinned sheepishly.
Midnight was closing in, the countdown looming, and Sirius grabbed Barty’s hand, pulling him into the dance floor’s chaos, their bodies pressed close, his mesh top sticking to his skin. “Happy birthday, prick,” he whispered, kissing Barty quick, hidden in the crowd’s sway.
“Thanks, princess,” Barty said, his smirk soft, his hand squeezing Sirius’s hip. The party was a riot, the night young, and Sirius was all in, one high, one kiss, one green strand at a time.
Right before midnight, Evan had his predictable “I need to kiss someone at midnight” meltdown, pacing like a drama queen, his hair a mess. “I’m not starting 2025 alone and unkissed,” he wailed, and—Godric help them—roped a group into playing spin the bottle.
A circle formed on the floor, Pandora’s enchanted bottle shimmering faintly, charmed to pair people with a spark of magic. The crowd was calling Sirius a slut— Sirius, who’d already planned to drag Barty to a dark corner for not just a midnight kiss but full-on midnight sex, maybe with that gag Barty kept teasing about. Wasn’t that less slutty than kissing randoms? He rolled his eyes, leaning into Barty’s warmth, their shoulders brushing.
“Come on, lot!” Evan yelled, waving Sirius and Barty into the circle, his grin manic, already half-pissed on tequila.
Barty leaned down, his hair tickling Sirius’s cheek, his breath hot against his ear. “Spin the bottle before Lupin does, yeah?” he murmured, his voice low, a smirk curling.
Sirius squinted, suspicious. “Why?”
“Just do it, princess,” Barty said, winking, his mismatched eyes locking on the bottle, which shimmered red for a split second, subtle enough to miss if you weren’t watching.
Sirius shrugged, stepping forward, the crowd’s eyes on him. The bottle spun, and the pairings were a riot: Pandora’s landed on Lily, who giggled and kissed her cheek; Dorcas’s on Mary, their kiss deep enough to draw whoops; Evan’s on a cute Beauxbatons guy with dark curls, who kissed him soundly, sparing Evan a breakdown. Random pairs matched up, some laughing, some groaning, heading to the backyard for the countdown, fireworks, and their midnight kisses. But Sirius could feel the tension—everyone’s glances darting between him and Remus, like they expected some dramatic reunion. Not happening, Sirius thought, his heart firmly on Barty.
He spun the bottle before Remus could and it slowed, landing squarely on Barty. Barty rolled his eyes, muttering “Git” loud enough for the circle to hear, his face a perfect mask of annoyance, but his smirk betrayed him, sharp and pleased. Evan, though, looked like he’d won a vault of Galleons, his grin splitting his face, his eyes flicking between them like he knew something big. Sirius’s stomach flipped— did Barty spill?
“That’s, like, charity,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes for show, standing and brushing off his jeans, sauntering toward the backyard where the crowd was gathering, the cold air sharp against his bare midriff.
Barty followed, snagging a bottle of whiskey from a table, his smirk now smugger than Sirius had ever seen—and that was saying something, considering the time they’d fucked five times in one night in the Room of Requirement, high on Molly and a rejuvenation spell, laughing through their gasps.
“What?” Sirius asked, lighting a cigarette, the flame flickering as he leaned against the garden wall, blinking up at Barty under the starry sky.
“A charity?” Barty raised an eyebrow, taking a swig of whiskey.
“A git?” Sirius shot back, raising his own eyebrow, exhaling smoke, his grin teasing.
Barty rolled his eyes, but—damn—he looked pleased, his smirk softer, his eyes glinting with mischief. Sirius didn’t like it, his suspicion growing.
“Alright, what’d you do with that bottle?” he asked, crossing his arms, the cigarette dangling.
“Just a little charm,” Barty said, shrugging, leaning closer, his voice low, smug.
“What little charm?” Sirius pressed, squinting, his heart racing.
“My own,” Barty said, his smirk widening, taking another swig.
“And how’s it work?” Sirius asked, stepping closer, their boots almost touching, the crowd’s chatter fading.
“Bottle lands on the person you’re most attracted to. Physically, sexually, emotionally…” Barty drawled, his voice dropping, his eyes locked on Sirius’s, smug as hell.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his cheeks flushing hot despite the cold. “You prick,” he gasped, shoving Barty’s chest, though his grin betrayed him. “You just outed me?”
“Nah, no one knows how it works,” Barty smirked, reaching for Sirius’s cigarette, but Sirius yanked it away, too pissed to share.
“You know!” Sirius glared, his voice rising, but he was laughing, his heart pounding. “You’re so full of shit—”
“Black—”
“You could’ve just asked if I like you—”
“Black—”
“I’m gonna kill you—”
“Black—”
“You’re wearing a condom for a week, I don’t care—”
“B—”
“Or, no! No sex at all, you manipulative little prick—”
“B—”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sirius hissed, pointing at him, ash falling to the grass.
“I like you too,” Barty said, cutting through Sirius’s rant, his voice steady, his smirk softening into something raw, real.
Sirius’s jaw dropped again, his words dying. “What?”
Barty shrugged, casual, but his eyes were intense. “Yeah.”
Sirius’s heart hammered, because—fine—he’d known, deep down, that their situationship, going strong for over two months, was more than just fucking. But hearing Barty admit it? That was new, and it hit like a Bludger.
“Really?” Sirius blinked, still a little humiliated, a little pissed, but also—fuck—hopeful, his grin creeping back.
“I can spin my bottle to prove it,” Barty smirked, and Sirius finally handed him the cigarette, rolling his eyes.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius sighed, but he was laughing, leaning closer, their shoulders brushing.
Barty took a drag, exhaling smoke, his smirk unfazed and—shit—maybe the happiest Sirius had ever seen him, his usual sharp edges softened under the starlight. Around them, Peter and Frank were setting up fireworks, their wands sparking; James had Regulus pinned against the garden wall, kissing him like the world was ending; Evan was giggling at a joke from his Beauxbatons guy, their hands tangled. The crowd started counting down—“Ten… nine…”—and Sirius smiled at Barty, a little too fond, way too soft.
“Shame I can’t kiss you for real,” he said, stepping closer, the whiskey bottle dangling in Barty’s hand brushing his hip.
“Yeah, they should all know who makes you scream in bed,” Barty smirked, his voice low, filthy.
The moment fireworks exploded, gold and red streaking the sky, Barty leaned down and kissed him—quick, hot, and we’re-pretending-we-don’t-do-this-every-day, their lips crashing, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, the whiskey and smoke mixing. Sirius kissed back, his hands fisting Barty’s shirt, the crowd cheering around them.
“Happy New Year, princess,” Barty grinned against his lips, his hands on Sirius’s hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin above his jeans.
Sirius laughed, despite himself, his heart stupidly full. “Happy New Year, prick,” he said, stealing another kiss, slower, deeper, the world fading to just them..
They pulled apart, Barty snagging the cigarette for another drag, his smirk smug but soft. “So, you like me,” he teased, exhaling smoke, his hand lingering on Sirius’s hip, warm through the denim.
“Shut up,” Sirius said, snatching the cigarette back, but he was grinning, leaning into Barty’s side, the whiskey bottle passing between them. “You’re the sap who charmed a bottle to out me.”
“Worth it,” Barty said, winking, and Sirius laughed, shoving him playfully, the backyard filling with partygoers, the fireworks still popping overhead.
“Midnight sex still on?”
“Fuck yeah,” Barty said, his grin filthy, dragging Sirius toward the house, weaving through dancers and spilled drinks. They slipped upstairs, dodging Marlene’s drunken wave, locking the Sirius’s room door.
Barty’s hands were under Sirius’s mesh top, yanking it off with a growl, the sheer fabric catching on his piercing before hitting the floor. His lips found Sirius’s neck, sucking a bruising mark next to the silver stud, his tongue piercing dragging over the sensitive skin, making Sirius gasp, his head tipping back.
“Gonna fuck you ‘til you forget your name, princess,” Barty said, his voice low and filthy, pushing Sirius onto the bed, the mattress creaking under their weight.
Sirius laughed, breathless, pulling Barty down by his neck, their kisses messy, desperate, all teeth and heat, his fingers tangling in Barty’s hair, tugging the green strand hard enough to earn a groan.
“Try me, prick,” he gasped, his jeans already halfway down, Barty’s hands rough as he shoved them off, leaving Sirius bare, his cock hard against his stomach, the no-boxers choice making Barty’s eyes darken.
“Fucking slut,” Barty teased, his smirk lethal, but his voice was wrecked, his hands roaming Sirius’s body—tracing the snake tattoo down his spine, thumbing the belly piercing, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. He shed his own shirt, revealing the thorns tattoo curling along his V-line, and Sirius’s mouth watered, his hands reaching for Barty’s belt, fumbling with the buckle.
“Impatient,” Barty taunted, but he was just as gone, kicking off his jeans, his cock straining against his boxers. He muttered a charm for slick, the air shimmering, and pushed Sirius’s legs apart, pinning his thighs to the bed, his fingers teasing Sirius’s rim, circling slow, deliberate, making Sirius squirm, a whine escaping his throat. “Look at you,” Barty growled, sliding one finger in, then two, curling them, hitting that spot that made Sirius’s vision blur, his moans loud, reckless, the party’s bass thumping through the walls. “So fucking desperate for me.”
“God—Barty—move,” Sirius panted, his hands fisting the sheets, his legs spreading wider, the stretch burning, perfect. Barty added a third finger, scissoring, his other hand stroking Sirius’s cock, slow and teasing, not enough, driving him wild. Sirius bucked, cursing, his belly piercing catching the firework flashes, Barty’s smirk smug as he watched him fall apart. “Fuck—gag me if you’re gonna be this slow,” Sirius gasped, only half-joking.
Barty laughed, dark and dirty, pulling his fingers out, slicking his cock with another charm. “Tempting, princess,” he said, grabbing Sirius’s wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand, the other guiding himself to Sirius’s entrance. He pushed in—slow, relentless, the stretch splitting Sirius open, a low moan ripping from his throat as Barty filled him, inch by inch, until he was buried deep, his thorns tattoo pressed against Sirius’s skin.
“Fuck—yes,” Sirius shouted, his legs wrapping around Barty’s waist, pulling him closer, the bed creaking as Barty started moving, hard and fast, hips snapping, hitting that spot with every thrust. Sirius’s moans were obscene, echoing off the walls, Barty’s name a chant, his wrists straining against Barty’s grip, the friction electric. Barty’s free hand found Sirius’s cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, rough, relentless, the slick sound mixing with their gasps.
“Gonna scream for me, yeah?” Barty growled, leaning down, his tongue piercing catching Sirius’s nipple, sucking a mark, his teeth grazing, making Sirius arch, his vision spotting. He let go of Sirius’s wrists, both hands now gripping his hips, angling him higher, fucking him deeper, the bedframe rattling, threatening to break. Sirius’s hands flew to Barty’s back, nails digging into the thorns tattoo, leaving red lines, his moans turning to shouts as Barty hit that spot over and over, relentless, his own groans rough, unraveling.
“God—Barty—gonna come,” Sirius gasped, his body tensing, the Molly and Barty’s thrusts pushing him to the edge, his cock leaking, Barty’s hand a blur. Barty kissed him, messy, all spit and heat, his tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lip, swallowing his moans.
“Come for me, princess,” Barty rasped, thrusting harder, his voice wrecked, his hips stuttering, control fraying.
Sirius shouted, his orgasm hitting like a hex, spilling over Barty’s hand, his stomach, his vision whiting out, his body shaking. Barty followed, groaning, thrusting deep, coming inside him, his grip bruising Sirius’s hips, collapsing onto him, their sweaty, panting bodies tangled, the bed a fucking disaster.
They lay there, catching their breath, the fireworks still popping outside, the party’s roar filtering through the floor. Sirius grinned, his heart stupidly full, his fingers tracing Barty’s green strand, now damp with sweat. “Happy fucking New Year,” he panted, laughing, his voice hoarse.
Barty smirked, kissing him slow, lazy, his tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lip. “Best birthday yet, princess,” he said, his hand resting on Sirius’s hip, thumb brushing the belly piercing.
He cleaned up with a charm, sprawling back on the bed, and lit a cigarette, passing it to Sirius, the smoke curling toward the ceiling.
“You’re still a prick for that bottle charm,” Sirius said, exhaling smoke, but he was grinning, leaning into Barty’s warmth, their legs tangled.
“And you’re a sap for liking me,” Barty said, his smirk soft, stealing the cigarette for a drag, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Rosier’s gonna be insufferable now, though.”
Sirius squinted, propping himself on an elbow, his snake tattoo shifting. “You told him?”
“No,” Barty said, too quick, his eyes flicking away.
“Barty, I swear to God—” Sirius started, narrowing his eyes, his voice rising.
“I mean, he doesn’t know about… this,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, gesturing vaguely between them, his hand brushing Sirius’s thigh.
“Then what the fuck does he know? Because he knows something, and don’t fucking lie to me,” Sirius said, his glare sharp, sitting up straighter, the sheets pooling at his waist.
His mind was racing, piecing together clues like a bloody Auror. Evan’s questioning glances whenever Sirius and Barty disappeared somewhere. The way he’d said “Crouch” when Pandora claimed Sirius’s soulmate was a Capricorn, all knowing. That smug grin when Sirius’s bottle landed on Barty during spin-the-bottle, like he’d been waiting for it.
“Shit,” Sirius said, his eyes widening. “He knows you like me?”
Barty didn’t look at him, his jaw tight, which was answer enough.
Sirius gasped, his grin splitting his face. “You prick! You had a crush on me?!”
“Shut up,” Barty muttered, stealing another drag, his cheeks faintly pink under the dim light.
“Oh my God, you did! You so did!” Sirius beamed, bouncing on the bed, the mattress creaking, his thighs still aching from their earlier round but his excitement overriding it. “How long? Since we fucked the first time?” he asked, grinning like a niffler with gold.
“I don’t—” Barty started, but Sirius cut him off.
“No, before, I’d bet,” Sirius said, pointing at him, his smirk triumphant.
“Black, I swear—” Barty groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, but his lips twitched, betraying a laugh.
Sirius straddled him, quick as a hex, pinning Barty’s hips with his thighs, looking down at his face, all smug and delighted.
“You had a crush on me, you big sap,” he said, his grin wicked, his hands on Barty’s chest, feeling his heartbeat under hot skin.
Barty looked like he wanted to hex him, his eyes narrowing, but then—fuck—he softened, just a fraction. “Yeah,” he said, flat, his voice low.
Sirius nearly shrieked, his eyes wide. “How long?!”
“Long,” Barty said, his smirk faint, his gaze flicking to the ceiling.
“Long?!” Sirius gasped, leaning closer, his hair falling into his face. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That… longer than I should,” Barty said, his voice dry, but there was a glint in his eyes, like he was daring Sirius to push.
“So, how long?” Sirius pressed, his grin relentless, poking Barty’s chest.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, princess?” Barty drawled, his smirk returning, stealing the cigarette back.
“Stop saying that fucking line!” Sirius said, laughing, swatting his hand, but Barty just grinned, infuriatingly calm.
“Crouch,” Sirius said, narrowing his eyes, his voice mock-serious.
“Yes?” Barty said, raising an eyebrow, taking a drag.
“Tell me, or I’ll tell everyone you cuddle me in your sleep,” Sirius said, flat, crossing his arms, his smirk sharp.
Barty glared, his eyes blazing. “I don’t cuddle you, you delusional twat,” he said, but his cheeks were definitely pink now, and Sirius raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
Barty groaned, flopping back against the headboard like he was being tortured—and for him, talking about feelings was torture, so that tracked. He exhaled smoke, staring at the ceiling, then muttered, “Since fourth year.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, practically hitting the floor. “Fourth year?!” he shouted, his voice cracking, bouncing on Barty’s lap, making the bed creak. “You’ve been pining for me since we were fourteen?!”
“Pining’s a strong word,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, but he was fighting a grin, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, warm and grounding. “You were just… annoyingly hot, alright?”
“Annoyingly hot!” Sirius cackled, throwing his head back, his laughter loud enough to rival the party downstairs. “Oh, this is gold. You were, what, wanking to thoughts of me while I was snogging that Ravenclaw in the broom closet?”
“Fuck off,” Barty said, laughing now, shoving Sirius’s chest, but there was no heat in it, his eyes soft, his green strand falling into his face. “You were a prick then, and you’re a prick now.”
“But you liked me,” Sirius said, grinning, leaning down, their faces close, his voice teasing. “Fourth year Crouch, all moody and staring at me in Potions, dreaming of my arse.”
Barty groaned, covering his face with his hands, the cigarette dangling precariously. “You’re never letting this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Sirius said, prying Barty’s hands away, kissing him quick and hard, their lips crashing, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing his lip. “You’re a sap, Crouch. A big, pining sap.”
“Call me a sap again, and I’m hexing you,” Barty said, but he was kissing Sirius back, his hands sliding to Sirius’s hips, pulling him closer, the cigarette forgotten on the bedside table. They fell back onto the bed, laughing through their kisses, Sirius’s hands in Barty’s hair, tugging the green strand, Barty’s fingers tracing the snake tattoo, their bodies pressed tight.
“Fourth year,” Sirius muttered against Barty’s lips, grinning, his heart stupidly full. “You’re so fucked for me.”
“Shut up,” Barty said, but he was laughing, flipping Sirius onto his back, pinning his wrists, his smirk filthy. “Gonna make you pay for that, princess.”
“Promises, promises,” Sirius teased, arching under him.
Barty kissed him deep, slow, their earlier urgency replaced with something softer, warmer, the I like you too lingering between them. They didn’t fuck again—not yet—just kissed, lazy and smoke-flavored, Barty’s hands roaming, Sirius’s legs tangling with his, the party a distant hum.
Eventually, they dragged themselves downstairs, the party still wild—Evan now snogging his Beauxbatons guy on the couch, Pandora dancing with Dorcas, James and Regulus tangled in a corner, Regulus’s glare softened by James’s puppy eyes. Sirius caught Evan’s glance, his grin too knowing, and flipped him off, making Evan cackle. Barty’s hand brushed Sirius’s lower back, subtle but possessive, and Sirius leaned into it, stealing a shot from a floating tray.
“Rosier’s gonna be a nightmare,” Sirius said, smirking, downing the shot, the tequila burning.
“Let him try,” Barty said, his smirk sharp, snatching the next shot from a floating tray. “He’s got nothing on us.”
Sirius’s eyes flicked across the room, catching Remus watching him—properly looking, for the first time since fucking May, his scarred face unreadable but his gaze heavy. Sirius kept his face blank, leaning closer to Barty, their shoulders brushing.
“Why’d you tell me to spin the bottle before Remus could?” he asked, voice low, just for Barty, the party’s roar fading around them.
Barty shrugged, casual, but his eyes were sharp. “People talk about you two anyway. No need to feed them more shit if his bottle pointed at you.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “It wouldn’t have.”
Barty handed him another shot, his smirk faint but knowing. “Dunno, the git’s been glaring at me since we started hanging out, so.”
Sirius blinked, baffled, the shot nearly slipping from his fingers. “What?” he blurted, his voice louder than intended, drawing a glance from Dorcas nearby.
Barty raised an eyebrow, his you’re full of shit look in full force. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“I didn’t,” Sirius said, honest, his mind racing.
Remus, jealous? Of Barty? He’d been so wrapped up in their situationship since weeks that he hadn’t clocked Remus’s vibe at all.
Barty’s look didn’t waver, and Sirius, high on tequila, Molly, and the since fourth year bombshell, leaned closer, pure Gryffindor recklessness taking over. “I was too busy hanging out with you to care about him, prick,” he said, his grin teasing, his heart doing a stupid flip.
A small, almost sheepish smile broke on Barty’s face, softer than his usual smirk, his eyes glinting. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, his voice firm, his grin widening. “Doesn’t change that you’re the sap here.”
“Fuck off,” Barty laughed, shoving Sirius’s shoulder, snagging another shot from the tray.
They clinked their glasses, downing the tequila in sync, the burn sharp but sweet, and Sirius wondered just how many secrets Barty was hiding. Because—damn—there were probably a ton, and maybe, just maybe, a few more were about him.
The party swirled around them, Evan now draped over his Beauxbatons guy on the couch, giggling into his neck; Pandora twirling with Marlene under the disco ball, James and Regulus tangled in a corner, Regulus’s glare softened by James’s whispered apologies. Sirius caught Remus’s gaze again, but it slid away, Lily tugging him toward the dance floor, and Sirius felt… nothing, really, just a faint nostalgia, his heart too full of Barty’s smirks and secrets.
“Think Rosier’s betting on us?” Sirius asked, stealing a crisp from a bowl, his shoulder bumping Barty’s, the contact deliberate.
“Probably,” Barty said, his smirk sharp, leaning closer, his breath whiskey-warm. “He’s been dropping hints since Halloween, the nosy git.”
Sirius cackled, nearly choking on the crisp. “Halloween?”
Barty’s grin was pure mischief. “Yeah, he saw us sneaking back to the party from my dorm.”
“Bet he’s got a Galleon on us snogging by midnight.” Sirius said, laughing, grabbing another shot, the tray floating by like a loyal pet.
“Joke’s on him, we already did,” Barty said, winking, stealing the shot from Sirius’s hand and downing it, his tongue piercing glinting as he licked his lips.
Sirius’s grin turned wicked, heat pooling in his gut. “Wanna up the ante? Find a broom closet, give him something to really gossip about?”
Barty’s eyes darkened, his hand brushing Sirius’s lower back, fingers teasing the bare skin above his jeans. “Keep talking, princess, and we’re not making it to a closet,” he murmured, his voice low, sending a shiver down Sirius’s spine.
They didn’t make it to a closet, but they did slip into the kitchen, the door half-closed, the party’s noise muffled. Barty pushed Sirius against the counter, kissing him hard, all teeth and whiskey, his hands under the mesh top, thumbs brushing Sirius’s nipples, making him gasp. “You’re trouble,” Barty growled, nipping Sirius’s jaw, his hair tickling Sirius’s cheek.
“Says the sap who’s liked me since fourth year,” Sirius teased, his hands in Barty’s hair, tugging the green strand, pulling him closer. They kissed again, slower, deeper, the kitchen counter digging into Sirius’s hips, Barty’s body pressed tight against his, their laughter mixing with their gasps.
Gooney bustled in, muttering about “reckless youths,” and they broke apart, laughing, Sirius winking at the elf, who huffed and levitated a tray of sausage rolls away. “Back to the party?” Sirius asked, adjusting his top, his lips swollen, his heart racing.
“Nah,” Barty said, grabbing his hand, dragging him toward the stairs. “Got a better idea.”
They dodged Evan’s knowing smirk and Pandora’s raised eyebrow, slipping back to Sirius’s room, locking the door. Barty’s grin was filthy as he pushed Sirius onto the bed, his hands already on his jeans. “Gonna make you scream again, princess,” he said, his voice low, his green strand falling into his eyes.
“Big talk,” Sirius grinned, pulling Barty down, their kisses messy, urgent, the New Year’s chaos fading below.
Chapter Text
The morning after New Year’s Eve, the Potter house was a quiet wreck, sunlight sneaking through the curtains, casting soft stripes across the tangled sheets. Sirius woke up still beside Barty—miraculously, for the first time ever, both in clothes, a precaution since anyone could Alohomora the door and catch them naked in one bed. Barty’s hand was slung over Sirius’s hip, his fingers slipped under the waistband of Sirius’s pajama pants, because even in sleep, the perv couldn’t help himself. His hair was soft brown now, the green strand gone, and Sirius blinked at the sight, his hungover brain sluggish. He didn’t remember Barty casting any spells last night—well, except the one for slick, obviously, and a quick cleaning charm after their midnight chaos.
Even the pounding in Sirius’s head couldn’t dim his grin as he replayed Barty’s bombshell: since fourth year.
Four fucking years of Barty liking him.
It explained so much, like a Lumos charm in a dark room. Barty’s string of hookups but never a proper relationship. Those lingering glances Sirius had always chalked up to Barty being a prick. The way he never said no to hanging out, always game to crash Sirius’s plans, whether it was sneaking firewhisky in the common room or charming Muggle records to play in the Forbidden Forest. The way he’d seemed to hate Remus for no reason, his glares sharp whenever Remus was near. And how, since the start of this school year, Barty had been closer—first as a friend (or, well, more like rivals who’d tear each other’s throats out and share a joint later), then meaningless sex (not so meaningless to Barty, apparently), then a situationship, and now… this. Whatever this was. Not just fucking anymore, but not quite a situationship since they were exclusive—Sirius was definitely digging into that fifth-year git Barty hooked up with, just wait—and not a full-on relationship either. Yet.
Sirius sighed, half-content, half-incredulous, and started playing with Barty’s hair, the soft brown strands slipping through his fingers. Barty was still asleep, his face relaxed, no smirk or sharp edges, so Sirius could be soft without risking a hex or a snarky comment. It was a rare moment, and Sirius savored it, his grin widening as he traced a finger along Barty’s jaw, the faintest stubble catching his skin.
The hangover throbbed, but Sirius’s mind was racing, piecing together more of Barty’s secrets. The way he’d always linger after their hookups, even when Sirius was too blissed-out to notice. How he’d charm Sirius’s quills to write in neon ink just to annoy him, but always made sure Sirius had spares for class. That time in sixth year when Barty “accidentally” hexed a Slytherin who’d called Sirius a blood traitor, then played it off like it was nothing. God, Sirius had been blind, too caught up in his own drama—Remus, the Marauders, his family bullshit—to see it. Barty had been there, all along, liking him, maybe even pining, and Sirius was kicking himself for missing it.
Barty stirred, mumbling something incoherent, his hand tightening on Sirius’s hip, fingers dipping lower, making Sirius snort. “Perv, even in your sleep,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away, just kept playing with Barty’s hair, his heart doing that stupid flip it’d been doing since the bottle charm last night. He wondered what else Barty was hiding—how many other secrets were tucked behind that smirk, those mismatched eyes, that green strand that was apparently gone for now but would probably be back by lunch.
Barty stirred, his eyes fluttering open. “Morning, princess,” Barty mumbled, his voice rough, his smirk creeping back as he registered Sirius’s hand in his hair. “Getting soft on me?”
“Fuck off,” Sirius said, laughing, but he didn’t stop, his fingers tugging lightly. “Your hair’s brown. What’s that about?”
Barty shrugged, stretching, his hand still under Sirius’s waistband, shameless. “Charm wore off. Might go blue next. Thoughts?”
“Green’s better,” Sirius said, grinning, leaning down to kiss him quick, smoke and tequila still lingering from last night. Barty kissed back, lazy but warm, his free hand sliding up Sirius’s back, tracing the snake tattoo.
“Noted,” Barty said, pulling away, his smirk sharp. “You’re grinning like a twat. What’s up?”
“Just thinking about you pining since fourth year,” Sirius teased, dodging Barty’s swat, laughing. “All those sad wanks in the dorm, dreaming of me.”
Barty groaned, flopping back, covering his face with his arm. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope,” Sirius said, straddling him, his grin wicked. “Gonna tell everyone you were a lovesick puppy. Bet they’ll lose it.”
“Try it, and I’m hexing your piercing off,” Barty said, but he was laughing, pulling Sirius down for another kiss, deeper this time, their bodies pressed close, the hangover forgotten. They didn’t fuck—just kissed, slow and soft, Barty’s hands roaming, Sirius’s fingers in his hair, the morning quiet except for their laughter.
Eventually, they dragged themselves downstairs, the house a mess of spilled cups and glitter. Evan was at the kitchen table, bacon in hand, grinning like he knew too much. “Morning, cuties,” he said, winking, and Sirius flipped him off, stealing a piece of bacon.
“Watch it, Rosier,” Barty said, grabbing coffee, his smirk sharp, but his hand brushed Sirius’s lower back, subtle but there. Regulus shot them a suspicious look from the counter, but James distracted him with a kiss, and Sirius grinned, leaning into Barty, his heart stupidly full.
The Potter house was a hungover mess the day after New Year’s Eve, the kitchen a battlefield of empty bottles, glitter-dusted floors, and Gooney muttering about “disrespectful youths” as he levitated trays of bacon and eggs. Sirius, Barty, Evan, Regulus, and James were sprawled in the living room, nursing coffees and headaches, the air thick with the smell of coffee and weed. Sirius was buried under a blanket on the couch, his phone glowing as he scrolled through an article about Kurt Cobain’s death, muttering, “No way he killed himself,” every few seconds, his voice hoarse from last night’s shouting and Barty’s… distractions.
Evan and Regulus were deep in gossip about drama from the party that Sirius and Barty had completely missed—thanks to Barty’s blowjob in the bathroom, it turned out. Apparently, someone (Sirius didn’t catch the name, obviously) had gone off about Sirius, calling him a slut and piling on insults: twink (which was honestly kind of funny), blood traitor, sket, strap, brass, and a dozen others Sirius couldn’t be arsed to remember. “—and then he said, ‘Who the fuck even wears clothes like that?’ and James hexed him, because of course,” Regulus finished, rolling his eyes, his coffee mug charmed to stay warm.
Sirius hummed from his cocoon, eyes still on his phone, barely fazed. “Bet he’s just in the closet and wants my arse,” he said, his grin lazy, not looking up.
Evan cackled, nearly spilling his coffee, and Regulus snorted, shaking his head. James, sprawled beside Regulus, laughed, “Mate, you’re probably right. Poor git’s jealous of your mesh top.”
Barty, lounging on the floor with a joint, caught Sirius’s eye, and they smirked, subtle enough to go unnoticed by the others.
The conversation shifted to Evan’s new Beauxbatons fling, a guy named Marcel, who Evan was obsessing over. “He’s got a nipple piercing, Archie, what the hell is that even?” Evan said, gesturing wildly, his blond hair a mess. “Like, it’s hot, but also, what? I’m shook.”
Sirius peeked from his phone, catching Barty’s smirk again. “Sounds like you’re in love, Rosier,” Sirius teased, tossing a cushion at Evan, who caught it and lobbed it back, grinning.
“Piss off, Black,” Evan said, but he was blushing, launching into a rant about Marcel’s “perfect curls” and how he had to leave soon for some family dinner back home. “It’s gonna be a nightmare,” Evan whined, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “Mum’s gonna ask why I’m not married yet, and Dad’s gonna lecture me about ‘upholding the Rosier name.’ Kill me now.”
Regulus smirked. “Just bring Marcel. That’ll shut them up.”
Evan groaned, burying his face in a pillow, and James laughed, ruffling Regulus’s hair, earning a swat. Sirius, half-listening, texted Barty: sneak back here tonight, prick. Barty’s reply was instant: inly if i can tie u up again. Sirius grinned, his heart kicking up.
Oh, he could, obviously.
By night, the house was quieter, the others scattered—Evan off to his family dinner, Regulus and James holed up in James’s room, probably snogging, and Gooney finally resting after cleaning the party’s wreckage. Sirius and Barty were locked in Sirius’s room, a Silencing Charm cast to keep their chaos private. Sirius sat on the windowsill, legs spread, Barty between them, his back to Sirius’s chest, sharing a joint by the open window. A snowstorm raged outside, flakes swirling in the dark, the cold air sharp against their faces, but the room was warm, hazy with smoke and their laughter.
“Missed this,” Sirius said, exhaling smoke, his free hand playing with Barty’s hair, now soft brown, the green strand still gone. “You, me, a joint, no one to bug us.”
Barty leaned back, his head resting against Sirius’s shoulder, passing the joint. “You’re getting sappy again, princess,” he said, his smirk soft, but his hand rested on Sirius’s thigh, fingers brushing the waistband of his pajama pants, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Blame your fourth-year crush,” Sirius teased, nipping Barty’s ear, laughing when Barty swatted his hand. “Still can’t believe you were pining while I was hexing Snivellus in the corridors.”
“Pining’s a stretch,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks were pink, and Sirius grinned, kissing his neck, slow and teasing, making Barty’s breath hitch. “Keep that up, and I’m tying you to the bed right now.”
“Promises,” Sirius said, his voice low, passing the joint back, his fingers tracing Barty’s thorns tattoo through his shirt. They stayed like that, trading smoke and lazy kisses, the snowstorm a wild backdrop, the Silencing Charm letting them be as loud as they wanted. Barty’s hands wandered, slipping under Sirius’s shirt, thumbing his belly piercing, making Sirius gasp, his head tipping back against the window frame.
“Gonna make you scream again,” Barty murmured, turning to face him, his smirk filthy, his eyes dark. He flicked his wand, and those silky black ropes from yesterday materialized, slithering toward Sirius, who laughed, spreading his arms.
“Do your worst, prick,” Sirius said, and Barty did, tying his wrists to the window frame, the ropes tight but soft, the cold air and Barty’s warm hands a dizzying contrast. They didn’t fuck—not yet—just kissed, deep and slow, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lips, their laughter mixing with the storm’s howl.
“Still a sap,” Sirius whispered, grinning against Barty’s lips, tugging at the ropes, the slight burn making his pulse race.
“Still a git,” Barty shot back, kissing him harder, his hand sliding lower, fingers dipping beneath Sirius’s waistband, teasing the sensitive skin just above his cock. Sirius gasped, arching into him, the cold air from the window a shock against his flushed chest, Barty’s warmth grounding him.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” Sirius said, laughing, his voice rough, his head tipping back against the window frame, snowflakes catching in his hair. Barty’s smirk was filthy, his hair falling into his eyes as he leaned in, nipping Sirius’s jaw, sucking a mark just below his ear, deliberate and possessive.
“Planning on it, princess,” Barty murmured, his voice low, his hand now fully under Sirius’s pants, stroking him slow, teasing, not enough to push him over but enough to make Sirius whine, his hips bucking. The ropes held him in place, his wrists straining, the mix of restraint and Barty’s touch driving him wild. “Look at you, all desperate,” Barty teased, his thumb brushing the tip of Sirius’s cock, making him curse, loud and shameless.
“Prick—fucking move,” Sirius gasped, his legs tightening around Barty’s hips, trying to pull him closer, the windowsill digging into his thighs. Barty laughed, dark and rough, his other hand sliding up Sirius’s chest, pinching a nipple through his shirt, making Sirius moan, the sound swallowed by the storm.
“Bossy,” Barty said, but he obliged, his strokes faster, firmer, his lips back on Sirius’s, kissing him messy, all spit and heat, their tongues tangling, Barty’s piercing a sharp tease. Sirius was losing it, his body electric, the Molly from last night still lingering, amplifying every touch, every tug of the ropes. Barty’s free hand roamed, tracing the snake tattoo down Sirius’s spine, fingers digging into his hip, bruising, possessive.
“God—Barty—” Sirius panted, his head spinning, the cold air and Barty’s hot hand a dizzying contrast. He was close, his moans louder, reckless, the Silencing Charm a godsend as he shouted, “Fuck—gonna come—”
“Not yet,” Barty growled, pulling his hand away, leaving Sirius gasping, frustrated, his cock throbbing, the ropes biting his wrists as he strained. Barty’s smirk was lethal, his eyes dark, drinking in Sirius’s desperation. “Wanna make this last, princess.”
“You’re the worst,” Sirius groaned, laughing through his haze, his body trembling, but his grin was wide, loving the game. Barty kissed him again, slow and deep, his hand back on Sirius’s thigh, teasing, keeping him on edge. “Payback for the fourth-year shit,” Sirius added, nipping Barty’s lip, earning a rough laugh.
“Keep talking, and I’ll gag you,” Barty said, his voice low, flicking his wand to summon a strip of black silk, dangling it teasingly. Sirius’s eyes widened, heat flooding his gut, but he smirked, daring.
“Do it, prick,” he said, and Barty didn’t hesitate, tying the silk around Sirius’s mouth, loose enough to breathe but tight enough to muffle his moans, the sensation sending Sirius’s pulse skyrocketing. Barty’s hands were back, one stroking Sirius’s cock, the other gripping his hip, and Sirius’s muffled gasps filled the room, his body arching, the ropes and gag pushing him to the brink.
Barty leaned close, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear, his voice a filthy whisper. “Gonna fuck you now, princess. Ready?” Sirius nodded, desperate, his eyes half-lidded, and Barty muttered a charm for slick, shedding his own pants, his cock hard, the thorns tattoo on his V-line a taunt as he pressed against Sirius’s entrance. He pushed in—slow, relentless, the stretch burning, perfect, Sirius’s muffled moans vibrating against the gag, his wrists tugging at the ropes, the windowsill creaking under their weight.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Barty groaned, his hands bruising Sirius’s hips, thrusting deep, hitting that spot that made Sirius’s vision blur, his muffled shouts lost to the silk. Barty fucked him hard, the rhythm relentless, the storm’s howl a wild backdrop, Sirius’s body shaking, his cock leaking, Barty’s hand stroking him in time with his thrusts. “Gonna scream for me, yeah?” Barty growled, untying the gag just as Sirius came, shouting Barty’s name. Barty followed, thrusting deep, groaning, coming inside him, collapsing against Sirius, their sweaty bodies pressed tight, the ropes still holding Sirius’s wrists.
They panted, catching their breath, the snowstorm swirling outside, Barty’s hair tickling Sirius’s cheek as he kissed him, soft and slow, untying the ropes with a wave of his wand.
“Fucking hell,” Sirius rasped, laughing, rubbing his wrists, red marks fading under Barty’s healing charm. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
“Worth it,” Barty smirked, passing the joint back, relit with a charm, and they stayed there, Sirius on the windowsill, Barty between his legs, sharing smoke, the cold air cooling their flushed skin. “Still a sap,” Sirius teased, his fingers in Barty’s hair, tugging lightly.
“Still a git,” Barty said, kissing him again, lazy, warm, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh.
After Barty’s quick cleaning spell, they’d moved to the bed, Sirius in low-slung pajama pants—nothing underneath, just to drive Barty wild—and Barty in grey sweats that clung to his hips in a way that was unfairly hot. The sixth season of American Horror Story played on the wall-mounted TV, its eerie visuals casting flickering light across the room, but neither was paying much attention, too wrapped up in each other.
Sirius, partly to rile Barty up and partly because he’d been dying to do it for weeks, rested his head on Barty’s chest, half-expecting a shove and a “Fuck off, Black.”
But Barty just shifted, getting comfier, his arm draping around Sirius’s back, his hand slipping under Sirius’s pants to caress his arse, slow and possessive, like he had every right. And, fine, maybe he did, after no more boys and since fourth year and I like you too.
They talked shit—about Hogwarts and how neither wanted to go back to classes, about Evan’s new Beauxbatons fling, and his “mind-blowing nipple piercing,” as Evan had rambled earlier, and about Regulus getting pissed at James over the party drama.
“I mean, he’s jealous for no reason,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes, fingers toying with the drawstrings of Barty’s sweats, the TV’s glow catching his piercings.
Barty snorted, but it wasn’t amused—more dry, knowing. Sirius frowned, lifting his head.
“What?”
“God, you’re so blind sometimes,” Barty said, shaking his head.
Sirius propped himself on an elbow, baffled. “Eh?”
“It wasn’t about Evans,” Barty said, his smirk faint but sharp.
Sirius blinked. “Then…?”
“Lupin,” Barty said, his voice casual, but his eyes were watching Sirius closely.
“What the hell?” Sirius said, his voice rising, his mind scrambling.
Barty’s smirk grew, almost fond. “You’re really living in your little bubble, huh?”
Sirius huffed, shoving Barty’s chest lightly. “I don’t!”
“Sirius,” Barty said, raising an eyebrow, amused. “You have no idea what’s going on around you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sirius asked, sitting up, his pajama pants slipping lower, Barty’s hand still on his hip.
“That Lupin showed up because he’s not over you?” Barty said, like it was obvious, leaning back against the headboard, his sweats riding low.
What
The
Hell?
Sirius’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. “You— what?” he managed, his heart stuttering.
Barty shrugged, all Ravenclaw nerd mode kicking in, his voice analytical. “Archie was saying Lupin’s taking full moons badly, yeah? I did some research—your emotional well-being affects werewolf transformations. Bet when you were together, it was okay, right? Maybe even fun?”
Sirius frowned, thinking back. “I mean… yeah, actually,” he said, remembering how Remus’s transformations had been less brutal when they were tight, Sirius’s Animagus form helping ground him.
Barty nodded, like he’d cracked a potion formula. “Exactly. So when you broke up, he got worse—understandable. But he should be getting better by now, and from what Archie’s saying, it’s the opposite. Didn’t say much about last full moon, but—”
“Remus was here because they can’t handle him when I’m not with them,” Sirius said, flat, detached, because he didn’t want to dive into that mess, his chest tight.
Barty nodded again, his hand still on Sirius’s hip, steadying. “Suspected as much. Could be your Animagus form—dog, canine, works with his werewolf side, yeah? But Potter’s a kick-ass stag, should be enough to manage him. Except he can’t. Archie said Lupin broke Potter’s ribs back in October. So it’s emotional. He’s not over you, and… that’s affecting him. Transformations too.”
Sirius stared at Barty, his mind spinning, the TV’s creepy soundtrack a faint hum.
Remus still loved him? Then why the hell had he shut Sirius out like that, all cold and distant for months?
Sirius exhaled, long and shaky, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck that,” he said, his voice firm. “He made his choice, and I’m… you know. Here.” He gestured vaguely between them, his grin creeping back, softer now.
Barty smiled—real, soft, and oh boy, it hit Sirius like a charm, his heart doing that stupid flip. “Yeah, princess, you’re here,” Barty said, his hand sliding up to Sirius’s waist, warm and grounding. “Emotionally invested in me.”
Sirius laughed, shoving him playfully. “You’re such a prick,” he said, but he leaned down, kissing Barty slow and deep, their lips moving lazy, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, the TV forgotten. Barty kissed back, his hand slipping back to Sirius’s arse, squeezing, making Sirius grin into the kiss, their bodies pressed close, the bed creaking under their weight.
They pulled apart, Sirius sprawling across Barty’s chest again, his fingers back on the drawstrings, Barty’s arm around him, hand still under his pants, like it belonged there.
“You’re too bloody smart sometimes,” Sirius muttered, half-teasing, half-impressed, the Remus thing pushed to the back of his mind. “Digging into werewolf lore like a nerd.”
“Ravenclaw, princess,” Barty said, smirking, his free hand grabbing the remote to mute the TV, the room quieter now, just their voices and the storm outside. “Gotta keep up with your Gryffindor chaos.”
Sirius snorted, tracing Barty’s thorns tattoo, his touch light, teasing. “Bet you were reading up on me in fourth year, too, you sap.”
Barty groaned, but his laugh was warm, his hand squeezing Sirius’s arse. “Keep bringing that up, and I’m hexing you,” he said, but he kissed Sirius’s forehead, quick and soft, making Sirius’s heart stutter, because—fuck—that was new, and he liked it way too much.
They talked more shit—about how Evan was probably texting Marcel soppy nonsense right now, how Regulus would make James grovel for a week, how Gooney had found a charmed disco ball stuck to the ceiling and nearly had a fit.
“Bet he’s plotting revenge,” Sirius said, laughing, his head still on Barty’s chest, Barty’s heartbeat steady under his ear.
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Barty said, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Sirius’s lower back, dipping under the waistband again, shameless. “Elf’s got a mean streak.”
Sirius grinned, shifting to look up at Barty, his chin on Barty’s chest. “You’re gonna have to spill more secrets, you know,” he said, his voice teasing, but his eyes were soft. “Can’t just drop fourth year and werewolf research and expect me to let it slide.”
Barty’s smirk was sharp, but his gaze was warm, his hand pausing on Sirius’s waist. “Plenty more where that came from, princess,” he said, winking. “Stick around, and maybe I’ll tell you about the time I charmed your broom to whistle every time you flew.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, then he laughed, loud and bright, shoving Barty’s chest. “You prick! That was you? I thought it was Prongs!”
Barty cackled, pulling Sirius closer, their legs tangling, the bed a cozy mess. “Had to get your attention somehow,” he said, kissing Sirius again, slow and warm, their laughter mixing, the storm a wild backdrop.
The next morning, Barty slipped out of the Potter estate before dawn, his brown hair a shadow in the early light, sneaking through the Floo to avoid getting caught. Evan could suspect all he wanted—his smirks were getting too knowing—but Sirius would rather eat glass than let Regulus catch them kissing in the hallway. The thought of his brother’s piercing glare and inevitable hexes was enough to make Sirius triple-check the locks on his room door.
The rest of the week blurred by, a haze of lazy days at the Potter house, but Sirius’s phone was burning up with texts to Barty, who’d gone weirdly quiet and cold. No flirty jabs, no filthy promises, just short replies or—worse—nothing at all. Sirius’s patience frayed by day three, and he finally snapped, texting: spill what’s up or i’m revoking your sex privileges, prick. Barty’s reply came hours later, curt but heavy: parents back in luton. not in the mood.
Sirius didn’t pry further—he knew better than to poke at Barty’s family wounds, too raw and familiar from his own family bullshit. But every night, he cursed Bartemius Crouch Sr. in his head, imagining hexing the git for keeping Barty locked in that cold, spell-warded mansion. Sneaking to Sirius’s was off the table, and there was no way in hell Sirius could slip into Crouch Manor, even as Padfoot. The place was a fortress of ancient magic—wards, detection spells, probably a bloody house-elf trained to snitch. Sirius hadn’t shifted into his Animagus form since April, but he’d have braved it for a night with Barty, to see that soft smirk, feel those hands, hear his name instead of “princess.” But it was a no-go, so missing Barty like crazy was his only option.
And, fuck, did he miss him. Since the Yule Ball, Barty had been—painfully slowly—lowering his guard, letting Sirius glimpse the real him, not just the sharp-tongued, smirking git. The way he’d touch Sirius, not just for sex but soft, lingering, like he meant it. Kissing him slow, deep, no rush, his tongue piercing teasing, whispering “Sirius” instead of “Black” in moments that made Sirius’s heart stutter. Those nights tangled in bed, talking shit, laughing, Barty’s secrets spilling like rare coins had Sirius hooked, living for every crack in Barty’s armor.
Days dragged on, endless and empty without Barty’s chaos. Sirius spent them with Regulus and James, sprawled in the Potter living room, playing Exploding Snap or charming Muggle records to spin on Monty’s old turntable. Regulus was still grumpy about James inviting Remus and Lily to the party, though James’s puppy eyes and endless apologies were wearing him down. “He’s such a prat,” Regulus muttered, flicking a card that nearly singed Sirius’s hair.
“Love makes you stupid,” Sirius said, grinning, dodging the explosion, his mind on Barty’s absence, his phone silent in his pocket.
Remus didn’t cross Sirius’s mind—not once, except for that realization Barty had dropped like a Bludger: Remus wasn’t over him, his full moons worse without Sirius’s Animagus form or emotional anchor. It should’ve stung, maybe, but it didn’t. What hit harder was realizing Barty wasn’t even jealous or possessive about Remus’s lingering feelings. Normally, Barty was all sharp edges, claiming Sirius with bruising grips, filthy whispers, those ropes—God, those ropes. Sirius was just as bad, glaring at anyone who looked too long at Barty’s green hair (or brown, now). But with Remus? Barty had been calm, analytical, laying out the werewolf lore like a Ravenclaw nerd, not a hint of territorial bullshit.
And that fucking charmed bottle from New Year’s Eve, landing on Barty, screaming that Sirius’s heart—physically, sexually, emotionally —chose him over Remus, over anyone. Barty had healed Sirius’s broken heart without even knowing it, stitching it up with smirks, secrets, and stolen kisses. Damn, Sirius thought, sprawled on the couch, Regulus and James bickering over who cheated at Snap. That’s something.
He texted Barty late one night, restless, the Potter house too quiet: miss u, prick. u ok? Barty’s reply took hours, but it came, softer than usual: rough week. miss u too, princess. soon. Sirius grinned, his chest warm, texting back: better be. owe me a tie-up sesh. Barty’s response was instant: count on it, sap.
By the weekend, Sirius was climbing the walls, itching for Barty’s chaos. He dragged Regulus and James to Diagon Alley, hoping the bustle would distract him, but every green flash—shop signs, cloaks—made him think of Barty’s hair. They grabbed ice cream at Florean’s, Regulus smirking as James dropped his cone on his trainers. “You’re hopeless,” Regulus said, but his eyes were soft, and Sirius laughed, snapping a photo to send to Barty: prongs is a disaster. save me.
Barty’s reply was a photo of his hand flipping Sirius off, but the background showed his room—messy, dark, a glimpse of his snake tattoo peeking from his sleeve. stuck here. sneak out soon, he texted, and Sirius’s heart lifted, plotting ways to meet halfway, maybe a Muggle pub, no wards, just them.
Back at the Potter house, Sirius sprawled on his bed, scrolling through Barty’s sparse texts, grinning at the memory of his hand under Sirius’s waistband, his Sirius instead of princess. He didn’t need Remus, didn’t need the past. Barty—prick, sap, secret-keeper—was enough, and Sirius was counting the days until he could see that smirk again, feel those ropes, lose himself in their whatever this was. He texted one last time: hurry up, sap. i’m emotionally invested. Barty’s reply was a winking emoji and: same, princess.
2025 was a slow burn, but Sirius was all in, one text, one secret, one brown strand at a time.
Chapter Text
By Monday morning, Sirius was buzzing with the need to see Barty again, his skin practically vibrating after days of cold texts and missing his smirks. For the first time in his life, he was the first awake at the Potter house, dragging himself out of bed before James or Regulus, determined to be early in Hogwarts.
He was a man on a mission, and that mission was Barty Bloody Crouch Jr.
Effie and Monty hugged them goodbye by the fireplace, Effie’s arms warm and Monty’s hand ruffling Sirius’s hair. “Can’t wait to have you kids for Easter break,” Effie said, her smile soft, and Sirius’s chest tightened, a lump in his throat. Merlin, he didn’t deserve people like them, taking him and Regulus in like they were their own, no questions asked. He mumbled a “thanks,” his voice gruff, and stepped into the Floo, James and Regulus behind him, their suitcases clunking.
The second he stumbled out of the fireplace in McGonagall’s office—“Away from the rug, Black, it’s Persian!” she snapped, her glasses glinting—his mind was a one-track chant: Barty Barty Barty Barty Barty. The castle’s familiar stone walls and enchanted ceilings barely registered; all he could think about was that smirk, those mismatched eyes, the way Barty’s hand felt on his hip. After dropping their suitcases in Regulus’s dorm, they changed into uniforms; Sirius cursed the slacks, shirt, sweater, and damn tie under his breath at least ten times, yanking the knot loose to make it bearable, his piercings hidden but pressing against the fabric, a secret reminder of Barty’s hands.
They headed to the Great Hall for breakfast, the chatter of students and clink of cutlery filling the air. Sirius’s eyes scanned the Slytherin table, and there he was: Barty, sitting across from Evan, no green strand in his soft brown hair, and—since when did he have freckles? A scattering across his nose and cheeks, faint but there, catching the morning light through the enchanted ceiling. Sirius had never noticed them, not in all their hookups, not even in the haze of New Year’s. His heart did a stupid flip, and before he could overthink it, he slid into the seat beside Barty, his hand landing on Barty’s thigh under the table with embarrassing speed, like it belonged there.
Barty didn’t flinch, just covered Sirius’s hand with his own, squeezing lightly, his warmth grounding.
But, of course, the master of secrets played his game impeccably.
“Lost a fight with a pillow, Black?” he mocked, eyeing Sirius’s messy hair, his smirk sharp but soft around the edges, those freckles making him look almost… boyish.
“Shut up, twat. It’s intentional,” Sirius fired back, grinning, his thumb brushing Barty’s thigh, subtle but deliberate, their secret safe under the table. Evan raised an eyebrow across from them, his smirk too knowing, but Regulus and James, sliding in beside Sirius, were too busy arguing about Quidditch to notice.
“Intentional my arse,” Barty said, stealing a piece of toast from Sirius’s plate, his fingers brushing Sirius’s wrist, sending a spark up his arm. “You look like you rolled out of a broom crash.”
“Says the git with freckles,” Sirius shot back, leaning closer, his voice low, teasing. “Since when do you have those, Crouch? Been hiding them with a charm?”
Barty’s smirk faltered for a split second, his cheeks faintly pink, but he recovered fast. “Since always, prick. You’re just blind,” he said, squeezing Sirius’s hand under the table, his eyes glinting with mischief.
The Great Hall buzzed around them, students trickling in, the post-holiday chaos in full swing—Ravenclaws comparing notes, Hufflepuffs passing pastries, Slytherins whispering about who hooked up at whose party. Sirius barely noticed, too focused on Barty’s freckles, his quiet warmth after a week of cold texts, the way his fingers laced with Sirius’s under the table, subtle but there. He’d missed this—Barty’s sharp tongue, his secrets, the way he could make Sirius’s heart pound with a single look.
“So,” Sirius said, keeping his voice low, just for Barty, as Evan launched into a story about Marcel’s latest text. “You okay? After… you know.” He didn’t say your parents, didn’t need to, his thumb brushing Barty’s knuckles, gentle.
Barty’s smirk softened, his eyes flicking to Sirius, something raw there for a moment. “Better now,” he said, quiet, squeezing Sirius’s hand. “Missed you, git.”
Sirius’s grin was instant, his chest warm. “Missed you too, sap,” he said, nudging Barty’s shoulder, their banter a shield but their touch saying more. He wanted to drag Barty to a broom closet, kiss him senseless, freckles and all, but Regulus was right there, and Evan’s smirks were already too much.
Instead, he texted under the table, one-handed: broom closet after potions? need to count those freckles. Barty’s phone buzzed, and he smirked, typing back: only if i get to tie u up, princess. Sirius bit his lip, stifling a laugh, his heart racing. Classes loomed, but Sirius was already plotting—empty corridors, silencing charms, Barty’s hands. Hogwarts was back, and so was their chaos, and Sirius was all in, one smirk, one freckle, one brown strand at a time.
The Great Hall had been a blur of Barty’s freckles and stolen touches, but by the time Sirius stepped into the Potions classroom for the first class of 2025, he was ready to hex the universe. He’d been ignoring Remus’s lingering gazes—now that Barty had pointed them out, Sirius noticed them everywhere, but he doubled down on not giving a fuck. Let Remus see what he lost, as Evan always drawled post-breakup, all dramatic and sage-like. Sirius was over it, his heart firmly on Barty’s smirk, those freckles, the hand that had squeezed his under the breakfast table.
But the universe had a sick sense of humor, because the first class was Potions, and Slughorn was beaming like a kid at Honeydukes.
“Amortentia!” he announced, clapping his hands, conjuring lidded cauldrons onto every square table with a flourish.
“Fuck me,” Sirius muttered under his breath, sinking lower in his seat, his tie already half-undone. Evan smirked beside him, Regulus rolled his eyes, and Barty nudged his knee under the table, his face unreadable, those freckles catching the dungeon’s dim light. Sirius shot him a look— you knew this was coming, didn’t you, prick? —but Barty just raised an eyebrow, all innocent, which meant he was definitely up to something.
Then, it got worse. Slughorn, practically glowing, said, “I thought we’d do a little experiment! With Valentine’s Day a month away, we’ll study Amortentia every week to see if you can guess who sent you a Valentine’s card!”
Sirius’s head hit the table with a loud thud, his hair flopping over his face. He was a Black, so he wouldn’t actually hide under the table, but Merlin, he wanted to.
He knew his Amortentia would scream Barty—his cologne, his shampoo, that whole intoxicating Barty vibe. Remus would probably smell Sirius, because of course, and Barty? He’d likely smell weed, firewhisky, maybe leather, because the git had the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old, despite his since fourth year confession. Sirius groaned, muffling it against the table.
Regulus, meanwhile, shot James a look from their table that said, Try not to smell me, and I’m breaking up with you. James, at the table with Lily, Mary and Remus, just grinned like a lovesick puppy, already winking at him before the cauldrons were even unlidded. Of course those two would smell each other—nauseatingly perfect lovebirds.
“But remember!” Slughorn went on, oblivious to Sirius’s suffering. “Amortentia can fool you, so don’t mind if you smell someone you think you don’t love. It’s about obsession, attraction, fascination—not always love. But it’s a fine hint!” He waved his wand, and the lids vanished, the cauldrons releasing shimmering, pearlescent steam that filled the room with a heady mix of scents.
Sirius exhaled like a tortured soul, his forehead still on the table.
Evan, grinning like a niffler with gold, nudged him. “Come on, Black. Ladies first.”
“Fuck off,” Sirius said, but he sat up, ruffling his hair—definitely intentional, thank you—and leaned over the cauldron, bracing himself.
The scent hit him like a Bludger: Barty’s cologne, or maybe just his skin, because the git smelled that good even without it, sharp and warm, mixed with sweaty skin (fuck, that was hot), weed, firewhisky, and leather. There was a faint hint of laundry detergent, the same one Sirius recognized from their nights in the Room of Requirement, tangled in sheets. His heart raced, his cheeks flushing, but he leaned back, forcing a grin.
“Weed and firewhisky,” he said, shrugging. “Guess I’m attracted to myself, obviously.”
“God, you’re so useless,” Regulus muttered, rolling his eyes, but he leaned over the cauldron next, his smirk blooming the second he inhaled. His head snapped to James’s table, his grey eyes glinting like he’d just won a duel.
James, right on cue, raised his hand, grinning wide. “Yes, Mr. Potter?” Slughorn asked, all polite.
“Nothing, just wanted to say I smell Regulus,” James announced, his voice carrying, his glasses slipping down his nose.
Half the class cackled—except Lily, sitting next to James, her ex and the biggest idiot on earth, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Regulus just smirked, all smug, leaning back in his chair like he’d conquered the world. And, well, he had. He so fucking had.
Evan went next, inhaling deeply. “Marcel’s cologne, mixed with… who the fuck knows,” he said, grinning, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. “Something spicy. Bet it’s his shampoo.” He winked at Sirius, who flipped him off, laughing.
Then it was Barty’s turn. He leaned over the cauldron, his face a perfect mask, unreadable as ever, those freckles standing out against his pale skin. Sirius watched, his heart in his throat, half-expecting Barty to say something ridiculous like “broom polish” to dodge the truth. But Barty just pulled back, shrugging, his voice casual.
“Leather, whiskey, and… something sweet. Dunno.” His eyes flicked to Sirius, quick and sharp, and Sirius’s stomach flipped, because something sweet? That was him, wasn’t it? His hair stuff, maybe, or that lip balm he’d nicked from James. Fuck.
Sirius was too busy plotting how to interrogate Barty later— God, I’ll learn Occlumency just to crack that prick’s head —to notice the look Remus gave him after sniffing his own cauldron. Remus’s face was tight, his eyes lingering, but Sirius missed it, his mind on Barty. Probably for the best, because Sirius was done with Remus’s baggage, his heart firmly on Barty’s secrets, their whatever this was.
“Alright, class, note your observations!” Slughorn said, clapping his hands. “We’ll compare each week to see if your scents shift. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Sirius groaned, slumping in his seat, muttering, “Fascinating my arse.”
Evan cackled, Regulus smirked, and Barty nudged his knee again, his smirk soft but wicked, like he knew exactly what Sirius had smelled. Sirius shot him a look— you’re spilling later, prick —and Barty just winked, his freckles catching the light, making Sirius’s heart do that stupid flip again.
As they packed up after an hour of brewing some complicated potion, Sirius leaned close, his voice low. “Something sweet, huh? Gonna tell me what that is, sap?”
Barty’s smirk widened, his hand brushing Sirius’s lower back as they left the dungeon. “Earn it, princess,” he said, his voice a tease, and Sirius laughed, shoving him playfully before he led Barty to their go-to spot for breaks and the second the portrait swung shut, sealing them in their private bubble, Sirius crossed his arms and glanced up at Barty, his tie loose, shirt untucked.
“What was it?” he asked, bracing for some classic Barty bullshit, his heart already racing.
“You,” Barty said, simple, direct.
And, oh, oh fuck.
Sirius softened in a fraction of a second, his grin breaking through, stepping closer, their boots almost touching. “Yeah?” he asked, almost sheepish, his voice quieter, his heart doing that stupid flip.
“Mhm,” Barty said, sliding his hand under Sirius’s shirt, fingers brushing the bare skin above his waistband, warm and teasing. “Your conditioner was the ‘something sweet,’ princess,” he smirked, his mismatched eyes glinting.
Sirius beamed, his chest puffing up. “I do smell amazing,” he stated, leaning in to kiss Barty, quick and warm, their lips meeting like they’d been doing it forever. Which they did, for long minutes, slow and deep, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lip, Sirius’s hands slipping into Barty’s hair, tugging gently, the wind ruffling their uniforms. The castle’s hum—distant chatter, broomstick whooshes—was a world away, just them, the balcony, and that Amortentia truth.
“I smelled you too,” Sirius admitted when they pulled apart, his fingers still in Barty’s hair, his voice soft, a little vulnerable. “Cologne, sweat, weed… the works.”
Barty laughed, low and warm, his hand still under Sirius’s shirt, thumb brushing his hip. “Yeah, I know,” he said, his smirk sharp but fond.
Sirius shoved him, laughing, only to pull him closer a second later, their bodies pressed tight. “You’re such a prick,” he said, grinning, his heart racing.
“And you’re a baby,” Barty shot back, his smirk widening.
“No need for pet names, Crouch,” Sirius said, rolling his eyes.
“I’m calling you a baby. It’s an insult,” Barty said, his smirk pure mischief, leaning in to nip Sirius’s jaw.
Sirius rolled his eyes again, groaning. “You’re, like, the worst,” he said, but he was laughing, his arm looping around Barty’s waist as Barty pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a flick of his wand.
They leaned against the balcony railing, Barty smoking, tucking the cigarette between Sirius’s lips for a drag—cute, Sirius noted, his heart fluttering—and Sirius studying Barty’s profile, those damn freckles standing out like stars.
“You didn’t have freckles before,” Sirius said, squinting, taking another drag, the smoke curling in the chilly air.
Barty chuckled, exhaling smoke. “I did.”
“I’d have noticed!” Sirius insisted, poking Barty’s chest, his voice rising.
“I already told you you’re blind and living in your little bubble, right?” Barty smirked, but something softer glimmered in his eyes, a hint of another secret.
“God, you’re fucking with me now,” Sirius said, groaning, but he was grinning, leaning closer.
“I always fuck with you. Well, more like I fuck you, but same difference,” Barty hummed, his smirk filthy, dodging Sirius’s swat, laughing.
Sirius groaned louder, letting his head fall against Barty’s chest, the cigarette dangling in his hand. “You’re making me feel like I’m crazy,” he mumbled, but his traitorous arm swung around Barty’s waist, pulling him closer, Barty’s warmth grounding against the cold stone. “Is it another secret or what?”
“Yeah,” Barty said, shrugging, casual, taking another drag.
Sirius let out a muffled scream into Barty’s chest, and Barty laughed, loud and bright, the sound echoing off the balcony walls, making Sirius’s heart skip.
“Tell me,” Sirius whined, lifting his head, pouting like a kid.
“Later,” Barty said, tucking the cigarette between Sirius’s lips again, his smirk soft. “In the Room tonight?”
Sirius straightened, blinking. “Wait, you’re really gonna tell me? Without a fight first?”
Barty nodded, exhaling smoke. “It’s not really a secret-secret. More like… well, I’ll tell you later,” he said, his voice teasing but sincere, his hand brushing Sirius’s lower back.
Sirius groaned again, dramatic. “Barty—”
“It’s a lot to explain, and we’ve got two minutes left,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, tucking the cigarette back between Sirius’s lips. “Meet me after dinner?”
“Why not after classes?” Sirius huffed, sounding like a petulant child, crossing his arms, the cigarette dangling.
“Got something to do,” Barty said, shrugging, his smirk faint but cryptic.
“If you tell me it’s that git from fifth year, I’ll end you,” Sirius said, pointing at him, his voice half-serious, half-Sirius.
Barty’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting. “Look at you, all jealous,” he teased, leaning closer, his breath warm against Sirius’s cheek.
“Barty!” Sirius said, shoving him, but he was laughing, his heart racing.
“It’s not him,” Barty said, catching Sirius’s wrist, pulling him close. “Now c’mon, before I’m late for Arithmancy and you for your little Muggle Studies.”
Sirius rolled his eyes but kissed him one last time, slow and warm, Barty’s hand under his shirt, their bodies pressed against the railing, the cigarette forgotten. They slipped out of the balcony, the portrait swinging shut, and headed to their classes, Sirius’s mind spinning.
What the hell was the secret? What was Barty doing after classes? And why, for fuck’s sake, had he fallen for the most mysterious git in Hogwarts?
The day dragged, Muggle Studies a blur of Sirius doodling Barty’s freckles in his notebook, ignoring the professor’s lecture on televisions. He texted Barty during lunch: spill tonight or i’m hexing that freckles off. Barty’s reply was instant: try it, princess. room, 8. Sirius grinned, his heart buzzing, already picturing the Room of Requirement—silk ropes, slicking spell, Barty’s hands, and maybe, just maybe, another secret cracked open.
After classes, Sirius had Quidditch practice, which was a bloody joke in the snowstorm that blanketed Hogwarts. James, relentless as ever, had the Gryffindor team running drills, shouting tactics over the wind, his glasses fogged, while Sirius cursed, his broom wobbling, his fingers numb. Miraculously, he survived without freezing his balls off, though he was sure his toes were close to mutiny. After a long, hot shower in the locker rooms, he and James trekked back to the castle for dinner, deep in debate about formations for the next match.
But when they stepped into the Great Hall, the Slytherin table sprawling with students, Sirius’s eyes scanned for Barty—and he wasn’t there. Not at the table, not by Evan, not anywhere. Sirius’s stomach twisted. He pulled out his phone, texting: where r u prick?? No reply. He waited, picking at his roast potatoes, but his phone stayed silent, and—damn—it made him worry, a gnawing feeling he wasn’t used to.
So he showed up at the Room of Requirement half an hour early, pacing under the red LED lights the Room had conjured, the Sex Pistols playing softly through speakers, their raw edge matching his restless energy. The space was perfect—velvet cushions, a low bed with white sheets, a charmed window showing a starry sky despite the storm outside—but Sirius barely noticed, his mind spinning.
Where was Barty? Was it his parents again? That fifth-year git? Another secret?
Finally— finally —the door creaked, and Barty strolled in, still in his Ravenclaw uniform, tie loose, shirt untucked, but the freckles were gone, his face smooth, his brown hair plain, no green strand. Sirius stopped pacing, hands on his hips, his leather jacket open over his untucked shirt. “Spill before I die,” he said, dramatic as hell, throwing his arms out.
Barty laughed, bright and sharp, crossing the room to drag Sirius onto the bed, guiding him to straddle his hips. Sirius went willingly, settling over Barty, hands on his shoulders, heart racing as he waited, his eyes locked on Barty’s mismatched ones—steady, teasing.
And then, casual as if he were commenting on the weather, Barty said, “I’m a Metamorphmagus.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, nearly hitting the bed. “What?!”
Barty grinned, and then—fuck—he started changing. His mismatched eyes shifted, brown and green melting into black, then grey, pink, green, a whole bloody palette of colors, each shift deliberate, like a wand flick. His freckles bloomed across his nose and cheeks, then vanished, only for a jagged scar to appear across the bridge of his nose, then fade. His hair flickered—green strand back, then gone, then blue, then brown again.
“WHAT THE HELL?” Sirius yelped, his hands gripping Barty’s shoulders, half-laughing, half-freaking out, his heart pounding like a Bludger. “You’re—you’re just— what?!”
Barty shrugged, his grin wide, settling back to his usual look—brown hair, freckles, mismatched eyes. “Thought you’d guess when I woke up with two brown eyes that one morning. But you just asked about round two, so…” He smirked, his hands sliding to Sirius’s hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin above his jeans.
Sirius’s jaw dropped again. “I DID?” he said, laughing, shoving Barty’s chest. “God, I was high off my arse or?”
“Understatement,” Barty said, cackling, pulling Sirius closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You were so out of it, I could’ve turned my hair pink, and you’d have just kept riding me.”
Sirius groaned, laughing, his hands sliding into Barty’s hair, tugging lightly. “You’re such a prick, keeping this from me,” he said, but his grin was wide, his heart buzzing with the thrill of it. A Metamorphmagus? Barty could change his face, his eyes, his freckles —no wonder Sirius hadn’t clocked them before. “So the freckles, the green strand, all that—it’s just you… what, messing around?”
“Pretty much,” Barty said, his smirk soft, one hand slipping under Sirius’s shirt, tracing the snake tattoo on his spine. “Kept the freckles hidden ‘cause they’re… I dunno, soft. Didn’t fit the vibe back then. But I got lazy with the charm over break.”
“Soft,” Sirius repeated, grinning, leaning closer, his voice teasing. “You’re a sap, Crouch. A freckled, shape-shifting sap.”
“Call me a sap again, and I’m turning your hair purple,” Barty said, but he was laughing, his eyes shifting to pink for a second, just to mess with Sirius, who yelped again, shoving him.
“Don’t you dare,” Sirius said, but he kissed Barty, hard and quick, their lips crashing, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, the Room’s red lights casting shadows across their faces.
They kissed for long minutes, Sirius’s hands in Barty’s hair, Barty’s fingers digging into his hips, the Pistols’ raw chords fading into the background. Sirius pulled back, breathless, his forehead against Barty’s. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, prick?”
Barty shrugged, his smirk softer now, his eyes back to brown and green. “Didn’t think it was a big deal. Plus, it’s fun watching you figure shit out. You’re cute when you’re clueless.”
“Cute,” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes, but he was grinning, straddling Barty tighter, his hands sliding to Barty’s chest. “You’re the worst. Where were you at dinner, anyway? Had me worried, you git.”
Barty’s smirk faltered, just a fraction, his hands pausing on Sirius’s hips. “Library,” he said, too casual. “Had to sort something for… you know, family stuff.”
Sirius’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t push—Barty’s parents were a minefield, and he knew better than to poke. Instead, he kissed Barty again, softer, his fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Next time, text me back, or I’m hexing your arse,” he said, his voice light but serious, his heart still racing from the Metamorphmagus reveal.
“Deal,” Barty said, his smirk returning, pulling Sirius down to lie beside him on the bed, their legs tangling, the sheets cool against their skin.
The Room shifted slightly, conjuring a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, and Barty grabbed one, lighting it with his wand, passing it to Sirius after a drag. They smoked in comfortable silence, the red LEDs pulsing with the music, Barty’s arm around Sirius’s shoulders, Sirius’s head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“So,” Sirius said, exhaling smoke, his voice teasing, “gonna show me more tricks? Turn into McGonagall and scare the shit out of me?”
Barty laughed, loud and bright, tucking the cigarette between Sirius’s lips. “Tempting, princess. Maybe I’ll turn into you, see how many people I can prank before they notice.”
Sirius groaned, shoving him. “Don’t even think about it, sap. I’d know it wasn’t me in a second.”
“Bet you wouldn’t,” Barty said, winking, his eyes shifting to Sirius’s grey for a moment, then back, making Sirius yelp again, laughing.
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” Sirius said, but he was grinning, kissing Barty’s jaw, his fingers tracing the spot where the freckles had been. “Show me the freckles again, though. They’re… nice.”
Barty’s smirk softened, and the freckles bloomed across his nose and cheeks, faint but there, making Sirius’s heart flip. “Soft spot for freckles, huh?” Barty teased, but his voice was warm, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, pulling him closer.
“Shut up,” Sirius said, laughing, kissing him again, slow and warm, the cigarette forgotten.
Sirius’s heart was still racing from the sight of Barty’s eyes shifting colors, his freckles blooming and fading, that scar flickering across his nose. They’d kissed, long and slow, Barty’s hands under Sirius’s shirt, Sirius’s fingers in his brown hair, no green strand in sight. When they pulled apart, Sirius looked at him, suddenly serious, his grey eyes narrowing.
“Barty?”
“Yeah?” Barty said, exhaling smoke, his smirk faint but curious.
“You changed your cock to be bigger, didn’t you?” Sirius asked, deadpan, his voice teasing but his face mock-suspicious.
Barty burst out laughing, nearly dropping the cigarette. “No, I didn’t,” he said, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes glinting with amusement.
“I won’t believe you on anything,” Sirius said, crossing his arms, leaning closer, his grin betraying him.
Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk sharp. “Sirius, you’re so tight I’d rip you apart if I made my cock bigger.”
“…Okay, fair,” Sirius conceded, his grin widening, puffing out his chest. “I’m great like that.”
Barty rolled his eyes, taking another drag, casual as ever, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh, warm through his jeans. “Cocky git,” he muttered, but his smirk was fond.
“So who knows?” Sirius asked, stealing the cigarette, inhaling deeply. “Since it’s not a secret-secret?”
Barty shrugged, leaning back against the headboard. “Archie, all the Rosiers, Dorcas… Xeno,” he said, his voice light, but his eyes flicked to Sirius, watching his reaction.
“And… this is, like, your usual state?” Sirius asked, gesturing to Barty’s face, his brown hair, no freckles now.
Barty licked his lips, his smirk fading slightly. “I mean… my body, yeah. But I hide scars,” he said, quieter, his hand pausing on Sirius’s thigh.
Sirius’s heart sank, because—shit—he had his own scars, too, etched by Walburga’s curses, permanent despite every charm he’d tried. “Oh,” he said, his voice soft. “Alright.”
“What, no teasing?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow, his smirk creeping back, but his eyes were searching.
Sirius rolled his eyes, passing the cigarette back. “I’d sell my left kidney to hide my scars,” he said, his voice light but honest, his fingers brushing the hem of his shirt where his own scars hid.
Barty pulled him closer, his hand sliding to Sirius’s waist, warm and steady. “Yeah, Archie told me,” he said, his voice low, no judgment, just understanding. Sirius decided not to dwell on their fucked-up parents, the permanent marks they’d left, magic be damned. He leaned into Barty’s warmth, their shoulders brushing, the cigarette’s smoke curling between them.
They smoked in silence for a moment, both lost in thought, the Room’s red lights pulsing softly. Then—
“I lied,” Barty said, out of nowhere.
Sirius’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Excuse me?”
“Wasn’t in the library,” Barty said, his smirk faint, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“You little shit, I’m gonna—” Sirius started, his heart hammering, the thought of that fifth-year git flashing in his mind. “Where the hell were you, you liar?”
Barty sighed, leaning back, lighting another cigarette with a flick of his wand. “Kicking Avery’s arse. He’s in the Hospital Wing now,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing.
Sirius blinked, his jaw dropping. “Him? Why?”
Barty’s smirk turned dry, his eyes narrowing. “Sirius, as much fun as it is watching you realize what’s happening around you—can you, dunno, think for a moment? Connect the dots?”
Sirius frowned, that tone new, sharp but teasing. “Okay, now I’m feeling like an idiot,” he said, huffing, leaning back against the headboard, arms crossed.
“You are one,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, taking a drag, his smirk softening.
Sirius huffed, pulling away, his mind racing. “He called you a whore?” he tried, squinting.
“No,” Barty said, exhaling smoke.
“Insulted Panda?”
“No.”
“Felix?”
“No.”
“Tried to hit on you?”
“Ew, no,” Barty said, grimacing, making Sirius laugh despite himself.
“Said Arithmancy is stupid?”
“He did, but that’s not the reason,” Barty said, his smirk widening.
“God, give me a hint,” Sirius groaned, flopping back on the bed, dramatic.
“Use your brain, Black,” Barty teased, leaning over him, his cigarette dangling, his eyes glinting.
“You’re about to not use your cock now, prick,” Sirius shot back, pointing at him, his grin sharp.
“Empty threat,” Barty said, smirking, and Sirius laughed, shoving him, the tension dissolving into their usual chaos.
“Shut up,” Sirius said, but he was already pulling Barty closer, their lips crashing, the cigarette forgotten on the bedside table.
Barty’s hands were under Sirius’s shirt, yanking it off, his fingers tracing the snake tattoo, then dipping to his jeans, unbuttoning them with practiced ease. Sirius kicked them off, no boxers—because of course—his cock already hard, Barty’s smirk filthy as he shed his own uniform, his slacks hitting the floor, his thorns tattoo a taunt in the red light.
“Gonna make you forget Avery,” Barty growled, pushing Sirius onto his back, his lips on Sirius’s neck, sucking a mark, his tongue piercing dragging, making Sirius gasp, his hands fisting Barty’s hair. Barty muttered a charm for slick, his fingers teasing Sirius’s rim, circling slow, deliberate, Sirius’s moans loud, reckless, the Room’s silencing charm a blessing.
“Fuck—Barty—move,” Sirius panted, his legs spreading, the stretch of Barty’s fingers—two, then three—burning, perfect, hitting that spot that made his vision blur. Barty’s other hand stroked Sirius’s cock, slow, teasing, driving him wild. “God—faster,” Sirius gasped, bucking, his belly piercing glinting, Barty’s smirk smug as he watched him unravel.
“Bossy,” Barty teased, but he pulled his fingers out, slicking himself, his cock hard, pressing against Sirius’s entrance. He pushed in—slow, relentless, the stretch splitting Sirius open, a low moan ripping from his throat as Barty filled him, inch by inch, until he was buried deep, his hands bruising Sirius’s hips. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” Barty groaned, thrusting hard, the bed creaking, Sirius’s moans turning to shouts—the Room’s lights pulsing with their rhythm.
“Gonna—scream for me,” Barty growled, angling his hips, hitting that spot over and over, his hand a blur on Sirius’s cock, the slick sound mixing with their gasps. Sirius’s nails dug into Barty’s back, scratching along the thorns tattoo, his body tensing, the edge so close. Barty kissed him, messy, all spit and heat, his tongue piercing teasing, swallowing Sirius’s moans.
“Fuck—gonna come—” Sirius shouted, his orgasm hitting like a hex, spilling over Barty’s hand, his vision whiting out, his body shaking. Barty followed, thrusting deep, groaning, coming inside him, collapsing onto Sirius, their sweaty bodies tangled, panting, the Room’s music a distant hum.
They lay there, catching their breath, Barty’s hand lazy on Sirius’s hip, Sirius’s fingers tracing Barty’s freckles—back now, because of course. “Still not telling me about Avery?” Sirius asked, his voice hoarse, teasing, stealing the cigarette for a drag.
“Figure it out, princess,” Barty smirked, kissing his jaw, his eyes soft despite the taunt. “You’re not that thick.”
Sirius groaned, laughing, shoving him. “You’re the worst,” he said, but he kissed Barty back, slow and warm, the night young, the Room theirs, and he was all in, one fuck, one secret, one freckle at a time.
Chapter Text
The rest of the week, Sirius’s brain was a tug-of-war between Barty—his freckles, his smirk, those Metamorphmagus tricks—and the infuriating Avery mystery. Nothing clicked, no matter how hard he racked his mind, and Barty clearly loved watching him squirm, his teasing smirk as sharp in the Room of Requirement as it was in bed, where he’d drag out every touch just to make Sirius beg.
The git didn’t even get detention for kicking Avery’s arse—“I turned into Snape and he’s the one with detention,” Barty had shrugged, casual as ever, when Sirius asked, his mismatched eyes glinting with mischief. Sirius had laughed, but the Avery puzzle gnawed at him.
That fifth-year git still lingered in Sirius’s mind, a shadow he couldn’t shake. He was sure Barty wasn’t seeing him anymore—Barty’s since fourth year confession was proof enough—but the idea of Barty fucking someone else back then made Sirius’s skin crawl. He didn’t ask who the git was, though; ignorance was better than picturing some twat’s face every day, knowing Barty had been with him. He’d bring it up eventually, but only after cracking the Avery case.
Days zipped by in a blur of Hogwarts chaos. Regulus’s Slytherin Quidditch team obliterated Hufflepuff, Regulus snatching the Snitch in the third bloody minute, a record even James couldn’t stop crowing about. Sirius had never been prouder, tackling Regulus in a hug post-match, shouting, “That’s my boy!” Regulus rolled his eyes, muttering, “Get off, you prat,” but let Sirius ruffle his hair, a rare grin breaking through.
Remus’s lingering glances continued, soft and heavy, but Sirius ignored them, his focus on Barty’s hands, his secrets, their stolen nights. He didn’t bring up Remus except once, asking James to nick the Marauder’s Map from him. Barty needed it for Merlin-knows-what—“Recon,” he’d said, winking—and Sirius figured lending it was nothing. Barty already owned his heart, so a map was small change.
Between Barty’s Quidditch practices, Sirius’s own practices, and studying for bloody NEWTs (Barty still patiently tutoring him on Charms and Potions he’d forgotten), they barely had time alone, except in the Room. It sucked, but it had a silver lining: Evan stopped sniffing around, too busy snogging Marcel in every corridor to care about Sirius and Barty’s secret. Their whatever this was was safe, and in every Potions class, Sirius leaned over the Amortentia cauldron, inhaling Barty’s cologne, sweat and weed, his heart kicking up every time.
Then, mid-January, it happened again. Breakfast in the Great Hall, Slytherin table packed with Sirius, Barty, Evan, Regulus, and James, the air buzzing with chatter. A Hufflepuff stumbled in, nose bloodied, face swollen, and Evan, ever the gossip, cackled. “It’s like a plague lately. Who else is getting their arse kicked for being a straggot?”
Sirius’s head snapped up at the word, his eyes locking on Barty. Straggot. The New Year’s Eve drama, Avery’s insults— slut, twink, blood traitor —flashed in his mind.
“Cig,” he said, voice tight, standing.
Barty got up, looking proud, his smirk sharp, and they headed to the courtyard, snow falling soft around them, catching in Sirius’s hair, Barty’s brown locks. They sat on their usual bench, the castle’s stone walls muffling the Great Hall’s noise. The second they were alone, Sirius yelped, “You kicked Avery’s arse because he talked shit about me on New Year’s Eve?”
Barty nodded, his smirk smug, leaning back, hands in his pockets.
Sirius gasped, pieces clicking. “The… shit, that Hufflepuff kid too?”
“Yep,” Barty said, popping the ‘p’.
“And Smith?” Sirius asked, eyes wide.
“Hell yeah,” Barty grinned, his eyes glinting.
“And that Slytherin who disappeared for a month?” Sirius pressed, leaning closer, snow dusting his jacket. “What’d he do?”
Barty’s grin faded, his jaw tightening, eyes darkening. “Overheard him talking to McNair about you one day. He planned to… assault you,” he said, voice tight, low, his hands clenching in his pockets.
Sirius’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “What?”
“He’s a freak, alright? Might not’ve meant it, but—yeah, I overreacted a bit. He was at St. Mungo’s for weeks, no idea who did it. I implanted a fake memory of him being… uh… humiliated, so he won’t try anything with you,” Barty said, shrugging, but his eyes were hard, protective.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his voice slow, disbelieving. “You mean… he wanted to, what…?”
Barty winced, shifting uncomfortably. “Dunno exactly. Maybe. I hexed him the second he said something about cornering you after practice.”
Sirius stared, his heart pounding, a mix of shock and—fuck—gratitude swelling in his chest. Barty had gone feral for him, not just over insults but a real threat, and kept it quiet, no gloating, just action.
“You… bloody hell, Barty,” he said, his voice soft, leaning closer, snow catching on his lashes.
Barty’s smirk returned, softer, his hand brushing Sirius’s knee. “Don’t get sappy, princess,” he said, but his eyes were warm, his fingers lingering.
Sirius laughed, shoving him lightly, but his heart was racing. “You’re a prick, but… thanks,” he said, his voice low, sincere, his hand covering Barty’s, squeezing.
They didn’t dwell on it, the snow falling thicker now, the courtyard quiet. Barty pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with his wand, passing it to Sirius after a drag. They smoked, shoulders brushing, Sirius’s mind still spinning—Barty’s protectiveness, his secrets, the way he’d handled it all like a bloody vigilante. But the weight of it faded as Barty’s hand slid to Sirius’s lower back, pulling him closer, their breath visible in the cold air.
“Gonna keep playing hero?” Sirius teased, exhaling smoke, his grin sharp, leaning into Barty’s warmth.
“Only if you keep needing saving, git,” Barty shot back, his smirk filthy, kissing Sirius quick and hard, his tongue piercing teasing, snow melting on their lips. The kiss deepened, Sirius’s hands in Barty’s hair, Barty’s fingers digging into his hips, the cigarette forgotten in the snow.
They stumbled back to the Room of Requirement after dinner, the castle’s corridors empty, their secret safe. The Room was ready—blue LEDs, white sheets, a charmed fire crackling. Sirius shoved Barty onto the bed, straddling him, his leather jacket shed, shirt half-unbuttoned, piercing glinting.
“Gonna thank you properly, prick,” he said, grinning, kissing Barty’s neck, sucking a mark, his hands unbuttoning Barty’s shirt, tracing the thorns tattoo.
Barty groaned, his hands under Sirius’s jeans, squeezing his arse. “Fuck, princess,” he growled, flipping them, pinning Sirius’s wrists, his lips on Sirius’s chest, teasing his nipple, making him gasp. Barty muttered a charm for slick, his fingers prepping Sirius—slow, deliberate, two, then three, hitting that spot until Sirius was moaning, loud and shameless, the Room’s silencing charm a godsend.
“God—Barty—fuck me,” Sirius panted, his legs spreading, Barty’s smirk lethal as he shed his jeans, his cock hard, pressing against Sirius’s entrance. He pushed in—deep, relentless, the stretch perfect, Sirius’s moans turning to shouts, the bed creaking, Barty’s thrusts hard, hitting that spot over and over. Sirius’s hands clawed Barty’s back, nails digging into the thorns tattoo, his body shaking, Barty’s hand stroking his cock, fast, slick, pushing him to the edge.
“Gonna—come—” Sirius gasped, his orgasm crashing, spilling over Barty’s hand, his vision blurring, shouting Barty’s name. Barty followed, groaning, thrusting deep, coming inside him, collapsing onto Sirius, their sweaty bodies tangled, panting, the fire’s glow warm on their skin.
They lay there, Barty’s hand lazy on Sirius’s hip, Sirius’s fingers tracing his freckles—back now, because of course. “Still a hero,” Sirius teased, his voice hoarse, stealing a drag from the cigarette Barty relit.
“Still a git,” Barty smirked, kissing his jaw, his eyes soft.
Sirius grinned. “Hero shit’s hot, sap.”
“Keep needing me, princess.”
The Room of Requirement was a warm blur, the fire crackling in the corner, LEDs casting a soft glow over the sheets where Sirius and Barty lay tangled, their breaths slowing after another round that left Sirius’s legs trembling and Barty’s thorns tattoo scratched red from Sirius’s nails. The cigarette they shared was down to a stub, its smoke curling lazily, and Barty’s hand rested on Sirius’s hip, his fingers tracing lazy circles, those freckles catching the light. Sirius’s heart was still racing, not just from the sex but from everything: Barty’s Metamorphmagus reveal, his vigilante streak, the Avery bombshell, the way he’d hexed a Slytherin into St. Mungo’s to keep Sirius safe. It was a lot, and Sirius’s mind was spiraling, a whirlwind of Barty Barty Barty that he couldn’t shut off.
He propped himself on an elbow, stealing the cigarette for a drag, his grey eyes fixed on Barty’s face—mismatched eyes, brown and green, that smirk so soft it was almost unfair.
“You’re a bloody menace, you know that?” Sirius said, his voice hoarse, half-teasing, but his chest was tight, emotions he wasn’t used to bubbling up. “Kicking arses, changing your face, keeping secrets like it’s your job. I can’t keep up.”
Barty’s smirk widened, but his eyes were warm, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, pulling him closer. “You’re doing fine, princess,” he said, his voice low, teasing, but there was something grounding in it, like he knew Sirius was spiraling and didn’t mind catching him. “What’s got you all wound up? The freckles or the hexing?”
Sirius laughed, sharp and bright, but it didn’t quite mask the way his mind was racing. “All of it, prick,” he said, exhaling smoke, his fingers tugging at Barty’s brown hair, no green strand tonight. “You’ve been out here playing hero, beating up gits for me, and I didn’t even know. And the Metamorphmagus thing? Merlin, you could’ve been anyone, anytime, and I’d be none the wiser. It’s—fuck, it’s a lot.” He paused, his grin softening, his voice quieter. “And you’ve liked me since fourth year. Fourth year, Barty. That’s… I don’t even know what to do with that.”
Barty’s smirk faded slightly, his eyes searching Sirius’s, his hand stilling on his hip. “Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he said, his voice softer now, almost careful. “Just… didn’t think it mattered that much. The hero shit, the face-changing—it’s just me, you know? And the fourth-year thing…” He shrugged, his freckles shifting as he let them bloom again, like a peace offering. “Wasn’t gonna tell you, but you kept poking, you nosy git.”
Sirius snorted, shoving Barty’s chest lightly, but his heart was doing that stupid flip again, his mind a mess of everything Barty had done, everything he was . “You’re impossible,” he said, his voice warm, leaning closer, their foreheads almost touching. “You’re out here hexing creeps, hiding scars, shifting your bloody eyes like it’s nothing, and you just… shrug it off. And then you’re all I liked you since fourth year like it’s not a big deal. It’s a big deal, Barty. You—” He stopped, his throat tight, because—fuck—he was falling hard, and it scared him as much as it thrilled him.
Barty’s eyes softened, his hand sliding up to cup Sirius’s jaw, his thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re overthinking, princess,” he said, his smirk creeping back, but his voice was gentle. “I’m still the same prick who ties you up and calls you a git. Just… maybe I care a bit more than I let on.”
Sirius’s breath hitched, his grin breaking through, because—God—Barty caring was everything.
“A bit?” he teased, leaning into Barty’s touch, his fingers tracing the freckles on his nose. “You hexed a guy into St. Mungo’s for me. That’s not a bit, you sap.”
Barty laughed, loud and bright, pulling Sirius down to kiss him, slow and warm, their lips moving like they had all the time in the world, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, Sirius’s hands fisting in his hair. “Keep calling me a sap, and I’m turning your hair pink,” Barty murmured against his lips, his eyes shifting to pink for a second, just to mess with him.
Sirius yelped, laughing, shoving him. “Don’t you dare,” he said, but he was grinning, his spiral easing, Barty’s warmth pulling him back to earth. He flopped onto Barty’s chest, their legs tangling, the sheets cool against his skin “You’re too much, you know that? One minute you’re all mysterious, next you’re beating up gits for me, then you’re… this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Barty’s face, his freckles, his everything.
Barty smirked, lighting another cigarette, passing it to Sirius after a drag. “You love it,” he said, his voice smug, but his hand was gentle, sliding to Sirius’s lower back, tracing the snake tattoo. “Admit it, princess. You’re obsessed.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, exhaling smoke, but his grin was wide, his heart full. “Fine, maybe I am,” he said, his voice teasing, but there was truth in it, raw and unguarded.
He was obsessed—with Barty’s secrets, his protectiveness, the way he’d been there since fourth year, quiet and steady, even when Sirius was too blind to see it. The Avery thing, the Slytherin creep, the Metamorphmagus tricks—it all piled up, proof Barty was all in, and Sirius was falling deeper every day.
His mind flicked back to New Year’s, the charmed bottle pointing to Barty, the Amortentia in Potions screaming his scent, the way Barty had healed his heart without trying, stitching up the cracks Remus left.
“You know,” Sirius said, his voice quieter, his head on Barty’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, “you fixed me. I thought no one would, but… yeah. You did.”
Barty’s hand paused, his smirk softening, his eyes flicking to Sirius, something raw there. “Didn’t fix shit, Sirius,” he said, his voice low, using Sirius’s name, no princess this time. “You were always fine. Just… needed a push.”
Sirius’s heart stuttered, his grin soft, leaning up to kiss Barty again, slow and deep, their lips lingering, the cigarette forgotten. “You’re still a prick,” he murmured, laughing, his fingers tracing Barty’s freckles, his mind still spinning but lighter now, grounded by Barty’s warmth, his secrets, their whatever this was.
They didn’t fuck again just lay there, smoking, talking shit about Quidditch, NEWTs, Evan’s Marcel obsession. But Sirius’s mind kept circling back: Barty’s fists for him, his freckles for him, his heart since fourth year, all for him. It was overwhelming, but Sirius was all in, spiraling and soaring.
Sirius had learned—alright, not quickly, it took him four bloody years, so shut it —that nothing topped the feeling of knowing Barty Bloody Crouch cared about you. Because, damn, he did, even back when Sirius thought Barty didn’t give a toss. Barty wasn’t the aftercare type, not the guy who’d hand you a water bottle, kiss your shoulder, or whisper sappy nonsense. But he cared, and Sirius felt like the world’s biggest prat for not clocking it sooner.
Barty was always casting the spells, wasn’t he? The one for slick, the cleaning charm after, quick and precise, like it was nothing. He didn’t light Sirius’s cigarette, but he’d share his own, tucking it between Sirius’s lips even if Sirius was already puffing away. No water bottle handed over, but there it was, always on the bedside table in the Room of Requirement, because Barty brought it—Gamp’s Law meant you couldn’t conjure food or drink, even here. Barty, the sneaky git, thought of everything, and Sirius?
He was living for it, every quiet gesture, every hidden spark of care. Barty was a total, absolute sap, and Sirius was head over heels, grinning like an idiot at the thought.
Even if Barty was still a prick half the time, smirking, teasing, driving Sirius up the wall. But he was Sirius’s prick, and—Godric’s balls—Sirius wanted to shout it from the Astronomy Tower, because when was the last time a boy made him this happy? Never, maybe.
Remus… sure, Sirius had loved him, poured everything into it, but looking back, it felt… young. Childish, almost, despite the werewolf drama, the Black family bullshit. They’d been kids, fumbling through love. Barty, though? Reckless as hell—wilder than Sirius, even—but also weirdly responsible. Smart as a whip, too, tutoring Sirius for NEWTs, casting charms at raves, hexing creeps like Snyde to keep Sirius safe, all without making a show of it.
But Barty was broken, too, in a way Remus—or anyone else—never was. His sharp edges hid scars deeper than the ones he covered with Metamorphmagus tricks, and when Sirius heard the full story, it hit like a Bludger. He wanted to hold Barty forever, never let him go, shield him from the world.
They were sprawled in the Room of Requirement, high as kites, Game of Thrones droning on the charmed TV, dragons roaring faintly. The conversation started innocently—Easter break plans, who was going where—when Barty, voice low, cigarette dangling, dropped the truth about why he hadn’t joined his parents in Hungary for Christmas and why he’d been so off when they returned to Luton.
“My father didn’t want me to go,” he said, tipping ash into the ashtray, his freckles hidden, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “He hates me, obviously, but it got worse when I started fighting back.”
Sirius, in a rare moment of not being a complete twat, stayed quiet, his heart sinking, letting Barty talk.
“He used to kick my arse for the smallest shit, and my mum never said a word. I was pissed at her for ages, till I realized she didn’t because he was doing it to her, too. Worse things, maybe, I don’t know. So I started defending her, and he got nastier. He only expects, you know? Nothing’s ever enough. I’d do shit just to piss him off, make him see me, but it was pointless. He’d just hex me, that’s it. Can’t use magic at home unless he allows it, so I couldn’t come to yours, couldn’t… well, nothing. Sometimes he’s so sick of me, he sends me to the Rosiers. I’d… dunno, run away if I could. But I can’t leave my mum.”
The confession hung heavy, searing itself into Sirius’s soul. Barty didn’t bring it up again, acting like his usual smirking self the next morning—teasing Sirius about his bedhead, stealing his toast at breakfast. Sirius played along, because—shit—what could he say? It’s not that bad? Worse happened to me? Yeah, maybe it had, but Sirius was free now, cut loose from Walburga’s claws. Barty wasn’t, still trapped in that warded Luton hell, and it gutted Sirius to think about.
He couldn’t shake it, lying awake in the dorm later, the castle quiet, his mind spiraling again. Barty’s care was louder than any sappy words could’ve been. Sirius had been blind, missing it for years, too caught up in his own drama to see Barty’s quiet devotion. Since fourth year, Barty had said, and Sirius still reeled at the weight of it, how Barty had carried that torch, never pushing, just there, through Sirius’s Remus phase, his family fallout, everything.
And the brokenness? Barty’s scars, physical and not, mirrored Sirius’s own, but Barty’s were rawer, fresher, his father’s hexes still a threat. Sirius wanted to storm Luton, hex Crouch Sr. into next week, drag Barty and his mum to the Potters’—Effie and Monty would take them in, no question. But Barty’s loyalty to his mum, his refusal to abandon her, was so fiercely him, and Sirius loved him for it, even if it hurt.
The next day, Sirius caught Barty in the courtyard, snow dusting their cloaks, and pulled him into a hug, no warning, his arms tight. “You’re a bloody idiot, you know,” he mumbled into Barty’s shoulder, his voice muffled, heart pounding.
Barty stiffened, then relaxed, his smirk audible. “What’s this, princess? Getting soft?” he teased, but his arms wrapped around Sirius, his hand resting on his lower back, grounding.
“Shut up,” Sirius said, pulling back, grinning, his eyes soft. “Just… you’re not alone, alright? Got me now, sap.”
Barty’s smirk softened, his freckles blooming for a second, then fading. “Yeah, I know,” he said, quiet, kissing Sirius quick, snow catching on their lips, the courtyard empty. “You’re stuck with me, git.”
They didn’t talk about Luton again, but Sirius felt it, the weight of Barty’s trust, his care, his broken edges fitting against Sirius’s own. That night in the Room, they didn’t fuck—just kissed, slow and deep, Barty’s hands under Sirius’s shirt, Sirius’s fingers in his hair, Game of Thrones forgotten.
By the end of January, the Hogwarts chill had settled into Sirius’s bones, but Barty’s warmth kept him buzzing. During a break between classes, Barty dragged him into an empty classroom— some things never changed —his smirk sharp as he pushed Sirius against a desk, kissing him hard, all tongue and teeth, his Ravenclaw tie loose, hands already under Sirius’s shirt. Sirius grinned into it, his fingers tugging Barty’s hair, the thrill of their secret as electric as ever. But mid-kiss, Barty’s gum ended up in Sirius’s mouth, a familiar swap from their hook-up days, and for the first time ever, Barty didn’t demand it back. Sirius froze, pulling away, his legs dangling as he perched on the desk, popping the gum thoughtfully.
“Why haven’t you been chewing gum for, like, weeks?” he asked, squinting, his grey eyes narrowing, catching the faint flicker of something in Barty’s expression.
Barty just smirked, leaning against the desk beside him, his freckles hidden today, mismatched eyes glinting with that secretive spark Sirius was addicted to.
“Another secret?” Sirius gasped, a grin spreading, excitement bubbling because—damn—Barty’s secrets were always gold, especially when they were about him, and that smirk screamed this is about you, Black.
“Mhm,” Barty hummed, his voice low, teasing, crossing his arms, his shirt sleeves rolled up, showing the edge of his tattoo.
Sirius beamed, grabbing Barty’s loose tie, pulling him closer, their knees brushing. “Tell me,” he said, his voice eager, popping the gum again, his heart kicking up.
Barty tipped his head back, smirking wider, like he was savoring Sirius’s impatience. “Alright,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes locked on Sirius’s. “The gum I was chewing, like, the whole time? I cast a spell on it to… hold my emotions in check. Keep me from saying dumb shit by accident, like ‘Wow, Sirius, I actually like you’ or whatever.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, the gum nearly falling out. “You what?!”
Barty shrugged, like it was no big deal, leaning closer, his hand resting on Sirius’s thigh. “Wasn’t hard. It’s like weed’s effect mixed with Muggle Xanax—not addictive, ‘cause I’m not an idiot. Just kept my head clear, so I didn’t… attach.”
“Didn’t attach?” Sirius repeated, squinting, his mind racing, the gum forgotten between his teeth.
“In case we never crossed the ‘we just fuck’ line,” Barty said, his smirk softening, his voice quieter, almost vulnerable. “Didn’t wanna get my hopes up, you know?”
Sirius’s eyes widened, his heart doing that stupid flip. “But we did,” he said, grinning, leaning closer, their noses almost touching.
“Yeah, so I dropped the gum after the Yule Ball,” Barty said, snorting, his hand squeezing Sirius’s thigh. “That one’s normal.”
“Oh my God, you sap!” Sirius crowed, laughing, shoving Barty’s shoulder, his heart soaring at the thought—Barty, the smirking, reckless git, charming his gum to keep from spilling his heart, all because he’d been pining for Sirius.
“Stop calling me that,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, but his smirk was fond, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back. “I mean it.”
“I know you do, you big softie,” Sirius teased, popping the gum louder, his grin wicked.
“I want to punch you now, Black,” Barty sighed, his voice dry, but his eyes were warm, glinting with amusement. “I won’t, but I want to.”
Sirius just laughed, popping the gum again, and—out of habit—tucked it back between Barty’s lips, their fingers brushing, a spark shooting through him. Barty smirked, chewing, his hand pulling Sirius closer, kissing him quick, the gum swapping back to Sirius mid-kiss, their laughter mixing, the classroom’s dusty air forgotten.
Sirius’s mind was spinning, though, because—god—this secret was pure Barty: clever, sneaky, and so bloody him. He’d been guarding his heart with charmed gum, keeping his since fourth year feelings locked tight, all while Sirius was clueless, tangled in Remus’s drama or his own chaos. Now, with the Yule Ball behind them, the bottle charm, the Amortentia, Barty had let the gum go, let himself attach, and Sirius was living for it, every smirk, every touch, every secret peeled back like a gift.
They stayed there, Sirius on the desk, Barty between his legs, trading the gum, kissing lazy and warm, Barty’s hands under Sirius’s shirt, tracing the snake tattoo, Sirius’s fingers in Barty’s hair, tugging just to make him groan.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius murmured, grinning against Barty’s lips, the gum back in his mouth now. “Charming your gum to not fall for me? That’s next-level sap shit.”
“Keep talking, and I’m charming your tongue to stick to your teeth,” Barty shot back, his smirk sharp, nipping Sirius’s jaw, his tongue piercing teasing, making Sirius gasp, laughing.
“Try it, softie,” Sirius said, shoving him playfully, but he pulled Barty closer, their bodies pressed tight, the desk creaking under his weight. The break was almost over, but Sirius didn’t care, stealing another kiss, the gum swapping again, Barty’s hands gripping his hips, possessive but soft, like he’d finally let himself want this.
“So,” Sirius said, pulling back, popping the gum, his eyes glinting. “Any other charmed snacks I should know about? Enchanted crisps? Hexed chocolate frogs?”
Barty laughed, loud and bright, his freckles blooming for a second, then fading, his eyes shifting to pink just to mess with Sirius, who yelped, shoving him. “You’re the worst,” Sirius said, but he was grinning, his heart full, the secret settling warm in his chest. “What else you hiding, sap?”
“Stick around, princess,” Barty said, winking, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, pulling him off the desk, their bodies brushing as they headed for the door. “Might find out.”
By early February, Sirius and Barty’s secret game was in full swing, a playful dance of revelations that had Sirius buzzing with every new layer of Barty peeled back. It started simple: Sirius would catch Barty’s eye, grin, and ask, “What’d you do, prick?” Barty, smirking, would lean in, voice low, and start with, “Well, princess…” Each secret was a spark, lighting up Sirius’s heart, proof of Barty’s care woven into years of quiet devotion Sirius had been too blind to see.
One snowy courtyard break, snowflakes catching in Barty’s hair Sirius asked, “What’d you do, prick?” as they shared a cigarette, the courtyard bustling with students. Barty exhaled smoke, his smirk sharp, freckles faint but there. “Well, princess… I cast a spell on our phones so whenever we’re together and one of us connects to the speakers, the music reflects what we’re feeling.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped, the cigarette nearly slipping. “You what?”
Barty grinned, leaning closer, his voice teasing. “So when I heard Arctic Monkeys in your flat before Christmas, I knew you weren’t fucking around. That ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ during your ‘no more boys’ speech? Obvious shot.” Snow dusted his shoulders, his mismatched eyes glinting.
Sirius laughed, loud and bright, his heart flipping. “You sneaky git,” he said, squeezing Barty’s hand briefly, mindful of the crowded courtyard.
Honestly? He wasn’t mad—not even a bit. Barty had been pining since fourth year, reading Sirius’s heart through charmed playlists while Sirius was oblivious, tangled in his own drama. It was so Barty, and Sirius was living for it, every secret tying them tighter.
Another time, during a late-night study session in the library, NEWTs looming, Sirius sprawled across from Barty, doodling Barty’s freckles in his Potions notes. He glanced up, grinning. “What’d you do, prick?”
Barty, quill paused, smirked. “Well, princess… I’ve been hexing people for years if they said anything even close to calling you a slut.” He shrugged, casual, like it was nothing. “Who the fuck thinks they’ve got the right to slut-shame you?”
Sirius’s smile was too fond, his heart swelling, warmth spreading through him. “You’re unreal,” he said, voice soft, leaning across the table, their knees brushing under it.
Barty rolled his eyes, tossing a crumpled parchment at him. “Total simp, Black,” he teased, but his smirk was warm, his foot nudging Sirius’s, a quiet I’ve got you, princess.
Sirius didn’t argue, just grinned wider, his quill sketching Barty’s snake tattoo now, his mind on every hex Barty had thrown for him—Avery, Smith, that Hufflepuff, the Slytherin creep and apparently dozens of other people. Barty’s protectiveness was fierce, subtle, and Sirius was a goner, utterly smitten.
Then, one night in the Room of Requirement, tangled in white sheets, the fire crackling, Game of Thrones muted on the TV, Sirius asked, “What’d you do, prick?” His head was on Barty’s chest, Barty’s fingers lazy in his hair, both of them loose from a joint and post-sex haze.
Barty’s voice was soft, his smirk faint. “Well, princess… never touched you outside of sex ‘cause I know how you hate physical touch when you don’t want it, and I didn’t know if you’d want it.”
Sirius melted, a complete goo, his heart thudding, turning to look up at Barty, his freckles blooming under the red LEDs. “Damn, Crouch,” he said, voice thick, grinning, “you’re the fucking man, you know that?”
Barty snorted, shoving Sirius’s shoulder lightly, but his eyes were warm, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, tracing the snake tattoo. “Don’t get sappy, git,” he said, but he kissed Sirius’s forehead, quick and soft, making Sirius’s heart flip.
Sirius was spiraling, but in the best way, every secret a thread stitching them closer. Barty’s care was everywhere—charmed playlists, hexed creeps, respecting Sirius’s boundaries, water bottles on the bedside table, shared cigarettes. It wasn’t loud like Remus’s love had been, all grand gestures and heavy promises. Barty’s was quiet, steady, woven into every smirk, every touch, every since fourth year moment Sirius had missed. And now? Sirius saw it all, and he was all in, happier than he’d ever been, his heart screaming Barty with every beat.
The game kept going. One Quidditch practice, snow still falling, Sirius caught Barty by the Ravenclaw locker rooms, grinning. “What’d you do, prick?”
Barty, sweaty, Chaser gear half-off, smirked. “Well, princess… nicked you a charmed quill last month that writes neater when you’re stressed. Figured you’d need it for OWLs.”
Sirius laughed, shoving him, his broom leaning against the wall. “You sap! I thought I was just getting better at notes!”
“Keep dreaming,” Barty teased, winking, dodging Sirius’s swat, his freckles back, catching the fading light.
Another time, in the Great Hall, Evan droning about Marcel, Sirius leaned close, whispering, “What’d you do, prick?”
Barty’s smirk was lethal, his hand brushing Sirius’s thigh under the table. “Well, princess… slipped a charm on your jacket to keep it warm, even in this bloody snow. You’re always whining about the cold.”
Sirius’s heart soared, his grin wide, stealing Barty’s toast. “Softie,” he muttered, earning a kick under the table, both of them laughing, Regulus’s suspicious glance ignored.
Each secret was a gift, and Sirius hoarded them, his mind replaying Barty’s care—years of it, quiet and fierce, from hexes to charms to gum spelled to guard his heart. Sirius wasn’t blind anymore, and he’d never been happier, falling harder every day.
Chapter Text
February was a whirlwind of snow and secrets, Sirius and Barty’s game of “What’d you do, prick?” sparking joy with every revelation, their whatever this was burning brighter than ever. Sirius was stupidly happy—Barty too, his smirks softer, his freckles blooming more often—and it felt like nothing could touch them.
But life, the little shit, had other plans, throwing Remus back into Sirius’s orbit like a rogue Bludger. Not at Barty, thank God, but straight at Sirius, and—damn—it stung.
After ten months of silent treatment, Remus chose the worst possible moment to reappear. Sirius was crossing the courtyard to meet Barty, Regulus, James, and Evan, the place packed with students, snow crunching under his boots, his mind on Barty’s latest secret (hair clip that was impossible to lose, since Sirius was always losing them). He didn’t notice Remus at first, not until that voice—calm, familiar, and infuriating—cut through the chatter.
“You have the map?”
Sirius froze, his heart lurching, his breath catching like he’d been hexed. First words since Remus’s “I don’t want to look at you ever again, Sirius,” last May, after Sirius’s massive fuck-up.
“What?” he asked, shocked, his voice cracking, turning to face Remus, those amber eyes pinning him like they used to.
“I need it,” Remus said, casual, but his gaze was searching, trying to read Sirius like old times. “Prongs said you took it.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?” Sirius snapped, disbelief spiking, his voice loud enough to turn heads.
The courtyard’s chatter quieted, students glancing over, but Sirius was too pissed to care, his blood roaring in his ears. Almost a year of Remus acting like Sirius was invisible, and now he was asking about the bloody Marauder’s Map?
“Yeah, I need it,” Remus repeated, still calm, and Sirius’s hand twitched toward his wand, half-wanting to jab it in Remus’s eye to avoid conjuring something nastier.
“You’re ignoring me for months and now you’re talking to me like nothing ever happened?” Sirius spat, stepping closer, his voice sharp, hands shaking.
Remus raised an eyebrow, infuriatingly composed. “You’re shocked that I—”
“Listen, you—” Sirius cut him off, his temper flaring. “I tried reaching you for months. Months, Remus. I called, texted, sent fucking letters like it was the ‘70s! You ignored every single thing, and now you’re strolling up to me like it’s all fine?”
“I needed time,” Remus said, his voice steady, but his eyes flickered, a crack in his calm.
“A FUCKING YEAR?” Sirius roared, the courtyard practically silent now, students gawking, but he didn’t care. “And you think I’m just gonna—what, apologize again?”
“I don’t,” Remus said, quieter, his hands in his pockets.
“Good, because I was begging you to talk, and you wouldn’t even look at me,” Sirius snapped, his voice raw, the hurt spilling out.
“You really hurt me, Sirius,” Remus said, his voice cracking, amber eyes softening, vulnerable.
“I know,” Sirius said, exhaling, his anger faltering for a second. “But I did everything to fix it. In return, you’ve been hurting me since May and now act like it’s nothing? Do you know how fucked up that is?”
Remus closed his eyes, tipping his head back—a habit Sirius knew, gathering his thoughts. “I know,” he said, voice low. “I really—I know. I tried to forget you over the summer, thought I’d managed, but then I saw you back at school, and it all came back. But you weren’t trying anymore, and—”
“So that’s my fault?” Sirius snapped, his anger surging again.
“No,” Remus said, quick, shaking his head. “I should’ve talked to you sooner. I know it’s probably too late, but… I want to now.”
Sirius from six months ago would’ve leapt at that, heart soaring, ready to fix everything. But that was pre-Barty Sirius, before the Yule Ball, the bottle charm, the Amortentia, Barty’s hexes and secrets and since fourth year.
Now? Sirius was done chasing ghosts.
“You don’t have the right to want anything from me, Remus,” he said, voice firm, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. “I know I hurt you, betrayed you, and I’d never do that on purpose. I fucking loved you for so long, and you threw that away because I made one mistake? A huge one, yeah, I fucked up big time. But what happened to ‘we can survive anything as long as we’ve got each other’? You think punishing me, pushing me away, acting like we never happened was the right thing to do?”
Remus didn’t answer, his jaw tight, eyes glistening.
“Do you?” Sirius pressed, voice quieter but sharp, stepping closer still. “Because I know you don’t. I know you’re not handling full moons well, I know you’ve got feelings for me, and I know you regret what you did. I regret what I did too, every day. But you had no fucking right to treat me like I don’t exist.”
“I’m sorry,” Remus said, voice breaking, barely audible.
Sirius shook his head, his anger ebbing into exhaustion. “Just go back to ignoring me, Remus. I’ve moved on, and I don’t want to talk to you. Prongs’ll give you the map,” he said, turning on his heel, striding toward Barty, Regulus, James, and Evan, his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette, the courtyard’s chatter swelling again, curious glances burning into him.
“What the hell was that?” James asked the second Sirius reached them, his glasses fogged from the cold, concern in his eyes.
“You heard, didn’t you?” Sirius snorted, still furious, exhaling smoke, his hands trembling as he leaned against the courtyard wall.
Regulus frowned, his grey eyes narrowing. “We didn’t hear shit. You didn’t cast a silencing charm on you two?” he asked, skeptical.
Sirius blinked, his gaze snapping to Barty, who was leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling, his I’ve got you, princess look steady in his mismatched eyes. Sirius swallowed, his heart settling.
“I—dunno, maybe,” he blurted, flustered. “Was pissed, and people are fucking—never mind.” He waved a hand, dismissing it, his mind on Barty’s quiet protection, probably a wandless charm to shield their fight from prying ears.
Evan side-glanced him, cautious, like he was scared to poke the bear. “What’d he want, though?” he blurted, unable to resist.
Sirius snorted, dry, bitter. “Oh, the fucking border.”
James blinked, confused. “Pads…?”
“He wanted the map, Prongs,” Sirius said, looking at him, his voice sharp. “The fucking map.”
Regulus’s eyes widened in disbelief. “He—what?”
“What map?” Evan asked, clueless, and everyone ignored him, their focus on Sirius’s fury.
“He thinks he can act like I’m dust on his shoes, then come running back the second he talks to me,” Sirius said, exhaling smoke, his voice steadying but still edged. “He’s so fucking— immature.”
Barty’s smirk was faint, his hand brushing Sirius’s under the guise of stealing his cigarette, a quiet I’m here.
“Git’s got nerve,” he said, voice low, casual, but his eyes were sharp, protective, ready to hex Remus into next week if Sirius asked.
“Yeah, well, he can shove it,” Sirius said, stealing the cigarette back, his grin creeping through, Barty’s presence grounding him.
Regulus and James exchanged a look—worried, but knowing Sirius was done with Remus’s drama. Evan, sensing the tension, launched into a story about Marcel’s latest text, diffusing the mood, and Sirius relaxed, leaning into Barty’s shoulder, their secret safe.
Later, in the Room of Requirement, tangled in white sheets, Sirius asked, “What’d you do, prick?” his voice soft, head on Barty’s chest, the fire crackling.
Barty smirked, his fingers in Sirius’s hair. “Well, princess… cast that silencing charm in the courtyard today. Didn’t want the whole school hearing your drama.”
Sirius laughed, warm, kissing Barty’s jaw. “You sap,” he teased, his heart full, Remus’s shadow fading against Barty’s light.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Barty sighed, dramatic, like he was being tortured, his mismatched eyes glinting with mock despair. “They’d never let me live it down.”
Sirius snorted, propping himself on an elbow. “God forbid someone knows you actually like me,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but his grin was soft, his heart flipping at Barty’s care.
“I like you alright, princess,” Barty replied, tugging Sirius closer, his hand sliding to his lower back, warm and possessive. “A little too much, considering you’ve got the temper of a two-year-old.”
“Keeps things interesting,” Sirius grinned, leaning into Barty’s chest, his fingers toying with Barty’s thorns tattoo, the Room’s quiet hum wrapping around them.
Barty rolled his eyes, but his smirk was fond, his fingers tracing lazy paths on Sirius’s arm, soothing the tension still lingering from the courtyard clash. “So, what’d he want?” he asked, voice low, curious but steady, like he knew Sirius needed to vent.
“Literally the map,” Sirius said, his voice tightening, the memory of Remus’s calm request still sparking anger. “So I gave him a speech about treating me like shit. He apologized.”
“Really?” Barty asked, his fingers pausing, then resuming their gentle tracing, his smirk faint but intrigued.
“Yeah,” Sirius sighed, leaning into Barty’s touch, the stress melting under his warmth. “It was fucked up. I yelled, he just stood there, and… dunno. Told him I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Good boy,” Barty smirked, his voice teasing, but his eyes were warm, proud, his hand squeezing Sirius’s hip.
Sirius rolled his eyes, shoving Barty’s shoulder lightly. “Prick,” he muttered, but he was grinning, stretching out on the bed, the day’s tension still knotted in his muscles. He glanced at Barty, his smirk turning wicked. “Feelin’ like tying me up?”
“You fucker,” Barty laughed, his lips crashing into Sirius’s the next second, hard and hungry, his tongue piercing teasing, Sirius’s moan muffled as he kissed back, hands fisting in Barty’s hair.
Barty’s fingers were quick, muttering a charm, silk ropes slithering from the Room’s magic, binding Sirius’s wrists above his head, his legs spread, the stretch making him gasp, his cock already hard against his jeans.
“Fuck, you’re hot like this,” Barty growled, shedding his shirt, his thorns tattoo stark in the firelight, kneeling between Sirius’s legs, unbuttoning his jeans, yanking them off with his boxers. Sirius’s skin prickled, exposed, Barty’s eyes raking over him, his smirk lethal. “Gonna make you forget that git,” he murmured, kissing Sirius’s neck, sucking a mark, his hand stroking Sirius’s cock, slow, teasing, Sirius’s hips bucking, the ropes holding firm.
“Fuck—Barty—” Sirius groaned, his head thrown back, Barty’s fingers slick with a charm, circling his rim, one slipping inside, then two, curling just right, hitting that spot that made Sirius see stars. “More—faster—” he panted, his moans loud, reckless, the Room’s silencing charm a lifesaver.
“Bossy,” Barty teased, but he added a third finger, stretching Sirius, his other hand a blur on Sirius’s cock, driving him wild. He pulled back, smirking, shedding his jeans, his own cock hard, slicking himself with a charm. “Ready, princess?” he asked, voice rough, lining up.
“God yes,” Sirius gasped, and Barty thrust in, deep and relentless, the stretch perfect, Sirius’s shouts filling the Room, the bed creaking, Barty’s hips snapping, hitting that spot over and over. Sirius’s nails dug into the ropes, his body taut, Barty’s hand stroking him, fast, slick, pushing him to the edge.
“Gonna—fuck—” Sirius choked out, his orgasm hitting like a hex, spilling over Barty’s hand, his vision whiting out, shouting Barty’s name. Barty groaned, thrusting deep, coming inside him, collapsing onto Sirius, their sweaty bodies tangled, panting, the ropes loosening with a flick of Barty’s wand.
They lay there, catching their breath, Barty’s hand lazy on Sirius’s hip, Sirius’s fingers tracing his freckles, the fire’s glow warm on their skin. “You’re too good at that, prick,” Sirius teased, his voice hoarse, stealing a cigarette from the bedside table, lighting it with his wand.
“Practice,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his eyes soft. “Need the map tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, exhaling smoke, his grin creeping back. “Gotta give it to Prongs for Remus. Let him deal with that mess.”
Barty nodded, his fingers tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo, grounding him. “You alright?” he asked, voice quiet, no teasing now, just checking.
Sirius’s heart flipped, his grin softening. “With you? Always,” he said, kissing Barty slow, the cigarette forgotten, their lips lingering. The Remus drama felt distant, Barty’s care. They talked shit after, about Quidditch, Evan’s Marcel obsession, Regulus’s Snitch record, the cigarette passed between them, the Room theirs.
The next day, Hogwarts was still buzzing about the Sirius-Remus showdown in the courtyard, the silent charm only fueling the gossip. Students shot Sirius curious glances, whispering as he passed, and he was this close to hexing them all into next week. Barty, though, would probably beat him to it, his wand already twitching at anyone who looked too long, which—God—was hot as hell. Sirius caught Barty’s smirk across the table at breakfast, his freckles faint, mismatched eyes glinting, and had to bite his lip to keep from dragging him to a broom closet right then.
But some people had a right to poke, and they did. Marlene sauntered over during breakfast, all smoky eyeliner and red lips, plopping next to Sirius and stealing his coffee without asking.
“That was kinda hot,” she declared, taking a sip, then wincing. “Ew, no sugar? You’re still fucked up?”
Evan cackled, nearly choking on his juice, Regulus rolled his eyes, and James looked torn between agreeing with “hot” and “fucked up,” his glasses fogging from his tea. Barty just nudged Sirius’s leg under the table, his face unreadable as he nibbled his plain toast—picky eater, as always.
“Thanks, Marls,” Sirius beamed, snatching his coffee back, his grin wide despite the gossip storm. Marlene winked, ruffling his hair, and launched into a story about her latest Hogsmeade date, the table dissolving into laughter, Barty’s foot still pressed against Sirius’s, grounding him.
Later, before Herbology, Elliot—sweet, shy-smiled, nice-eyed Elliot—approached Sirius in the corridor, his Ravenclaw scarf loose. “So, I was special since you were nice while dumping me, huh?” he smirked, his voice light, teasing.
Sirius chuckled, because—damn—the guy was still cute, all soft curls and easy charm.
“We weren’t technically together…” he drawled, leaning against the wall, his grin playful.
Elliot shoved him lightly, laughing. “Damn,” he said, the word carrying a mix of damn, I miss him and damn, good he’s not my problem anymore, before heading back to the castle, his smile lingering. Sirius caught Barty’s look from across the corridor—sharp, unreadable—and mouthed, “Jealous, prick?” Barty’s face stayed blank, but the sex they had after class in an empty Charms classroom—Barty pinning Sirius to a desk, rough and possessive, his tongue piercing dragging, Sirius’s moans echoing—was answer enough. Sirius grinned into the kiss, his legs wrapped around Barty’s hips, thinking, Yeah, you’re mine.
But—oh, oh —Sirius’s own jealousy roared to life days later, a Black-obsession rage right before Valentine’s Day. And, in case it wasn’t clear, Sirius could be a lot.
With Hogsmeade dates looming, students were pairing up left and right, and Sirius—who, per Barty, was “too fucking attractive for his own good”—turned down a dozen girls and blokes with a firm, “Thanks, but no, sweetheart,” without a second thought. He wasn’t planning to go to Hogsmeade at all; Barty was still banned, and Sirius had no clue if Valentine’s Day was even their thing. Barty was more likely to nick flowers from a cemetery than hand them over with a sappy note.
Still, his blanket “no” had Evan smirking knowingly again, which was becoming a bloody problem. Regulus, ever the Slytherin, started digging, noting Sirius hadn’t slept in the dorm for weeks, pressing about his “mysterious boyfriend.” Sirius dodged, muttering vague excuses, but his skin prickled at the thought of outing their secret.
What would he even say? “Hi, so Barty and I’ve been fucking for months, sleep together every night, and he’s been doing shit for me for years. Oh, are we dating? Dunno, we haven’t talked about it!”
The idea made his stomach twist, because he’d done the sneaking-around thing with Remus—weeks of it, before they went public as boyfriends, labeled, solid. Regulus and James had a similar arc, hiding at first (not from friends, but from nosy gits), only outing themselves when they were rock-solid.
Sirius felt solid with Barty, though. He really did—charmed gum, hexed creeps, silencing charms, since fourth year. They were more than fucking, more than secrets, but the lack of a label gnawed at him, especially with Valentine’s Day stirring up his insecurities. He wanted to claim Barty, tell the world, but what if Barty didn’t want that? What if Sirius was reading too much into the water bottles, the shared cigarettes, the ropes?
Then, just before the Hogsmeade weekend, Sirius found out who the fifth-year git was, and he lost his shit. It happened by accident, during a break in the library, Sirius sprawled across from Barty, pretending to study Potions but doodling Barty’s freckles in his notes. Evan was there, gossiping about Marcel to James, when he dropped a name— “Remember that fifth-year Hufflepuff, Theo? The one Barty used to hook up with?” —and Sirius’s quill snapped, ink splattering, his heart plummeting.
Barty glanced at him, quick and unreadable, then returned to his Arithmancy notes, his foot nudging Sirius’s under the table, a silent calm down. Sirius’s jealousy roared—Theo, that gangly, freckled Hufflepuff who still smiled at Barty in the corridors, had Barty, his hands, his smirks, before Sirius even knew what he was missing.
“What?” James blurted, leaning forward, his glasses slipping. “What, Theo? That was his name?” he asked, all excited, because Barty spilled hookup details but never names, a mystery that drove James mad.
Evan winced, realizing he’d fucked up, his eyes darting to Barty’s glare. “No—I mean—yes—I mean—fuck,” he groaned, sinking lower in his chair, looking like he’d just signed his own detention slip.
Sirius, dramatic as ever, pulled his leg away from Barty’s nudge, plastering a grin on his face, playing the part of Barty’s mate who just wants to tease. “Come on, Rosier, spill,” he said, his voice light, but his heart was hammering, jealousy burning.
Theo— Theo —had been the fifth-year git, and Sirius was spiraling, picturing Barty with someone else, before the Yule Ball, before since fourth year was his.
Evan winced again, his mind clearly spinning. He knew about Barty’s long-term crush on Sirius—but not about their current whatever this was. He looked like he was digging Barty’s grave, his eyes flicking between them, panicked.
“I—uh—old news, right, Crouch?” he tried, laughing nervously.
Barty nudged Sirius’s leg again, his smirk faint, but Sirius pulled away, crossing his arms, his grin sharp.
“Yeah, old news,” Barty said, voice casual, his pen scratching notes, but his foot stayed close, a quiet we’re good.
Sirius’s jealousy didn’t care, though, his mind stuck on Theo’s freckled face, those corridor smiles, the fact that Barty had fucked him, maybe even liked him.
James, oblivious, leaned closer. “Mate, you never said his name was Theo! Spill, what’s he like?” he asked, grinning, egging Evan on.
“James,” Regulus raised his eyebrow.
Evan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m dead,” he muttered, peeking at Barty, his voice laced with panic. “Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Barty cut him off, his smirk dry, glancing at Sirius, his eyes steady, reassuring. “Russo was… whatever. Ages ago.”
Sirius’s stomach twisted, but he forced a laugh, leaning back in his chair, playing it cool despite the beast clawing his chest. “Ages? Thought you were banging him right before the Yule Ball,” he said, his voice sharp, teasing, but his grin was tight, jealousy seeping through.
Barty’s lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh, but Sirius was not amused, his leg pulling away from Barty’s nudge, arms crossed.
“Yeah, for pretty long, right?” James added, bless his oblivious soul, leaning forward, all eager gossip. “Like, weeks?”
“You keeping track of who I’m hooking up with, Potter?” Barty smirked, his voice light, deflecting, his pen still scratching notes.
“Duh!” James rolled his eyes, grinning. “I try to.”
Sirius almost laughed at the irony—James, the gossip king, clueless about him and Barty—but his jealousy smothered it, his mind stuck on Theo, on Barty fucking him for weeks.
“James,” Regulus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly over his boyfriend’s nosiness.
“I’m just curious!” James protested, throwing up his hands. “Nothing’s going on lately, and I’m bored.”
“Oh, please,” Evan said, jumping at the chance to steer the conversation away from Theo, his voice desperate. “We just had the Black-Lupin fight. That’s not boring.”
James rolled his eyes, waving him off. “That’s tragic, Rosier,” he said, then leaned closer, undeterred. “Besides, Crouch was banging him for, like, weeks. That’s basically a marriage proposal in his dictionary.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, his grin forced, because—whatever. He didn’t even know. All he knew was he was pissed, his heart a mess of Theo, Theo, Theo, and Barty’s casual shrug wasn’t helping.
Regulus sighed again, muttering, “You’re such a gossip, James.”
“I wasn’t until I started being with you,” James shot back, smooth, winking at Regulus, who flushed but smirked, swatting his arm.
Sirius zoned out, not caring to hear Regulus deny being a gossip queen (he was, and everyone knew it). Evan kept glancing at Barty, like he feared a hex, and Sirius wanted to bite Barty’s head off himself—or maybe his dick, for good measure, since he couldn’t keep it in his pants back then. The bell rang, and Sirius gathered his things slow and deliberate, Walburga’s voice in his head— “Don’t let them know what’s in your head” —the only decent advice she’d ever given. Barty’s hand brushed his lower back, a quiet we’re good, but Sirius sped up, falling into step with James and Regulus, dodging the touch, his jealousy a live wire.
He knew he was being unreasonable. He’d been seeing Elliot during their “just fucking” phase, but—fuck—he hadn’t slept with him, not even a blowjob. Barty, though? Oh, he’d been fucking Theo, sometimes the same day as Sirius, all while chewing that charmed gum to not get attached. The thought made Sirius’s skin burn, his mind screaming how could you? even as he knew it was irrational. They hadn’t been exclusive then, but—God—it stung.
In Muggle Studies with James, Sirius ignored Barty’s text: u r hot when u r jealous .
Hot, his arse. Barty wasn’t touching that arse anytime soon, because Sirius was childish like that, stewing in his rage, doodling angry snakes in his notebook while Professor rambled about televisions.
“You alright, Pads?” James asked, noticing his silence.
“Peachy,” Sirius muttered, his grin tight, his mind on Theo’s freckles, Barty’s hands, the weeks before the Yule Ball. He wanted to scream, hex something, or drag Barty to the Room and fuck the jealousy out, but he held it in, his mother’s voice echoing— control, Sirius.
After class, Barty caught him in the corridor, pulling him into an alcove, his smirk sharp, hands on Sirius’s hips. “Jealous, Black?” he teased, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear, his freckles back, mismatched eyes glinting.
Sirius swatted his hands away in one smooth motion, stepping back, arms crossed. “Fucking Theo Russo? Are you even serious?” he hissed, his voice low but venomous, grey eyes blazing.
“Elliot Harper?” Barty shot back, raising an eyebrow, his smirk unwavering.
“He was cute!” Sirius snapped, his jealousy flaring hotter.
“Russo had a great arse,” Barty said, his voice teasing, but his eyes were watching Sirius closely, testing.
“You fucking—” Sirius started, his hands balling into fists, ready to hex or shove, he wasn’t sure which.
“Sirius—” Barty exhaled, exasperated, stepping closer, but Sirius was just getting started, his rage shimmering under his skin.
“You’re so full of shit,” he hissed, glaring. “You were fucking him when you already liked me?”
“I liked you for years and didn’t stay a virgin,” Barty fired back, his voice firm, his smirk fading. “It was nothing.”
Sirius let out a humourless laugh, his arms still crossed, his heart pounding. “Well, if it was nothing, then fine. Good to know weeks of fucking someone is nothing to you.”
“It’s not the fucking same, Sirius!” Barty said, his voice rising, his hands gesturing, frustration breaking through.
“When did you stop fucking him?” Sirius asked, his tone sharp, rage simmering, his eyes locked on Barty’s.
“When you told me to,” Barty replied, voice tight, his jaw clenching.
“So when you were in that club after the Yule Ball, the day before we agreed on the ‘no more boys’ rule, you were with him, right? Fucking him in some bathroom?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with accusation.
Barty’s eye twitched, but he didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said, blunt, his gaze steady.
Sirius closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to keep from hexing his bloody someone, his hands shaking. “Whatever,” he muttered, turning on his heel to walk away, his heart a mess of hurt and fury.
But Barty grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the alcove, his grip firm but gentle. “Sirius—”
“It’s fucked up,” Sirius said, glaring, cursing his shorter height, feeling like a pissed-off toddler as he stared up at Barty. “You were doing all those things for me—hexing creeps, charmed gum—while fucking him for weeks?”
“You were with Harper—” Barty started, his voice calm but edged.
“I never was with him!” Sirius snapped, cutting him off. “Not like that!”
“I never was with Russo either!” Barty shot back, his eyes flashing, stepping closer.
“Barty—!”
“Sirius,” Barty said, his voice softer now, really looking at him, his grip steady on Sirius’s arm. “I don’t care about him, never did. I was doing that because you had Harper, and I didn’t want to be the one who ended up hurt, alright? We weren’t together, weren’t exclusive, and I wasn’t trying to hurt you. You understand me?”
“You literally slept with him the day after we kissed for real the first time!” Sirius snapped, his voice cracking, the memory of that Yule Ball kiss burning.
“I was always kissing you for real, you idiot,” Barty snapped back, his voice raw, his eyes intense, and that shut Sirius up, his breath catching.
Sirius blinked, his rage faltering, Barty’s words sinking in.
“You don’t like him?” he asked finally, almost sheepish, his voice quieter.
And Sirius Black didn’t do sheepish—he was all obnoxious confidence, but Barty had him unraveling.
“I don’t,” Barty said, stepping closer, his voice firm, his freckles blooming faintly. “He was just a distraction, alright? I always wanted you, dumbass.”
Sirius made a face, his grin twitching despite himself. “You had a really weird way of showing it,” he muttered, his anger ebbing.
“But I don’t now,” Barty said, his smirk creeping back, his hand sliding to Sirius’s waist.
“Yeah, you don’t,” Sirius sighed, stepping closer, their chests brushing. “But I’m still pissed,” he added, his smirk sharp, his grey eyes glinting.
Barty snorted, his smirk fond. “Yeah, I know. You’re my princess with a mental disorder.”
“Your princess?” Sirius grinned, raising an eyebrow, his heart flipping at the possessiveness in Barty’s voice.
“With a really huge disorder. They should name a mental illness after you,” Barty said, his voice warm, cupping Sirius’s jaw, his thumb brushing his cheek.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius replied, defeated, his grin wide, leaning into Barty’s touch.
“I know,” Barty said, chuckling.
“But you’re my prick,” Sirius added, his voice soft, his hands sliding to Barty’s hips, pulling him closer.
Barty laughed, low and bright. “Yeah, I’m yours,” he said, leaning down to kiss Sirius, soft and sweet, all Sirius’s, their lips lingering, the alcove’s shadows hiding them. Sirius kissed back, his hands fisting in Barty’s shirt, the jealousy melting under Barty’s warmth, his always wanted you.
They pulled back, foreheads pressed together, Sirius’s heart settling. “No more Russos, yeah?” he said, his voice teasing, but his eyes were serious.
“Only you, princess,” Barty smirked, kissing his nose, making Sirius groan, laughing. “You gonna stop sulking now?”
“Depends,” Sirius said, his grin wicked. “You gonna make it up to me?”
Barty’s eyes glinted, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, pulling him flush. “Room, tonight,” he murmured, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear, his tongue piercing teasing. “I’ll tie you up, make you forget any git ever existed.”
Sirius’s breath hitched, his grin wide. “Deal, sap,” he said, kissing Barty quick, hard, before slipping out of the alcove, his heart lighter, Theo’s shadow fading fast.
Later, in the Great Hall, Sirius caught Barty’s eye across the Slytherin table, his smirk sharp, nudging his leg under the table. Evan, still nervous, avoided Barty’s gaze, but James was back to gossiping, Regulus groaning at his antics. Sirius leaned back, stealing Barty’s toast, his jealousy a dull ache now, soothed by Barty’s always you. That night, in the Room, Barty kept his promise—ropes, slow kisses, Sirius’s moans loud, Theo erased.
Sirius was still riding the high of Barty’s “I’m yours” from their alcove make-up, the words looping in his head like a charmed song. How could Barty be that good when he wasn’t being a prick? It had Sirius buzzing, his Gryffindor heart ready to leap into something reckless—like bringing up Valentine’s Day. He was terrified of hearing, “Valentine’s Day? What’s wrong with you, Black?” but craved, “Of course you’re my Valentine, princess.” So, on Wednesday evening, sprawled in Regulus’s dorm, Sirius decided to go for it.
They were on Sirius’s bed, Sirius propped against the headboard, Barty at the foot, legs stretched out, Herbology notes scattered between them. The door was charmed shut, but Barty’s position was strategic—plausible deniability if someone barged in. Sirius, meant to be studying for a quiz (gross), nudged Barty’s thigh with his foot, doodling hearts in his notes instead.
“No fucking until we finish,” Barty muttered, not looking up from his meticulous Arithmancy revision, his Ravenclaw nerd side in full force.
Barty was studying harder than ever, not just for NEWTs but for Muggle exams, aiming for university—chemistry, of all things. Sirius had no clue how it worked, Muggle degrees and magic, but Barty’s passion was hot as hell, his eyes lighting up over molecular bonds or whatever. Sirius didn’t mind having a brainy, sexy someone, even if it meant Herbology quizzes.
“It’s not that,” Sirius rolled his eyes, nudging Barty’s thigh again. “I mean—yeah, it is, but that’s beside the point.”
“If you ask me again about charming your quill to cheat, I swear—” Barty warned, his pen pausing, mismatched eyes flicking up, glinting.
“I won’t!” Sirius gasped, mock-offended, hand on his chest. “But also… charm my quill?”
Barty chucked his Herbology textbook at him, narrowly missing Sirius’s head.
“Kiddin’!” Sirius laughed, dodging, catching the book. “Unless…”
“Sirius,” Barty shot him a look, half-exasperated, half-fond, his freckles faint under the dorm’s charmed lamplight.
“Alright, fine,” Sirius sighed, tossing the book back, his grin softening. “Are we doing something this Friday?” he asked, all casual, but his heart was hammering.
Barty saw through his bullshit in a second, his smirk sharp, leaning back on his hands.
“You mean Valentine’s Day, which you pretend not to give a fuck about but secretly want me to ask you to be my Valentine?” he teased, his voice low, eyes locked on Sirius’s.
Sirius tilted his chin up, fake dignity dripping. “…No?”
Barty laughed, loud and bright, grabbing Sirius’s knee, squeezing. “I might do all the things for you, but I’m not celebrating Valentine’s Day.”
Sirius’s heart sank— what the hell? —his grin faltering, grey eyes wide. “You serious?”
“I don’t like that shit,” Barty said, shrugging, his smirk dry. “It’s consumerism, and the heart shape’s based on how an arse looks when you bend down.”
Sirius blinked, his jaw dropping. “Wait, really?”
“Yep,” Barty nodded, his smirk widening, clearly enjoying Sirius’s shock.
“Then you should love Valentine’s Day,” Sirius shot back, recovering, his grin wicked. “You’re all over my arse.”
“I am,” Barty said, smooth as hell, leaning closer, his hand still on Sirius’s knee. “Every day, not once a year.”
Sirius sighed, dramatic, like he was tortured, but his mood lifted, Barty’s charm working its magic. “Shame,” he said, doodling an arse in his notes, his voice teasing. “Thought we could go to London for the weekend, not leave my bed for three days. But if that’s consumerism, fine.”
Barty’s eyes darkened instantly, his slacks visibly tighter, and Sirius smirked, knowing he’d won this round. “Well,” Barty began, slow, his voice rough, leaning closer, “we could still go to London.”
“No, it’s fine,” Sirius sighed again, adding a winking face to his arse doodle, playing it up. “We’re not supporting consumerism.”
“Sirius—” Barty started, his smirk twitching, clearly torn between laughing and pouncing.
“Go back to studying, Barty,” Sirius said, all mock-serious, tapping his notes. “Future’s important.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Barty said, shaking his head, his hand sliding up Sirius’s shin, warm and teasing.
“I’m trying to be educated,” Sirius protested, his grin wide, nudging Barty’s thigh again.
“You’re trying to turn me on,” Barty shot back, his eyes glinting, catching Sirius’s game.
“I’m not,” Sirius said, smirking, his foot brushing Barty’s crotch deliberately, making Barty’s breath hitch. “I already did that.”
“Oh my God,” Barty laughed, swatting Sirius’s foot, but his hand lingered on his shin, squeezing. “We’re not going into that fetish.”
Sirius cackled, leaning back, his heart light. “Yeah, fair. But I could sell pics of my feet to some losers, make bank.”
“Sirius—” Barty groaned, his smirk fond, shaking his head.
“Maybe I’ll start an OnlyFans,” Sirius hummed, doodling a nipple piercing now, his voice teasing. “Think people’d be into this?” He tugged his shirt, flashing his piercing, winking.
“You’re incorrigible,” Barty said, his voice warm, eyes raking over Sirius, clearly tempted.
“Or maybe my arse?” Sirius grinned, turning slightly, wiggling his hips.
“I have no idea why you’re like this,” Barty muttered, but his lips were twitching, his hand sliding higher up Sirius’s leg.
“Like ‘perfect’?” Sirius asked, batting his lashes, all fake innocence.
“Like ‘deluded’,” Barty shot back, his smirk breaking through, leaning closer, their faces inches apart.
“Right,” Sirius hummed, his grin wicked. “I should be a porn star.”
“Sirius—” Barty started, exasperated, but his eyes were laughing.
“You’d watch, wouldn’t you?” Sirius teased, nudging Barty’s thigh again, his foot dangerously close to his crotch.
“I’d be the one fucking you there,” Barty shot back, his voice low, rough, making Sirius’s breath hitch, his grin widening.
“Damn right,” Sirius laughed, his heart soaring. “So… London?”
Barty chuckled, shaking his head, kissing Sirius’s knee, quick and soft, making Sirius’s heart flip. “Yeah, London,” he said, his smirk warm. “Now shut up and study. We’re making a sex tape later,” he added, casual as ever, flipping back to his notes.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his laugh loud, echoing in the dorm. “You prick!” he said, tossing a quill at Barty, who dodged, smirking. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Barty said, winking, his freckles blooming, eyes glinting.
Sirius grinned, his heart full, doodling Barty’s arse now, his mind on London—three days tangled in bed, no Theo, no Remus, just them. They studied, Barty’s foot pressed against Sirius’s, a quiet mine. Later, in the Room, Barty kept his promise—ropes, slow fucks, a charmed camera Sirius laughed at but loved, their moans loud, the firelight dancing.
Chapter Text
The London weekend plan had Sirius buzzing with excitement, his mind already on tangled sheets and Barty’s hands, but also stressing over how they’d pull off disappearing without raising eyebrows.
Barty, casual as ever, had it covered, faking a letter from his father demanding he return home for the weekend. He sent it via owl post Thursday morning, and no one batted an eyelash. In fact, Evan and Regulus cornered Barty later, their faces tight with concern, asking if he was okay, which made Sirius’s stomach twist. How bad was it really at the Crouch mansion? Barty’s confession about his father’s hexes and his mum’s silence haunted Sirius, but he didn’t bring it up. Family was still a no-go zone, even if Barty was softer now.
Sirius had a bigger problem, though: Regulus was practically breathing down his neck, thanks to a colossal fuck-up days earlier. After Quidditch practice, Sirius, absolute idiot, forgot to charm a glamour on himself in the locker room. When he yanked off his jersey, James saw everything —bitemarks, hickeys, scratches crisscrossing his back, and—damn it—bruises on his hips from Barty’s grip. Barty was a bloody animal, and Sirius loved it, but not when it got him in this mess.
“Pads, what the hell?!” James yelped, his glasses nearly falling off. “Who the fuck did that?”
Sirius winced, cursing under his breath, scrambling for a lie. “My, uh, last hookup?” he tried, pulling his shirt back on.
“That looks like someone tried to rape you or something!” James said, eyes wide, horrified.
“No one did, duh,” Sirius rolled his eyes, forcing a grin. “It’s just… y’know.”
“I know?!” James squawked, flailing.
Sirius shot him a look, leaning against a locker. “Guy’s kinda unhinged.”
“Kinda?!” James’s voice hit a new pitch.
“Okay, a lot,” Sirius conceded, rolling his eyes again, his heart racing.
“You agreed to that?” James asked, his jaw dropping. “Like, voluntarily? I mean… yeah, hard sex is cool, but that? Damn it, Pads.”
Sirius shrugged, his grin sharp, hiding his panic. “Best sex I’ve ever had.”
“WHO IS IT?!” James shouted, practically vibrating.
“Let it go, Prongs,” Sirius said, waving a hand, heading for the showers, mentally cursing Barty’s teeth and hands, even if he’d begged for every mark.
James, of course, didn’t let it go. He was now randomly asking Sirius who the mystery guy was, hoping he’d slip up. Worse, he’d blabbed to Regulus, and now both were hounding him like bloody Aurors. Sirius dodged their questions, but the pressure was mounting, especially with the London trip looming.
So, Thursday night, with all five sprawled in Regulus’s dorm, Sirius went bold. He and Barty were on separate beds, playing it cool, Barty doodling in his Transfiguration notes, Sirius pretending to read Quidditch Weekly.
“I’m going to London this weekend,” he announced, casual, tossing the magazine aside.
“What?” Regulus snapped, instantly suspicious, sitting up on his bed. “What for?”
“Check on a record shop,” Sirius shrugged, leaning back, his smirk deliberate.
“You’re going with your new fucker, aren’t you?” James grinned, bouncing on Regulus’s bed, his glasses slipping.
Evan gasped, tossing Barty a confused look. “WHAT?!”
Barty just shrugged, composed as ever, the liar, nibbling his salty crisp—picky git.
“Maybe,” Sirius smirked, winking, his heart racing at the game.
“And who is it?” Regulus asked, basically jumping on his bed, eyes narrowing like a Slytherin on a mission.
“Not spilling shit,” Sirius grinned, dodging Regulus’s swat.
“Pads,” James groaned, flopping onto Regulus’s stomach dramatically. “Just tell us who’s the best sex you’ve ever had and save me from going crazy.”
Barty’s head snapped toward Sirius so fast, Sirius worried he’d given himself whiplash. His smirk was smug, cocky, pure Barty, his freckles blooming faintly.
“Really, Black? Best sex you ever had?” he asked, mockingly, leaning back, all casual arrogance.
Sirius flipped him off, his grin sharp. “For sure better than fucking a fifth-year, Crouch,” he shot back, the Theo jab deliberate, his jealousy still simmering low.
“WHO THE FUCK IS IT?!” James shouted, sitting up, his hair a mess.
“You can bite me, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning back, smirking.
“The guy does!” James shrieked, pointing at Sirius’s neck, where a hickey peeked from his collar.
“Damn right,” Sirius said, winking, his heart pounding at Barty’s barely-contained grin across the room.
“Sirius,” Regulus glared, crossing his arms.
“What?”
“Give me the rigid name!” Regulus shouted, tossing a pillow at him.
“Nuh-uh,” Sirius grinned, catching it, tossing it back.
Regulus screamed into another pillow, and he, James, and Evan launched into guessing—Marlene’s cousin? That Ravenclaw Beater? Some Muggle from London?—their ideas wilder by the second. Sirius’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it, heart flipping at Barty’s text.
crouch 💀🔫: best sex u ever had?
sirius: fuck off
crouch 💀🔫: no no, we gonna talk about it later
sirius: u r psychotic
crouch 💀🔫: and best sex you ever had, baby
Sirius’s cheeks flushed, partly because it was true and partly because baby made his heart stutter. He glanced at Barty, who was adjusting his slacks, the perv, his smirk lethal. Git.
sirius: shut up
crouch 💀🔫: ill never shut up about it
sirius:
i hate u
sirius:
kinda
crouch 💀🔫: kinda? u like me, git
sirius: kinda
Barty’s smirk widened, his eyes flashing pink for a second, the Metamorphmagus prick showing off. Sirius rolled his eyes, heart soaring.
sirius: don’t look so pleased w urself
crouch 💀🔫: room later, princess
Sirius tossed his phone down, grinning, ignoring Regulus’s latest guess (some Hufflepuff prefect).
“You’re all wrong,” he said, stretching, his shirt riding up, showing another bruise, making James gasp again.
“Pads, who?!” James whined, Regulus nodding, Evan torn between gossip and loyalty to Barty.
“Nope,” Sirius said, popping the ‘p’, standing to grab a cigarette, lighting it with his wand.
Barty’s eyes followed, his smirk soft, and Sirius’s heart flipped again—London, just them, no nosy mates.
The second Sirius stepped into the Room of Requirement that night, the vibe hit him like a charm—pink LED lights casting a soft glow, black sheets replacing the usual white, and the third season of American Horror Story playing on the TV, witches cackling faintly. Barty was sprawled on the bed, all lazy confidence, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants slung low, his tattoos and freckles on full display, his brown hair mussed. Sirius’s heart flipped—damn, how was this prick his?
“Best sex you ever had? Really?” Barty mocked the second Sirius kicked off his shoes, heading for the bed, his grin already forming.
Sirius rolled his eyes but straddled Barty anyway, settling on his hips, hands braced on his chest.
“Don’t look so cocky,” he said, squinting, but his smirk betrayed him, his fingers tracing Barty’s tattoos, the warmth of his skin grounding.
Barty laughed, bright and real, his hands slipping under Sirius’s hoodie, warm against his waist. “I mean, the bar’s high,” he hummed, squeezing, his mismatched eyes glinting, teasing.
“Barty—” Sirius started, his voice half-warning, half-laughing.
“Really high,” Barty smirked, his hands sliding higher, thumbs brushing Sirius’s ribs, making him squirm.
Sirius tipped his head back, exasperated, groaning. “It’s not,” he said, glaring down, but his grin was wide, his heart racing at Barty’s smugness.
“Princess, you hooked up with half the school—” Barty started, his smirk lethal, clearly enjoying this.
“Girls, prick,” Sirius said, smacking Barty’s chest lightly, laughing. “Like, I was the one with cock there.”
“You always have cock. It’s biology,” Barty shot back, deadpan, his hands squeezing Sirius’s waist again, pulling him closer.
“Yeah, but only two people fucked me ,” Sirius said, squinting, his voice teasing but honest, his fingers tracing Barty’s freckles now.
Barty blinked, his smirk fading, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. “Huh?”
“I liked girls before Remus, yeah?” Sirius said, leaning back, his hands still on Barty’s chest. “And after him, I didn’t… fuck anyone. No girls, no boys. Until you, you prick.” He squinted, his grin sharp, waiting for Barty’s reaction.
A slow, smug grin spread across Barty’s face, and Sirius groaned, knowing exactly what was coming.
“So I’m better than the werewolf, huh?” Barty asked, all cocky, his hands sliding to Sirius’s hips, squeezing, his eyes glinting with triumph.
Sirius slid off him, collapsing face-first onto the bed, screaming into the pillow, his muffled “Fuck you!” making Barty laugh, loud and bright. “You’re insufferable,” Sirius groaned, turning his head, glaring, but his grin was wide, his heart soaring at Barty’s glee.
“Admit it, princess,” Barty teased, rolling onto his side, propping his head on his hand, his sweatpants riding lower, tattoos stark in the pink light. “I’m the best you’ve ever had.”
Sirius grabbed the pillow and chucked it at Barty’s face, laughing as Barty caught it, tossing it back.
“You’re a prick,” Sirius said, crawling back over, straddling him again, his hands pinning Barty’s wrists above his head, a mock wrestle. “But yeah, fine, you’re alright,” he muttered, his smirk soft, leaning down to kiss Barty’s jaw, slow and teasing.
“Alright?” Barty scoffed, freeing his hands, flipping them so Sirius was under him, his wrists pinned now, Barty’s smirk lethal. “I’m fucking legendary, Black.” His lips brushed Sirius’s neck, sucking a new mark, making Sirius gasp, his legs wrapping around Barty’s hips.
“Cocky git,” Sirius laughed, his hands sliding under Barty’s sweats, squeezing his arse, pulling him closer. “Prove it, then.”
Barty’s eyes darkened, his smirk sharp, muttering a charm, silk ropes slithering from the Room’s magic, binding Sirius’s wrists to the headboard, his hoodie yanked off, leaving him in just his jeans.
“Oh, I will,” Barty murmured, kissing down Sirius’s chest, his tongue piercing dragging over his nipple piercing, making Sirius moan, his hips bucking. Barty’s hands were everywhere—unbuttoning Sirius’s jeans, yanking them off, his lips teasing lower, Sirius’s moans louder, the TV’s witches forgotten.
“Fuck—Barty—” Sirius gasped, the ropes holding firm, Barty’s mouth relentless, his fingers slick with a charm, stretching him slow, hitting that spot, Sirius’s head thrown back, shouting. Barty fucked him deep, deliberate, their bodies slick with sweat, Sirius’s moans echoing, the Room’s silencing charm a lifesaver. They came together, Sirius’s vision whiting out, Barty’s groans low, collapsing onto him, the ropes loosening.
They lay tangled, panting, Barty’s hand lazy on Sirius’s hip, Sirius’s fingers in his hair, the pink LEDs soft. “Legendary, huh?” Sirius teased, his voice hoarse, stealing a cigarette from the bedside table, lighting it with his wand.
“Told you,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s shoulder, stealing a drag. “Better than Lupin?”
Sirius groaned, shoving him, laughing. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope,” Barty said, winking, his freckles blooming, eyes shifting pink again, just to mess with him. Sirius yelped, swatting him, but kissed him slow, their lips lingering, the cigarette passed between them.
“I should be concerned, though,” Sirius hummed when they pulled apart, sprawling back on the bed. “How many people you fucked to get this good, huh?” His grin was teasing, but his grey eyes glinted with curiosity, nudging Barty’s thigh with his foot.
Barty rolled his eyes, grabbing Sirius’s wrist, muttering a healing charm to soothe the faint bruises from the ropes, his touch gentle despite his smirk. “A few,” he said, vague, his fingers warm against Sirius’s skin.
“A few?” Sirius scoffed, propping himself on an elbow, his hair a mess. “Come on, tell me,” he teased, poking Barty’s side, his grin wicked.
“Nah,” Barty said, reaching for Sirius’s other wrist, healing it too, his smirk faint but playful, dodging the question like a pro.
“Barty!” Sirius whined, tugging his wrist free, sitting up, crossing his arms dramatically.
“What?” Barty chuckled, leaning back on his hands.
“Just tell me,” Sirius said, pouting, his voice mock-petulant, but his heart was racing, half-curious, half-bracing for jealousy.
“You’ll get all jealous,” Barty smirked, and—damn him—kissed each of Sirius’s wrists, soft and deliberate, making Sirius’s breath hitch, his heart flipping.
“Yeah, I will,” Sirius admitted, rolling his eyes, his grin sharp. “That’s literally who I am.”
Barty laughed, pulling Sirius closer, his hands on his hips. “Well, as long as you’re hot when you’re jealous, you’ve also got the temper of a two-year-old and won’t let it go for years,”
Sirius huffed, even as his heart swelled at years —damn, was Barty that serious about him? The thought made his chest tight, his grin softening.
“I thought you liked crazy,” he sighed, dramatic, flopping back onto the pillows, his hand trailing down Barty’s chest, teasing.
“I do,” Barty said, shrugging, his smirk fond, leaning over Sirius, caging him in. “Don’t wanna make you spiral, though.”
Sirius pouted—just a little, his lips twitching. “Damn,” he muttered, his grey eyes glinting, already plotting.
“What?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow, sensing the shift.
“Round two?” Sirius grinned, wicked.
Barty snorted, pulling Sirius onto his hips, voice rough. “Ride me,” he said, smirk lethal, hands gripping Sirius’s arse, guiding him. Sirius laughed straddling Barty properly, hands braced on his inked chest. Barty muttered a slick charm, his fingers prepping Sirius slow, one slipping inside, curling, hitting that spot, making Sirius moan, his head thrown back.
“Fuck—Barty—” he gasped, a second finger joining, stretching him, Barty’s other hand stroking Sirius’s cock, slow, teasing, his thumb circling the tip, precum slicking his fingers.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous like that,” Barty growled, adding a third finger, scissoring, Sirius’s moans louder, hips rocking, chasing the burn. Barty’s eyes were dark, locked on Sirius’s face, his freckles stark, sweat beading on his chest. “Ready, princess?” he asked, voice low, pulling his fingers out, slicking himself with another charm, his cock hard, flushed.
“God, yes,” Sirius panted, sinking onto Barty slow, the stretch intense, perfect, his moan raw as he took him deep, pausing to adjust, Barty’s hands steady on his hips. “Fuck, you’re huge,” Sirius gasped, grinning, moving his hips, finding a rhythm, Barty thrusting up, matching him, hitting that spot with every roll. Sirius’s nails dug into Barty’s chest, leaving red marks, his moans reckless, the bed creaking, the Room’s silencing charm a godsend.
Barty’s hands roamed, one gripping Sirius’s arse, spreading him, the other stroking his cock, fast, slick, his thumb teasing the slit, making Sirius shudder, his thighs trembling. “Look at you,” Barty murmured, voice rough, thrusting harder, deeper, Sirius’s shouts echoing, his body taut, pleasure coiling tight. Barty’s tongue piercing glinted as he leaned up, sucking Sirius’s nipple piercing, teeth grazing, sending shocks through him, Sirius’s moans desperate, “Barty—gonna—fuck—”
“Come for me, princess,” Barty growled, stroking faster, thrusting relentlessly, hitting that spot, and Sirius came, shouting Barty’s name, his orgasm crashing, spilling over Barty’s hand, vision whiting out. Barty groaned, thrusting deep, coming inside him, his grip bruising, collapsing onto Sirius, their sweaty bodies tangled, panting, hearts racing.
They lay there, catching their breath, Sirius’s head on Barty’s chest, Barty’s fingers lazy in his hair, pink LEDs soft.
“Still not telling me how many?” Sirius teased, voice hoarse, stealing the cigarette, taking a drag.
“Nope,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s temple, stealing a drag. “Don’t need you hexing half the school.”
Sirius laughed, shoving him, but kissed him slow, smoke on their lips, heart full. “Prick,” he muttered, tracing Barty’s freckles, the years warming him.
“Yours,” Barty said, winking, eyes pink again, making Sirius groan, laughing. “London’s gonna be mental,” he added, hand tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo.
“Three days of this?” Sirius grinned, exhaling smoke, mind on his flat, no nosy mates. “Spoiling me, sap.”
“Get used to it,” Barty murmured, kissing his neck, freckles blooming, Sirius’s heart flipping.
Sirius hadn’t expected a thing for Valentine’s Day, not after Barty’s blunt “I don’t like that shit” rant about consumerism and arse-shaped hearts. He’d made peace with it, content with their London weekend plans—three days of tangled sheets, just them, questionable take out and good weed. But Barty, the big fat liar, had other ideas.
After breakfast on Friday, they slipped out to their hidden balcony, the February air crisp around them, Hogwarts sprawling below. Barty leaned against the stone railing, pulling out a cigarette, but instead of lighting it, he handed it to Sirius, green ink scribbled along the paper: happy valentine’s, princess.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his grin spreading, soft and stupidly happy, his heart flipping. “You sap,” he said, voice warm, grey eyes glinting as he twirled the cigarette, Barty’s neat handwriting making his chest tight.
“Don’t spread the news,” Barty smirked, leaning down to kiss him, slow and teasing, his tongue piercing grazing Sirius’s lip, sending a spark through him. “Just need to keep you happy to get into your pants.”
Sirius shoved his chest, laughing, but pulled him closer by his hoodie. “Just admit you like me, prick,” he teased, his grin wicked, heart racing at Barty’s playfulness.
“Keep dreaming, princess,” Barty shot back as he lit the scribbled cigarette for Sirius with a flick of his wand, the flame catching the tip. He lit his own, exhaling smoke, his smirk soft, leaning against the railing, their shoulders brushing.
Sirius took a drag, the green ink smudging slightly, his heart soaring. “You’re full of shit,” he said, nudging Barty’s hip, his voice fond. “Writing me love notes now? What’s next, stealing roses from a graveyard?”
Barty snorted, stealing Sirius’s cigarette for a drag, passing his own back, their fingers brushing. “Don’t push it, Black,” he said, but his smirk was warm, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back, tugging him closer, the balcony’s charm shielding them from prying eyes. “Might nick you a daisy, though.”
“A daisy?” Sirius gasped, mock-offended, leaning into Barty’s warmth, the cigarette’s smoke curling between them. “I’m worth at least a tulip, you cheap git.”
Barty laughed, loud and bright, kissing Sirius’s temple, quick and soft, making his heart stutter. “Tulip, huh? I’ll charm one to bite your arse,” he teased, his hand squeezing Sirius’s hip, his eyes shifting pink for a second, just to mess with him.
Sirius yelped, swatting him, but kissed him hard, their lips tasting of smoke, Barty’s hands sliding under his leather jacket, warm against his shirt. “You’re the worst,” Sirius muttered into the kiss, grinning, his hands fisting in Barty’s hoodie, the cigarette forgotten, ash falling to the stone.
“Yours,” Barty murmured, pulling back, his smirk soft, lighting Sirius’s cigarette again, his thumb brushing his cheek. “Happy Valentine’s, princess. Don’t get sappy on me.”
“Too late,” Sirius grinned, taking a drag, his heart full, the green ink burning into his memory. “You’re stuck with me, sap.”
“Good,” Barty said, winking, stealing another kiss, quick and teasing, before leaning back, exhaling smoke, his freckles catching the morning light.
They smoked in comfortable silence, knees brushing, the castle waking below, Regulus and James’s nosiness a distant worry. Sirius pocketed the cigarette butt—sentimental git—planning to keep it, maybe charm it to glow pink like the Room’s LEDs.
By evening, Sirius and Barty finally stumbled into Sirius’s flat in Camden and flat was a time capsule of chaos from Sirius and Regulus’s November birthday bash—empty beer cans still stacked on the counter, a faint whiff of weed smoke lingering, vinyl records scattered near the turntable, and a half-dead plant Andromeda had “gifted” Sirius, still clinging to life. The place was messy, lived-in, theirs, and Sirius’s heart buzzed as he kicked the door shut behind them.
They tossed their backpacks to the floor with a thud, shoes flying—Sirius’s boots skidding under the couch, Barty’s trainers landing near a pile of gig flyers. Sirius shrugged off his leather jacket, letting it crumple on the armrest, while Barty peeled off his hoodie, his snake tattoo coiling up his arm, stark under the flat’s dim fairy lights. Sirius’s grin turned predatory, his grey eyes locked on the ink, stepping closer, voice low and teasing.
“Bend me over the couch so you can see that arse-shaped heart?”
“You fucker,” Barty laughed, bright and rough, closing the gap, his hands yanking Sirius’s sweater up, fingers grazing his ribs, making Sirius shiver.
Their lips crashed together, hungry, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing Sirius’s lip, a spark igniting as Sirius kissed back, hands fisting in Barty’s t-shirt, tugging him toward the couch.
“Shit, you’re impatient,” Barty murmured against Sirius’s mouth, his smirk sharp, shoving Sirius’s sweater off, tossing it somewhere near the coffee table.
Sirius’s nipple piercing glinted, his skin flushed, and Barty’s eyes darkened, hands sliding to his jeans, unbuttoning them with a flick, yanking them down with his boxers, leaving Sirius bare, his cock already hard against his thigh.
“Like you’re not,” Sirius shot back, grinning, kicking his jeans aside, pulling Barty’s t-shirt off, revealing the thorns tattoo across his V-line, freckles blooming faintly. He shoved Barty onto the couch, straddling his hips, grinding down, Barty’s sweatpants tenting, his groan low. “Valentine’s got you soft, sap?” Sirius teased, leaning down, sucking a mark on Barty’s neck, his hands tugging the sweatpants lower.
“Soft?” Barty scoffed, flipping them with a swift move, Sirius’s back hitting the couch, legs spread, Barty looming over him, his smirk lethal. “I’ll show you soft, princess.” He muttered a slick charm, his fingers circling Sirius’s rim, one slipping inside, slow, teasing, making Sirius gasp, hips bucking.
“Fuck—Barty—” he moaned, head thrown back, the couch creaking under them, fairy lights casting shadows on his inked skin.
Barty added a second finger, curling, hitting that spot, his other hand stroking Sirius’s cock, thumb teasing the tip, precum slicking his fingers. “Look at you,” he growled, eyes locked on Sirius’s face, freckles stark, sweat beading on his brow. “So fucking gorgeous.”
A third finger joined, stretching Sirius, his moans louder, desperate, the flat’s silencing charm—thank God—holding strong. Barty’s lips trailed down Sirius’s chest, tongue flicking his nipple piercing, teeth grazing, sending shocks through him, Sirius’s hands fisting in Barty’s hair, pulling.
“Need you—now—” Sirius panted, voice raw, legs wrapping around Barty’s hips, urging him on.
Barty smirked, shedding his jeans, his cock hard, slicking himself with another charm, lining up. “Ready, princess?” he asked, voice rough, teasing, his snake tattoo flexing as he leaned closer.
“God, yes,” Sirius groaned, and Barty thrust in, deep, relentless, the stretch perfect, Sirius’s shout— “Fuck, Barty, yes—” —filling the flat, the couch rocking. Barty’s hips snapped, hitting that spot over and over, his hand stroking Sirius’s cock, fast, slick, Sirius’s nails digging into Barty’s back, leaving red marks, his moans reckless. “Harder—fuck—” Sirius gasped, Barty obliging, thrusting deeper, the fairy lights swaying, the flat alive with their heat.
“Fuck—” Sirius choked out, his orgasm hitting like a hex, spilling over Barty’s hand, vision whiting out, shouting Barty’s name. Barty groaned, thrusting deep, coming inside him, collapsing onto Sirius, their sweaty bodies tangled, panting, hearts racing, the couch a wreck.
They lay there, catching their breath, Sirius’s fingers lazy in Barty’s hair, Barty’s hand tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo, fairy lights soft.
“Not bad for a sap,” Sirius teased, voice hoarse, grabbing a cigarette from the coffee table, lighting it with his wand, the green-inked Valentine’s cigarette still tucked in his jacket pocket.
“Best sex, princess,” Barty smirked, stealing a drag, kissing Sirius’s shoulder, his freckles blooming. “Told you London’d ruin you.”
“Round two in the shower?” Sirius grinned, exhaling smoke, nudging Barty’s hip, his heart full, the flat theirs.
“Fucker,” Barty laughed, pulling Sirius up, dragging him to the tiny bathroom, water already steaming, their weekend just starting. They fucked again, slow, pressed against the tiles, Sirius’s moans echoing, Barty’s hands everywhere.
Later, sprawled in bed, takeout cartons scattered, Sirius texted Regulus: london’s wild. don’t snoop. Regulus’s reply: WHO IS HE?!
“Y’know,” Barty hummed, peeking at Sirius’s phone because— of course —his nosy arse couldn’t resist, his head propped on Sirius’s thigh, freckles stark under the lights, snake tattoo coiling up his arm. “We’re gonna have to tell them someday, right?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin turning wicked, ready to make Barty squirm—his love language at this point.
“About?” he asked, voice flat, feigning ignorance, his grey eyes glinting as he set his phone down.
“...Us?” Barty said, his smirk faltering, sensing the trap, his hand pausing where it traced Sirius’s hip.
“And we are…?” Sirius pressed, leaning forward, his tone innocent, but his smirk was pure mischief, loving how Barty’s eyes narrowed.
“...Emotionally invested?” Barty tried, his voice cautious, leaning back, his sweatpants low, thorns tattoo shifting as he crossed his arms.
“Emotionally invested as…?” Sirius pushed, scooting closer, his grin widening, poking Barty’s side, making him twitch.
Barty grimaced, his freckles blooming faintly, clearly suffering. “...Human beings?”
“So I’m your…?” Sirius asked, batting his lashes, all fake innocence, his hand trailing down Barty’s chest, teasing.
“Personal pain in the arse,” Barty shot back, his smirk creeping back, grabbing Sirius’s wrist to stop the tickling.
“Who…?” Sirius grinned, undeterred, leaning closer, their noses brushing.
“Drives me crazy,” Barty said, his voice low, eyes glinting, pulling Sirius onto his lap, hands on his hips.
“And…?” Sirius pressed, straddling him, hands braced on Barty’s shoulders, his grin lethal.
“Trying to get his pretty face punched now,” Barty teased, his fingers squeezing Sirius’s arse, making him laugh.
“And you would hit your…?” Sirius asked, tilting his head, his hair falling into his eyes, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.
“Fuck, Sirius!” Barty half-laughed, half-groaned, flopping back onto the pillows, dragging Sirius with him, their legs tangling.
“‘Fuck, Sirius’ who’s your…?” Sirius pushed, giggling, pinning Barty’s wrists, his grin wide, loving every second of Barty’s torture.
“Reason for my premature death,” Barty said, his smirk sharp, flipping them so Sirius was under him, wrists pinned, Barty’s eyes pink for a second.
“And at the funeral, I’d be…?” Sirius asked, breathless, laughing, his heart soaring at the game.
“Pissing on my grave,” Barty growled, leaning down, nipping Sirius’s lip, his hands sliding under his boxers.
“As…?” Sirius grinned, arching into Barty’s touch, his voice teasing, grey eyes locked on Barty’s.
“My fucking boyfriend. Shut up,” Barty groaned, like he was tortured, collapsing onto Sirius, burying his face in his neck, his laugh muffled, freckles blooming against Sirius’s skin.
Sirius’s heart stopped, then exploded, his grin splitting his face, laughter bubbling out. “Boyfriend?” he teased, wrapping his legs around Barty’s hips, pulling him closer. “You’re admitting it, sap?”
“Don’t make me regret it, princess,” Barty muttered, lifting his head, his smirk soft, kissing Sirius slow, deep, his tongue piercing teasing, Sirius’s moan soft against his lips. “You’re mine, git.”
“Yours,” Sirius hummed, kissing back, his hands in Barty’s hair, heart full, the word boyfriend looping in his head like a charmed song. “But you’re still a prick.”
“Your prick,” Barty smirked, rolling them so Sirius was on top, hands roaming, the takeout cartons forgotten. “Gonna make you scream it later.”
“Promises, promises,” Sirius teased, grinding down, Barty’s groan low, his hands gripping Sirius’s arse, pulling him closer.
They kissed again, lazy, heated, the flat’s fairy lights soft, the world outside gone. Barty muttered a charm, silk ropes slithering from nowhere, binding Sirius’s wrists above his head, his boxers yanked off, Barty’s sweatpants following.
“Boyfriend perks?” Sirius grinned, moaning as Barty’s lips trailed down his chest, sucking a mark by his snake tattoo, his fingers slick, teasing Sirius’s rim.
“Shut up, princess,” Barty growled, his tongue piercing dragging over Sirius’s nipple piercing, making him gasp, hips bucking.
Barty fucked him slow, deep, every thrust hitting that spot, Sirius’s moans loud, the bed creaking, fairy lights swaying, the flat theirs. They came together, Sirius shouting, Barty groaning, collapsing in a sweaty heap, ropes loosening, their breaths mingling.
Later, tangled in sheets, Sirius lit a cigarette, his heart buzzing. “Boyfriend, huh?” he teased, exhaling smoke, nudging Barty’s hip.
“Don’t push it,” Barty smirked, stealing a drag, kissing Sirius’s shoulder, freckles blooming. “Tell Archie and Potter yet?”
“Nah,” Sirius grinned, texting Regulus: london’s wilder. still not spilling. Regulus’s reply: I’LL HEX YOU. Sirius laughed, showing Barty, who snorted, pulling him closer.
“Soon, princess,” Barty murmured, his hand tracing Sirius’s tattoo. “Let’s ruin London first.”
“Deal,” Sirius said, kissing him quick, his grin wicked. “But we need to make it big.”
“Sirius—” Barty started, his smirk wary, sensing the chaos brewing, his hand pausing on Sirius’s hip, his sweatpants low, thorns tattoo shifting.
“Come on, it’ll be funny!” Sirius grinned, sitting up, his boxers slipping, nipple piercing catching the light, grey eyes gleaming with mischief. “I haven’t pulled a prank since Prongs and I charmed Mrs. Norris to rap Eminem instead of meowing.”
Barty snorted, his laugh sharp, leaning back on his elbows. “That was so stupid.”
“You laughed the loudest,” Sirius shot back, poking Barty’s chest, his grin wide, remembering Filch’s horrified face in the corridors.
“She went with his part in Smack that!!” Barty howled.
Sirius cackled, flopping onto Barty’s chest, their legs tangling, the bed creaking. “Damn, I’m a genius.”
“Yeah, sure,” Barty snorted, smacking Sirius’s arse for good measure, making him yelp, laughing, squirming closer.
“I’m serious, though,” Sirius said, propping his chin on Barty’s chest, grin softening, eyes locked on Barty’s.
“Don’t make that jo—” Barty groaned, sensing the pun, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back.
“Siriusly,” Sirius smirked, drawing it out, making Barty groan louder, shoving a pillow at his face, which Sirius dodged, giggling like a git.
“That’s a dad joke,” Barty said, his smirk twitching, pulling Sirius back down, hands gripping his hips.
“I’d be an excellent dad. DILF and all,” Sirius said, batting his lashes, fake innocence dripping, his hand trailing down Barty’s chest.
“You’d starve your kids to death, too busy acting like a rockstar,” Barty shot back, voice dry, but his eyes were warm, squeezing Sirius’s thigh, pulling him closer.
“Dad of dead kids can still be a DILF, babe,” Sirius smirked, winking, the pet name deliberate, testing Barty’s reaction, his heart flipping.
“Oh, we’re going with pet names now?” Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk sharp, leaning closer, their noses brushing, his hand sliding under Sirius’s boxers.
“Can’t keep calling my boyfriend a prick,” Sirius hummed, grin wicked, fingers tracing Barty’s freckles. “Maybe I’ll go with kitten or something.”
“Black—” Barty warned, voice low, lips twitching, his grip tightening on Sirius’s hip, clearly fighting a laugh.
“Or teddy bear? I mean, you love cuddling me,” Sirius teased, pressing closer, voice mock-sweet, his hand ruffling Barty’s brown hair.
“I swear—” Barty growled, flipping them so Sirius was pinned, wrists above his head, Barty’s smirk lethal, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Or sweetheart? You’re so sweet for me,” Sirius said, giggling, arching into Barty’s grip, heart racing at the game.
“I’m gonna—” Barty started, leaning down, nipping Sirius’s lip, his hands tightening, his freckles blooming faintly.
“Wait, what about dear?” Sirius asked, batting his lashes, grin wide, loving Barty’s suffering.
“Sirius,” Barty groaned, forehead dropping to Sirius’s chest, half-laughing, half-dying, his breath warm against Sirius’s skin.
“Darling?” Sirius pressed, freeing a hand, ruffling Barty’s hair, his laugh bubbling out, the bed shaking.
“Or should I switch to French and call you mon amour?” Sirius smirked, his voice teasing.
“You fu—I forgot you speak French,” Barty blinked, his smirk faltering, caught off guard, his hand pausing on Sirius’s hip.
“Fluently, kitten,” Sirius purred, his French accent deliberately thick, leaning up, kissing Barty’s jaw, slow and teasing, making Barty’s breath hitch.
“I’m going to kill you,” Barty said, shoving Sirius back down, but he was laughing, pulling him closer, their lips crashing, Sirius’s giggle muffled against Barty’s mouth.
“You’d kill your boyfriend?” Sirius mocked, pulling back, his grin smug, hands sliding to Barty’s shoulders, squeezing.
“You’re so fucking smug about that,” Barty groaned, his smirk soft, eyes shifting pink again, just to be a prick, making Sirius yelp, swatting his chest.
“Damn right I am,” Sirius hummed, straddling Barty, hands braced on his chest, grinding down, making Barty groan, his hands gripping Sirius’s arse. “Sirius Black, first-ever Barty Crouch Jr.’s boyfriend. That’ll be in Hogwarts: A History one day.”
“Yeah, when I kill you and your ghost haunts the school,” Barty shot back, his voice dry, but his smirk was warm, pulling Sirius down, kissing his neck, sucking a mark, making Sirius gasp.
“My ghost would haunt you every time you’d jerk off,” Sirius teased, his grin wicked, hands in Barty’s hair.
“Perverted ghost,” Barty snorted, flipping them again, pinning Sirius, his lips trailing to his collarbone, tongue piercing grazing, Sirius’s moan soft. “I’d charm a ward to keep you out.”
“You’d miss me,” Sirius grinned, arching into Barty’s touch, the flat’s fairy lights soft, the world gone.
“Like a hex,” Barty murmured, kissing Sirius deep, slow, his hands sliding to Sirius’s boxers, tugging them lower, their banter fading into heat.
Later, smoking a cigarette, Sirius texted James: london’s mental. no snitching. James’s reply: WHO’S THE GUY?!
Hours later, the Camden flat was quiet, the fairy lights dimmed to a soft twinkle, casting gentle shadows over the messy bed where Sirius and Barty lay tangled in sheets, their bodies blissfully naked, skin warm from the day’s heat—couch, shower, bed, and endless banter. Takeout cartons littered the floor, the air still faintly spicy with curry and the ghost of weed from November’s chaos. Barty’s head rested on Sirius’s chest, his brown hair mussed, freckles faint, his snake tattoo curling up his arm, visible in the low light. Sirius’s fingers traced lazy patterns across Barty’s back, following the lines of his tattoo, his heart full, the word boyfriend —and Barty’s green-inked Valentine’s cigarette—still sparking in his chest.
Sirius whispered his usual, “What’d you do, prick?” his voice soft, fond, his lips brushing Barty’s hair, a ritual that always coaxed some cheeky truth from him.
“Well, princess…” Barty began, voice sleepy, muffled against Sirius’s skin, his arm tightening around Sirius’s waist. “I fell for you and pretended I didn’t for way too long.”
Sirius’s heart flipped, a grin spreading, and he fought the urge to kick his feet like a lovestruck idiot, his fingers pausing on Barty’s back, warmth flooding him.
“Same,” he muttered instead, pulling Barty closer, their legs tangling tighter, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with feeling. “And, by the way?”
“Yeah?” Barty hummed, lifting his head slightly, his mismatched eyes glinting in the dark, his smirk soft, sleepy.
“Best Valentine’s Day ever,” Sirius said, all fond, his grey eyes locked on Barty’s, his free hand brushing Barty’s jaw, thumb grazing his freckles.
Barty’s smirk deepened, and he pressed his lips to Sirius’s chest, soft and lingering, kissing the skin over his heart, making Sirius’s breath hitch, his grin widening.
“If you wanna make Valentine’s Day our anniversary or whatever—” Barty began, his voice teasing, nuzzling closer.
“I don’t,” Sirius cut in, laughing, his hand sliding to Barty’s hair, tugging gently, his heart racing at the idea, even if he played it cool.
“Shame,” Barty smirked, his lips brushing Sirius’s collarbone, kissing another mark, his hand lazy on Sirius’s hip. “At least I’d remember the date.”
Sirius smacked his arse, light but sharp, making Barty chuckle, the sound vibrating against Sirius’s chest. “Don’t act like you don’t remember every little thing about me,” Sirius teased, his voice warm, pulling the sheets higher, cocooning them.
“Mmmm, I do,” Barty admitted, his smirk softening, his fingers tracing Sirius’s side, slow and deliberate, his touch grounding. “Every fucking detail, princess.”
“And, just for the record,” Sirius said, raising his free hand in the darkness, his grin wicked, “it’s the day of the ‘no more boys’ talk.”
“And that was…?” Barty asked, his voice mock-innocent, lifting his head, his smirk lethal, knowing exactly when it was.
“You prick,” Sirius laughed, shoving Barty’s shoulder, but pulling him back, their noses brushing, his heart soaring.
“You were supposed to stop calling me that,” Barty smirked, leaning closer, his lips grazing Sirius’s.
“Shut up,” Sirius said, laughing, kissing him soft, slow, their lips lingering, Barty’s tongue piercing a faint spark, Sirius’s hands in his hair, holding him close.
Barty nuzzled against his chest, humming softly, his breath warm, his body heavy with sleep.
Then, right before his breathing evened out, he murmured, barely above a whisper, “I’ll remember December 22nd forever.”
They fell asleep like that, Barty’s breath steady against Sirius’s chest, Sirius’s fingers still in his hair, the fairy lights a soft glow, the flat theirs. Sirius dreamed of pink LEDs, green-inked cigarettes, and Barty’s smirk.
Morning came slow, sunlight creeping through the flat’s grimy windows, Barty stirring first, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his voice rough with sleep. “Still the best Valentine’s, princess?” he teased, his hand sliding to Sirius’s arse.
“Shut up, mon amour,” Sirius grinned, rolling on top of him, kissing him hard, their laughter muffled, the sheets tangling again.
They fucked lazy, slow, Sirius’s moans soft, Barty’s hands gentle, hitting that spot, the flat alive with their heat. Later, over coffee and leftover chips, Sirius texted Regulus: london’s unreal. no snitching. Regulus’s reply: I’LL CURSE YOU. Sirius laughed, showing Barty, who smirked, stealing a chip, muttering, “Boyfriend’s a menace.”
“Yours,” Sirius winked.
Chapter Text
Saturday in Sirius’s Camden flat was a haze of bliss—lazy morning sex, afternoon sex, and a quickie against the kitchen counter for good measure, because some things never changing. By evening, they were restless, the flat’s fairy lights and scattered takeout cartons feeling too small for their buzzing energy. They decided to wander London, the city theirs for the night, snow dusting the streets like a charm.
“Just to be clear,” Sirius said, zipping his leather jacket before they stepped out, his grin wicked, grey eyes glinting at Barty, who was tugging on his hoodie. “I expect you to hold my hand in public here.”
“Bite me,” Barty replied, opening the door with a mock-bow, “Ladies first, princess,” his eyes shamelessly dropping to Sirius’s arse.
But as they hit the chilly Camden streets, Barty grabbed Sirius’s hand, lacing their fingers, and didn’t let go the whole fucking time.
They checked the record shop, its shelves crammed with vinyls, the air smelling of dust and old magic. Sirius flipped through Bowie records, teasing Barty about his “basic” taste in punk, while Barty smirked, slipping a Queen album into the stack “for Alphard’s sake.” Dinner was next—Barty, the picky eater, vetoed anything with vegetables, settling on pizza, and Sirius bullied him relentlessly, stealing his crusts, laughing when Barty swatted his hand. “Eat a fucking carrot, Crouch,” Sirius grinned, dodging a thrown napkin.
After, they wandered with vodka in paper cups disguised as coffee, snow falling soft around them, London’s lights blurring in the cold. They talked shit, mostly about Alphard, as they strolled through Regent’s Park, their hands still clasped, shoulders brushing.
“He was a legend,” Sirius hummed, his breath fogging, paper cup warm in his free hand. “Caught me with a cig when I was thirteen, said, ‘You’re lucky you’re pretty, kid,’ and slipped me another one later.”
Barty snorted, his laugh sharp, snow catching in his hair. “Wasn’t he gay in the closet, though?”
“Damn right,” Sirius barked a laugh, kicking a snowdrift, his grin wide. “Pretended to be straight for years so his parents wouldn’t disown him. The second they dropped dead, he was like, ‘Hey, so I married a Muggle man when I was twenty.’”
“Twenty?” Barty asked, baffled, his eyes wide, stopping to sip his vodka, the paper cup crinkling.
“Yep,” Sirius nodded, swinging their joined hands. “Never remarried after Vince died. Just ran the record shop, drank firewhisky before noon, and hexed anyone who mispronounced Bowie.”
“Dramatic,” Barty smirked, his freckles blooming faintly, tugging Sirius closer to dodge a group of Muggle tourists.
Sirius shot him a look, grinning. “Vince was his only one. Alphard didn’t date at Hogwarts—being queer back then was a death wish. Met Vince the summer after graduation, bonded over Bowie and Queen, fell hard. Vince proposed; Alphard said ‘yes’ before he finished the sentence. They married in secret, then Alphard told him he was a wizard. Vince just said, ‘I should’ve known, you’re unreal,’ like some poet sap. They were together forty years. Vince died in a car accident at sixty, and Alphard wasn’t there, couldn’t do shit. Broke him, y’know? First kiss, first love, first everything.”
Barty’s steps slowed, his smirk fading, eyes soft. “Damn. Didn’t know that.”
Sirius hummed, sipping his vodka, snowflakes catching on his lashes. “Yeah, well. When Reggie told Alphard’s portrait at Grimmauld he was dating James in secret because of our parents, Alphard said, ‘You’re more like me than anyone, Reg. Don’t let James think you’re ashamed of him.’ Reggie told our parents a few days later, got disowned, but… worth it.”
Barty stopped walking entirely, his paper cup tilting, snow piling on his hoodie. “Didn’t know that either. Or… any of it.”
Sirius shrugged, his grin softening, squeezing Barty’s hand. “I don’t buy into first-love-forever shit, not after… y’know. But Reg and Prongs? They’re knitting-when-they’re-old, true-love jazz. Reg’s loved him forever, and Prongs says Reg isn’t his first but his true love. They’re deep in it.”
“Really?” Barty frowned, his voice quiet, kicking snow, their hands still locked.
“Yeah,” Sirius nodded, his breath fogging, eyes on Barty’s face, the streetlamp catching his scar. “You believe in that? True love, I mean?”
Barty swung his arm around Sirius’s shoulder, pulling him close, his smirk soft, eyes softer. “I mean… you know, right?”
Sirius’s heart started hammering, his breath catching— shit, was this it?
He stopped dead in Regent’s Park, snow falling thick, the world blurring around them, their paper cups forgotten.
“That… I love you,” Barty said, his voice raw, steady, eyes locked on Sirius’s. “Since fourth year and all.”
Sirius’s paper cup hit the snow, vodka soaking through, but neither cared, not even a little. His heart exploded, a grin splitting his face, raw and real, months of doubting he could say this to anyone but Remus melting away.
“I love you too,” he replied, voice rough, honest, stepping closer, their breaths mingling, snow catching in Barty’s hair.
Barty’s eyes shifted—pink, red, purple, every color, his Metamorphmagus side going wild, freckles blooming and fading, the scar across his nose glowing under the streetlamp.
Fucking mesmerizing, if you asked Sirius, his chest tight, heart soaring.
They kissed, slow and soft, lips cold but warm where they met, Barty’s hands cupping Sirius’s face, Sirius’s fisting in Barty’s hoodie, I love you echoing in his mind like a charm on loop. Snow fell around them, London fading, the park theirs, their kiss deepening, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, Sirius’s moan soft, muffled.
They pulled back, foreheads pressed, grinning like idiots, snow dusting their shoulders. “Since fourth year?” Sirius teased, his voice hoarse, nudging Barty’s nose, his hands sliding to Barty’s waist.
“Don’t make it weird, princess,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his freckles still flickering, eyes settling on pink, soft and real.
“You’re the sap,” Sirius laughed, stealing another kiss, quick and teasing, grabbing Barty’s hand again, tugging him along the path, their cups abandoned in the snow. “Gonna write me more love notes on cigarettes?”
“Shut up,” Barty groaned, but his grin was wide, lacing their fingers, his thumb brushing Sirius’s knuckles.
They wandered back to Camden, talking shit, snow sticking to their hair, vodka warming their veins. Back at the flat, they barely made it inside before Barty had Sirius pinned to the door, kissing him hard, hands yanking his jacket off, I love you unspoken but in every touch.
They fucked on the couch, Sirius straddling Barty, ropes binding his wrists, Barty’s hands guiding his hips, hitting that spot, Sirius’s moans loud— “Fuck, love you—” —fairy lights swaying, the flat theirs.
Later, tangled in bed, Sirius lit a cigarette, Barty’s head on his chest, and texted Regulus: london’s magic. still not spilling. Regulus’s reply: YOU’RE DEAD.
“Alright,” Sirius said, grinning wicked at Barty. “What’d you do, prick?”
Barty laughed, bright and rough, popping up on his elbow. “Well, princess…” he drawled, his smirk soft, leaning closer, his hand resting on Sirius’s hip. “Loved you since fourth year.”
“Damn right,” Sirius beamed, his heart flipping, pulling Barty down for a kiss, slow and deep, lips lingering, tasting smoke and Barty’s warmth, his hands sliding into his hair, tugging gently. “Still crazy, though,” he teased, pulling back, grey eyes sparkling, his grin wide.
“Sirius—” Barty started, his smirk twitching, sensing the bait, his hand squeezing Sirius’s hip.
“I mean, you’re worse than Reggie,” Sirius said, his voice mock-serious, poking Barty’s chest, loving the way his eyes narrowed.
“S—” Barty tried, but Sirius cut him off, grinning wider.
“Sooo much worse,” Sirius drawled, batting his lashes, his hand trailing down Barty’s chest, teasing the tattoos, his heart racing at the game.
“You want me to gag you?” Barty asked, voice flat, but his eyes flickered with heat, his freckles blooming, leaning closer, their noses brushing.
“Actually,” Sirius smirked, wicked, pulling Barty on top of him, their bodies aligning, skin warm, his legs wrapping around Barty’s hips. “I want you to fuck me really soft and slow. The whole ‘making love’ shit you hate.”
Barty rolled his eyes, his smirk softening, caging Sirius in, his hands braced on either side of his head, thorns tattoo flexing. “You’re so lucky you’re my boyfriend now,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss him, soft, deliberate, his tongue piercing grazing Sirius’s lip, sending a spark through him.
“Fucking lucky,” Sirius murmured against his lips, kissing back, his hands roaming Barty’s back, tracing the lines of his scars and tattoos, pulling him closer, their bodies pressed tight, the sheets rustling beneath them.
Barty’s lips moved slow, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his neck, sucking a gentle mark below his ear, his breath warm, making Sirius shiver, a soft moan escaping. “Gonna make you beg, princess,” Barty whispered, his voice low, teasing, his hands sliding down Sirius’s sides, thumbs brushing his ribs, lingering at his hips, the touch light, reverent, a contrast to their usual frenzy.
“Try me, sap,” Sirius grinned, his voice hoarse, arching into Barty’s touch, his legs tightening around him, heart hammering at the shift—soft, slow, love.
Barty smirked, kissing down Sirius’s chest, his tongue flicking over the nipple piercing, grazing it with his piercing, making Sirius gasp, his hands fisting in Barty’s hair, tugging. Barty’s lips trailed lower, kissing the scar on Sirius’s hip, his teeth grazing gently, leaving a faint mark, Sirius’s moans soft, needy, the fairy lights casting shadows on his flushed skin.
“Fuck—Barty—” Sirius breathed, his hips lifting, Barty’s hands steadying them, slow and deliberate, muttering a slick charm, his fingers circling Sirius’s rim, one slipping inside, gentle, stretching him with care, curling to hit that spot, making Sirius’s moan catch in his throat, his head thrown back. “God—slow—fuck—”
“Patience, mon amour,” Barty teased, his French accent thick, kissing Sirius’s inner thigh, adding a second finger, scissoring slow, his other hand stroking Sirius’s cock, feather-light, thumb circling the tip, precum slicking his fingers, Sirius’s thighs trembling, his moans louder, raw.
“You’re—such a prick—” Sirius gasped, grinning, his hands gripping the sheets, Barty’s fingers working him open, slow, deliberate, hitting that spot with every curl, his lips kissing Sirius’s hip, sucking another mark, the tenderness undoing him. A third finger joined, stretching him further, Barty’s eyes locked on Sirius’s face, his freckles blooming, sweat beading on his brow, the fairy lights glinting in his eyes—pink, then purple, shifting with his emotions, fucking mesmerizing.
“Ready, princess?” Barty murmured, voice rough, pulling his fingers out, slicking himself with another charm, his cock hard, flushed, aligning with Sirius’s entrance, his hands gentle on Sirius’s hips, thumbs brushing the bruises from earlier rounds, healed but tender.
“God, yes—love you—” Sirius panted, voice raw, pulling Barty down for a kiss, slow, deep, their lips lingering, Barty thrusting in, slow, inch by inch, the stretch perfect, Sirius’s moan muffled against Barty’s mouth, his legs wrapping tighter, heels digging into Barty’s back. “Fuck—so good—”
Barty groaned, low, his forehead pressed to Sirius’s, thrusting slow, deep, hitting that spot with every roll, his hands cradling Sirius’s hips, guiding him, their bodies moving together, unhurried, the bed creaking softly, fairy lights swaying.
“You’re fucking perfect,” Barty whispered, kissing Sirius’s neck, his lips soft, sucking another mark, his thrusts steady, deliberate, Sirius’s moans building, soft and desperate.
Sirius’s hands roamed Barty’s back, nails grazing his scars, pulling him closer, their chests pressed tight, sweat slicking their skin, Barty’s hand sliding between them, stroking Sirius’s cock, slow, matching his thrusts, thumb teasing the slit, Sirius’s moans louder, needy, his body taut, pleasure coiling tight.
“Close—fuck—” Sirius gasped, his head thrown back, Barty’s lips on his throat, kissing, sucking, his thrusts deeper, hitting that spot relentlessly, the tenderness overwhelming.
“Come for me, Sirius,” Barty murmured, voice raw, kissing his lips, soft, his hand stroking faster, his thrusts slow but precise, pushing Sirius over the edge. Sirius came, shouting Barty’s name, his orgasm crashing, spilling over Barty’s hand, vision whiting out, his body trembling, Barty’s groans low, thrusting deep, coming inside him, their bodies collapsing, tangled, panting, hearts racing.
They lay there, catching their breath, Barty’s head on Sirius’s chest, Sirius’s fingers lazy in his hair, the fairy lights soft, the flat quiet but for their breathing. “Best fucking Valentine’s,” Sirius whispered, voice hoarse, grinning, kissing Barty’s forehead, his heart full, I love you still looping.
“Sap,” Barty smirked, nuzzling closer, his hand tracing Sirius’s snake tattoo, his freckles blooming. “Better than fourth year, though.”
“Shut up,” Sirius laughed, smacking his arse lightly, pulling him closer, their legs tangling tighter. “You’re stuck with me now, boyfriend.”
“Good,” Barty murmured, kissing Sirius’s chest, soft, lingering, his eyes shifting pink again, making Sirius groan, laughing.
“God, I love this,” Sirius chuckled, his fingers lazy in Barty’s brown hair, tracing the curve of his skull, his grin wide, grey eyes glinting in the dim light, the flat theirs, a bubble of us.
Barty frowned, lifting his head, his freckles faint but blooming. “What?”
“How your eyes change,” Sirius said, his voice fond, thumb brushing Barty’s cheek, catching the pink flicker in his gaze, his heart flipping at the sight.
“I don’t—they do?!” Barty sat up straight, his jaw dropping, the sheet slipping to his waist, thorns tattoo stark, his eyes wide with panic.
Sirius blinked, propping himself on his elbows, his snake tattoo flexing, nipple piercing catching the light. “Uh… all the time, actually. Pink, mostly.”
“PINK?!” Barty yelped, his voice hitting a pitch Sirius had never heard, his hands flailing, freckles blooming wildly across his cheeks.
“Are you having a stroke, babe?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, his grin wicked, fighting a laugh, loving Barty’s meltdown.
“I can’t be walking around changing my eyes pink,” Barty groaned, flopping back onto the bed, the mattress bouncing, his arm thrown over his face, muffling his despair, his scar across his nose faintly visible.
“Y’know your freckles pop up randomly too, right?” Sirius hummed, leaning over him, his voice teasing, poking Barty’s side, making him twitch, his grin widening.
“What?” Barty shrieked—actually shrieked, a sound so alien Sirius cackled, clutching his stomach, tears pricking his eyes.
Barty, the cool, smug git, shrieking like a banshee— man, what a sight.
“Your eyes changed like a thousand times when I said ‘I love you’ in the park,” Sirius said, gasping through his laughter, rolling closer, his hand on Barty’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Freckles on and off, scar appeared, the whole show.”
“My scar?” Barty’s voice cracked, his arm sliding off his face, eyes wide, one green, one brown, staring at Sirius like he’d hexed him.
Sirius blinked, his laugh fading, tilting his head. “What the fuck? You don’t control that?”
“Apparently!” Barty groaned, sitting up again, grabbing his phone from the bedside table, opening the camera app, and staring at his reflection like a man possessed. He started changing his face like a maniac—eyes blue, then red, eyebrows arching high, nose shrinking, lips plumping, freckles vanishing, then blooming, his scar fading, then sharpening. “Oh my God, someone should lock me in the nuthouse,” he muttered, reverting to his original look—one eye green, one brown, freckles scattered, scar slicing across his nose, his brown hair mussed.
Sirius loved him like that the most, raw and real, his heart swelling, grin soft.
“Well,” he began slowly, sitting up, his hand resting on Barty’s thigh, thumb brushing gently. “Dora—my niece—she keeps changing when she’s really happy or sad. Can’t control it.”
“I couldn’t either when I was a kid,” Barty groaned, covering his face with his arm again, his voice muffled, the phone dropping to the sheets. “God, you ruined me.”
“Babe—” Sirius laughed, crawling over, straddling Barty’s hips, pulling his arm away, leaning down, noses brushing, his grin wicked.
“Rosier’ll never let me live this down,” Barty whined, his eyes flickering pink again, betraying him, making Sirius cackle, kissing his jaw, quick and teasing.
“Ba—” Sirius started, but Barty kept going, his voice rising, hands flailing.
“Archie’ll laugh forever,” he groaned, his freckles blooming wildly, scar sharpening under the fairy lights.
“B—” Sirius tried, biting his lip, fighting another laugh, his hands braced on Barty’s chest, feeling the warmth of his skin.
“And Potter’ll finally catch that I’m a Metamorphmagus!” Barty said, his voice cracking again, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it’d hex him.
“You’re actually unwell,” Sirius said, laughing, leaning down, kissing Barty’s nose, his lips lingering, heart soaring at the meltdown, loving every unhinged second.
“Fuck off,” Barty muttered, but his smirk crept back, his hands sliding to Sirius’s hips, squeezing, pulling him closer, their bodies aligning, skin warm, sheets rustling.
“Nah,” Sirius grinned, kissing Barty slow, deep, his tongue teasing Barty’s piercing, his hands in his hair, tugging gently. “Love you too much, prick.”
Barty groaned, his smirk softening, eyes shifting pink again, making Sirius laugh into the kiss, his heart flipping. “You’re gonna kill me, princess,” Barty murmured, flipping them so Sirius was under him, wrists pinned lightly, his lips trailing to Sirius’s neck, sucking a soft mark, Sirius’s moan soft, needy.
“Worth it,” Sirius teased, arching into Barty’s touch, his legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, the fairy lights casting shadows on their skin. “Pink eyes are hot, babe.”
They didn’t fuck again—even they had their limits, apparently—but Barty seemed hell-bent on worshipping every inch of Sirius’s skin, his lips mapping a slow, deliberate path. He kissed Sirius’s collarbone, sucking a faint mark, then down his arms, lingering at the snake tattoo on his back, his teeth grazing gently, making Sirius shiver, his laugh breathy. Barty spent way too much time on Sirius’s arse, kissing, nipping, his hands squeezing, his low groan proof of how wild it drove him, and Sirius mentally high-fived himself, grinning like an idiot, his heart flipping at Barty’s obsession.
“Fucking perfect,” Barty muttered, his lips brushing the curve, his freckles blooming faintly, eyes flickering pink again, betraying his cool.
“Prick,” Sirius teased, his voice hoarse, rolling onto his stomach, letting Barty have his way, his hands gripping the sheets, warmth flooding him.
Barty kissed up his spine, slow, soft, his tongue tracing the scars from old hexes, his hands gentle, reverent, a contrast to their usual frenzy. Sirius’s moans softened, his body melting under the attention, his heart full, I love you looping in his mind.
Finally, Barty settled, his face pressed to Sirius’s stomach, his hair mussed, his arm slung across Sirius’s hips, heavy with sleep. “Don’t fucking tell anyone about this,” he mumbled, voice slurred, his breath warm against Sirius’s skin, his freckles fading, scar faint across his nose.
Sirius just grinned his fingers carding through Barty’s hair, heart swelling. “My lips are sealed, sap,” he whispered, but his eyes were locked on Barty’s sleeping form—naked, vulnerable, his. He reached for his phone, careful not to wake him, and snapped a quick picture: Barty’s face smushed against his stomach, white sheets tangled low, fairy lights glowing, no clothes on either of them, the scene raw, intimate. Sirius smirked, zooming in on Barty’s freckles, his heart flipping. This was lockscreen material, no question—but only when they outed themselves to Regulus, James, and the rest of the nosey lot. For now, it was theirs, a secret tucked in his camera roll, next to the green-inked Valentine’s cigarette stub he’d photographed earlier.
Morning crept in, sunlight filtering through the grimy blinds, Barty stirring first, his lips brushing Sirius’s stomach, lazy, sleepy. “Still not telling, princess?” he rasped, his smirk creeping up, eyes green-brown, no pink yet, his hand sliding to Sirius’s thigh, squeezing.
“Nope,” Sirius grinned, stretching, his body loose, snake tattoo arching, “but I’m keeping that mental image of you shrieking like a banshee forever.” He dodged Barty’s swat, laughing, pulling him up for a kiss, slow, teasing, their lips lingering, Barty’s tongue piercing sparking, Sirius’s moan soft.
“You’re the worst,” Barty muttered, but his smirk was fond, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his freckles blooming faintly, scar sharp in the daylight. “What’s the plan, boyfriend? More London chaos?”
“Coffee shop, then record shop,” Sirius said, rolling out of bed, naked, grabbing his jeans, Barty’s eyes tracking him, making Sirius smirk. “Maybe snogging in an alley if you behave, pink eyes.”
“Fuck you,” Barty laughed, throwing a pillow, Sirius catching it mid-air, tossing it back, the flat alive with their banter.
They dressed—Sirius in his leather jacket, Barty in his hoodie, hands stuffed in pockets—but Barty grabbed Sirius’s hand as they left, lacing fingers, his grip warm, steady, Sirius’s heart humming. They hit a café, Sirius mocking Barty’s black coffee (“No pink latte, babe?”), Barty stealing his croissant, their knees brushing under the table, snow outside softening London’s edges.
Sirius and Barty decided to stay in London another night instead of getting back to Hogwarts, the pull of their Camden flat—fairy lights, messy sheets, and all—too strong to leave. “Fine, but I have to study,” Barty said, tossing his Arithmancy notes onto the coffee table, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder, freckles faint in the daylight. Sirius rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck, his grin wicked as he sprawled on the couch in his boxers and a ripped t-shirt. “Nerd,” he teased, dodging Barty’s swat, their laughter filling the flat, still smelling of curry, cigarette smoke, and the faint ghost of weed.
They spent the day in the living room, takeout cartons piling up—dim sum, chips, and a questionable kebab Sirius swore was “art”—the windows fogged from the snow outside. Barty was buried in his Muggle exam notes, scribbling furiously about algebra (what the hell was that, really?), his brow furrowed, muttering equations under his breath, his Metamorphmagus eyes flickering pink when he caught Sirius staring. Sirius, meanwhile, lounged on the floor, plucking aimlessly at his guitar, the strings humming Bowie and Queen riffs, more for something to do than any real purpose. The flat was theirs, a bubble of them, Regulus and James’s nosy texts— WHO’S THE GIT?! —ignored on Sirius’s phone.
Not that Sirius was complaining about Barty neglecting him—because he wasn’t, not really, even buried in books, his foot nudging Sirius’s thigh under the coffee table, his smirk soft when their eyes met. But Sirius kind of was, his dramatic streak itching for attention, his fingers strumming louder, a pout forming.
“I mean,” he sighed at some point, flopping back onto the rug, his guitar resting on his chest, his voice dripping with mock despair, “can’t you just Confundus the examiners or something?”
Barty raised an eyebrow, not looking up from his notes, his quill scratching, his scar sharp across his nose. “I’m already faking my Muggle education history,” he said, voice dry, but his lips twitched. “This is the only thing that’s real in all of it.”
“Bullshit,” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically again, propping himself on his elbows. “You’re a wizard, babe. Charm the answer sheet to sing your praises.” He strummed a loud, off-key chord for emphasis, grinning wickedly.
Barty snorted, finally glancing up, his eyes glinting, pink flickering for a second, betraying his amusement. “Not all of us can skate by on charm, princess,” he teased, tossing a balled-up napkin at Sirius, who caught it mid-air, tossing it back, their laughter sharp, easy.
“Rude,” Sirius gasped, clutching his chest, flopping back onto the rug, his guitar sliding to the side. “I’m a genius, mon amour.” He threw in the French, smirking, knowing it’d get a rise, his heart flipping at Barty’s groan.
“Keep that up, and I’ll hex your guitar to play bagpipes,” Barty muttered, but his smirk was fond, his foot sliding up Sirius’s calf under the table.
Sirius sat up, crawling closer, leaning his chin on the coffee table, his grey eyes locked on Barty’s notes, pretending to read. “What’s this ‘x equals y’ nonsense? Sounds like a love letter,” he teased, poking Barty’s hand, dodging the quill swipe. “Write me one instead, pink-eyes.”
“Fuck off,” Barty laughed, shoving Sirius’s face playfully, his freckles blooming faintly, eyes steady green-brown now, scar glowing in the light. “You’re distracting me, git.”
“Good,” Sirius grinned, stealing a chip from Barty’s plate, crunching loudly. “Boyfriend privileges. Neglect me, and I’ll charm your books to sing ‘Smack That’.”
Barty groaned, dropping his quill, leaning back on the couch, his hoodie riding up, thorns tattoo peeking out. “You’re worse than Rosier,” he said, but his smirk was soft, pulling Sirius up onto the couch, their bodies colliding, Sirius straddling his lap, hands on Barty’s shoulders, laughing.
“Take that back,” Sirius said, mock-glaring, leaning down, noses brushing, his hair falling into his eyes, Barty’s hands sliding to his hips, squeezing.
“Nope,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius quick, teasing, his tongue piercing grazing, making Sirius gasp, his grin widening. “You’re a menace, princess.”
“Yours,” Sirius hummed, kissing back, slow, deep, their lips lingering, his hands in Barty’s hair, tugging gently, the guitar and notes forgotten.
They didn’t fuck—limits, apparently—but made out lazy, heated, Barty’s hands under Sirius’s t-shirt, tracing his scars, Sirius’s moans soft, muffled, the flat alive with their warmth.
Later, Barty went back to studying, Sirius sprawled on the couch, strumming his guitar, humming Radiohead’s “Creep”. Barty’s foot stayed on his thigh, a quiet tether, his smirk soft when Sirius caught his eye.
“Love you, nerd,” Sirius muttered, tossing a chip at him, grinning when Barty caught it in his mouth, winking.
“Love you too, princess,” Barty said, eyes flickering pink, making Sirius cackle, his heart full.
Sirius texted Regulus: staying in London. don’t hex me. Regulus’s reply: SPILL OR I CURSE YOUR HAIR. Sirius laughed, showing Barty, who snorted, stealing a cigarette, muttering, “Boyfriend’s a drama queen.”
They fell asleep tangled, Barty’s notes scattered, Sirius’s guitar propped nearby, fairy lights glowing.
Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Monday morning found Sirius and Barty reluctantly packing up Camden flat, the fairy lights dimmed, takeout cartons cleared, and the air still humming with their weekend of I love yous, pink-eyed meltdowns, and endless sex. They’d agreed to keep their relationship secret for a bit longer, mostly because Sirius wanted to savor the bubble of them before facing Regulus’s yells, James’s baffled “What the fuck!”s , and Evan’s triumphant smirks.
“Let’s mess with them,” Barty shrugged, lazily charming his clothes into his backpack with a flick of his wand, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “See how long it takes them to catch on.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, tossing his leather jacket over his shoulder, his grin wicked. “That’s manipulative.”
“Empirical, baby,” Barty corrected, his smirk sharp, eyes glinting pink for a second, just to mess with him, his freckles blooming faintly.
“What… what?” Sirius blinked, his jaw dropping, half-laughing, half-baffled, his guitar case slung across his back.
Barty rolled his eyes, shoving his Arithmancy notes into his bag. “Knowledge based on experience, git.”
“Geek,” Sirius teased, dodging Barty’s swat, his heart flipping at the banter, still marveling that a literal genius fell for him.
“Let’s go before I miss breakfast,” Barty said, pushing Sirius toward the door, his hand lingering on his lower back.
They snuck back to Hogwarts via Hogsmeade, splitting up to avoid suspicion—Barty climbing the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower, Sirius heading to the Slytherin dungeons, his heart buzzing. He wondered how the hell a brain like Barty’s—algebra, runes, all that nerd shit—could love a mess like him. Not that he was complaining, duh. It was way too hot.
The second Sirius opened the door to Regulus’s dorm, his brother snapped his head up from his desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like a hawk.
“Who is it?” Regulus demanded, his voice sharp, scanning Sirius like he’d hex the truth out of him.
“Any guesses?” Sirius asked politely, peeling off his jacket and t-shirt, deciding to skip the glamour charm this time.
His body was a map of Barty’s obsession—hickeys dotting his neck, bite marks on his chest, scratches crisscrossing his back, bruises on his hips from Barty’s grip. Proof enough of their weekend, his grin smug.
Regulus’s eyes widened, then narrowed further, his jaw tight. “Don’t tell me it’s another werewolf, or I’ll sign you up for therapy,” he said flatly, eyeing the state of Sirius’s body like it was a crime scene.
“‘S not,” Sirius winked, buttoning his uniform shirt, leaving the top open, obviously.
Regulus screamed into his pillow, muffled but dramatic, making Sirius cackle, tossing his boots aside.
“Where’s Prongs? And Rosier?” he asked, fixing his tie in the mirror, his reflection smirking back, Barty’s marks peeking from his collar.
Regulus snorted, resurfacing, his tea forgotten. “Evan was whining about needing a place to snog Marcel in peace, so James is showing him hidden spots now.”
“Geez, they better stay away from the Room of Requirement,” Sirius winced, adjusting his cuffs, his mind flashing to their pink-lit, black-sheeted weekend.
“Actually,” Regulus said, leaning back, his smirk sharp, “someone was in there the whole weekend, and no one could get in. James and I had to kick Evan out of here on Valentine’s Day.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, playing dumb, his heart skipping. “Whole weekend? Who the hell fucks that much?” he asked, fixing his hair, like he hadn’t just spent three days doing exactly that, Barty’s hands and ropes all over him.
“Dunno,” Regulus shrugged, standing, grabbing his bag. “C’mon, Barty said he’d be back for breakfast, and I wanna know if his father kicked his arse for those Muggle exams.”
Sirius bit his tongue, willpower straining to not blurt, Barty was too busy being my boyfriend to visit his shite father, his grin twitching. He followed Regulus to the Great Hall and slid into the bench beside Barty, their thighs pressed close, his hand sneaking to Barty’s thigh under the table. Regulus, James, and Evan were already there, James mid-rant about Quidditch, Evan doodling on a napkin, Regulus sipping tea.
Sirius leaned back, picking at his toast, whining, “I could totally use a party now, before everyone loses their minds over NEWTs.”
“God, yes!” Evan gasped, dropping his quill, his eyes lighting up. “I need to, like, go wild,” he said, nodding solemnly, his hair flopping.
Regulus snorted so hard his tea sprayed across the table, making James yelp, dodging the splash.
“That’s a real thing, Arch!” Evan protested, glaring, his cheeks pink.
“You’re incorrigible,” Regulus snorted again, cleaning the mess with a flick of his wand, his smirk sharp. “Just start studying, git.”
Barty hummed, his hand brushing Sirius’s under the table, a secret spark, his voice casual. “I mean, I could throw something this Friday,” he shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Xeno’ll be in, probably bring some weird shit.”
“He’d better do that color-changing punch again,” Evan said, leaning forward, eyes wide, ignoring Regulus’s eye-roll.
“That was my charm, git,” Barty said, rolling his eyes, his smirk twitching, his foot nudging Sirius’s, making his heart flip.
“Then do it again!” Evan pleaded, clasping his hands dramatically. “Like… dunno, pink if you’re in love or something.”
Sirius choked on his coffee, the word pink hitting like a hex, Barty’s eye-color meltdown flashing in his mind, his cough turning into a laugh, his hand tightening on Barty’s thigh.
“God, Black,” Barty winced, but his eyes flickered pink for a split second, his freckles blooming, making Sirius grin wider, fighting to keep their secret.
“Shut up,” Sirius laughed, wiping his mouth, leaning closer to Barty, their shoulders brushing, his heart racing at the irony, the Great Hall loud around them. “Pink’s a vibe, Rosier.”
“Merlin, you’re both unhinged,” James said, tossing a grape at Sirius, who caught it in his mouth, winking, his marks peeking from his open collar, Regulus’s eyes narrowing across the table.
“Who’s the guy, Pads?” James pressed, leaning forward, his glasses slipping, Regulus nodding, Evan smirking like he knew something.
“Nope,” Sirius grinned, popping the grape, his hand still on Barty’s thigh, Barty’s smirk faint, sipping his coffee like he wasn’t in on it. “Guess harder, Prongs.”
Regulus groaned, banging his head on the table, Evan cackling, “It’s a Slytherin, isn’t it? Look at those marks!”
Sirius just winked, dodging, his heart buzzing, Barty’s foot hooking around his ankle. They bantered through breakfast, Sirius suggesting party themes— Muggle disco, charmed fireworks, spiked punch —while Barty nodded, his hand sneaking to Sirius’s knee.
The rest of Monday blurred by at Hogwarts, a whirlwind of James’s wild guesses about Sirius’s mystery lover— “Is it a Hufflepuff? A professor?!” —Regulus’s hissed threats— “I’ll hex your hair off, Sirius!” —and Evan cornering Barty during Potions, prodding about his father’s reaction to the Muggle exams. Barty just shrugged, his usual “I survived” dripping with practiced nonchalance, dodging the family talk like a pro. Sirius, stirring his cauldron nearby, fought the urge to grin, his hand itching to brush Barty’s under the table.
By evening, though, they hit a snag. The Room of Requirement was occupied. Sirius groaned, slumping against the wall where the door should’ve appeared, his leather jacket creaking, hickeys peeking from his open collar.
“God,” he whined, running a hand through his hair, “Reggie said someone was here all weekend, but now? Where the hell are we supposed to fuck?”
Barty grimaced, leaning beside him, his hoodie slipping, snake tattoo glinting under the torchlight. “We can… not fuck?”
“Are you insane?” Sirius smacked the back of Barty’s head, his grey eyes wide with mock-horror. “What are we, fourteen?”
Barty rolled his eyes, his smirk twitching, dodging another swat. “We can go to my dorm, though.”
“With Xeno and Lockhart there?” Sirius raised an eyebrow, skeptical, crossing his arms, his nipple piercing pressing against his shirt.
Barty shrugged, hands in his pockets, his scar sharp across his nose. “Lockhart’s always with Pettigrew lately.”
Sirius blinked, jaw dropping. “Really? He never was before.”
“Yeah, turns out that git just didn’t like you and Potter,” Barty smirked, his voice low, teasing, leaning closer, their shoulders brushing. “Now he’s probably tied up in Pettigrew’s bed.”
“I should be tied up in bed,” Sirius whined, pouting dramatically, flopping against the wall, his heart racing at the image, Barty’s smirk making it worse.
“What about Xeno?” Sirius asked, straightening, his grin creeping back, plotting.
Barty licked his lips, thinking (hot, God), his eyes glinting. “Can you change into a dog and sneak to my dorm?”
Sirius blinked, pausing, his Animagus form a distant memory. “I… uh… haven’t changed in, like, a year.”
Barty nodded slowly, his smirk softening. “But you… still can?”
“Of course I can, prick,” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes, his grin wicked, shoving Barty’s shoulder. “Just don’t pat my head.”
“Fucker,” Barty laughed, but his eyes flickered pink for a second, betraying him, as Sirius shifted into his dog form—shaggy black fur, grey eyes gleaming—barking once, tail wagging, and jogged off toward Ravenclaw Tower.
He caused chaos on the way, barking at first-years, chasing Mrs. Norris down a corridor, her yowl echoing as she bolted, looking like she’d seen a ghost (which tracked, since Sirius had terrorized her for years). Students yelped, scattering, and Sirius’s doggy grin was pure mischief, his heart soaring.
Barty caught up by the Ravenclaw entrance, panting, glaring down at the dog-Sirius, his lips twitching.
“You could just change here,” he said, arms crossed, but his smirk betrayed him.
Sirius just wagged his tail, barking once, dodging a first-year’s attempt to pet him, and followed Barty inside after he answered the tower’s riddle—some nonsense about stars and shadows. Sirius, still a dog, demolished the common room, leaping onto a couch, knocking over a stack of books, barking at a group of fourth-years who tried to pat him, their squeals echoing.
Barty watched, leaning against a wall, his smirk wide, muttering, “Menace,” under his breath, his eyes soft.
Finally, they reached Barty’s dorm, Sirius trotting in, tail wagging. Xeno, sprawled on his bed with a Quibbler, grinned at the sight.
“A doggie?” he said, his voice dreamy, sitting up, his beads clinking.
“Found him in a ditch,” Barty shrugged, flopping onto his bed, his hoodie riding up, thorns tattoo peeking out, his smirk faint but real.
“He’s cute,” Xeno nodded, tilting his head. “Planning to keep him?”
“If he doesn’t piss on my shoes,” Barty said, his eyes glinting, patting the bed beside him, Sirius jumping up, circling twice before settling at the foot, his nose buried under Barty’s knee, tail thumping.
“Anyway,” Barty said, grabbing his wand, his voice casual. “Gonna study. Catch ya later.” With a complicated flick—God, that was hot—he closed the bed curtains, casting a charm Sirius didn’t recognize, the air shimmering faintly. “Change back,” Barty said, lips twitching, leaning back on his pillows.
Sirius shifted, now human, sitting cross-legged beside him, shirt rumpled, hickeys stark, grinning. “You’re like a child,” Barty teased, his smirk soft.
“Did you cast Muffliato?” Sirius squinted, leaning closer, his heart racing, their secret sparking in the curtained bed.
Barty gave him that you’re cute when you’re dumb look, his smirk sharp. “I don’t use Muffliato,” he hummed, pulling Sirius onto his lap, hands slipping under his shirt, warm against his skin, thumbs brushing his ribs, making Sirius gasp.
“Babe—” Sirius started, his voice breathy, hands on Barty’s shoulders, their noses brushing, the dorm fading.
“Have my own,” Barty said, shrugging, his fingers tracing Sirius’s scars, his voice low, smug. “Fakes breathing, scribbling, page-turning—whatever I need.” His hands slid lower, squeezing Sirius’s hips, pulling him closer, their thighs pressed tight.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, his grin wide. “That’s genius!”
“I know,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s jaw, slow, teasing, his tongue piercing grazing, making Sirius shiver, his moan soft, muffled by the charm.
“I’m not even gonna throw a tantrum about you using it with that git Russo,” Sirius said, wholesome, his hands in Barty’s hair, tugging gently, his heart flipping at Barty’s laugh, low and real.
“Good boy,” Barty teased, nipping Sirius’s lip, his hands unbuttoning Sirius’s shirt, pushing it off, kissing the hickeys he’d left in London, his lips lingering, Sirius’s moans louder, needy. “Gonna keep it quiet, princess?”
“Fuck you,” Sirius laughed, pulling Barty’s hoodie off, revealing the thorns tattoo, his hands roaming, nails grazing, Barty’s groan low.
They didn’t fuck—Xeno was right there —but made out heated, slow, Sirius straddling Barty, grinding down, Barty’s hands on his arse, squeezing, their kisses deep, tongues teasing, the bed creaking faintly, Barty’s charm holding strong, faking study sounds.
Later, Sirius sprawled beside him, shirtless, tracing Barty’s scar, hummed “Wonder who’s in the Room,” he hummed, his voice soft, grey eyes glinting, propped on one elbow.
Barty, pulling his laptop onto his lap, rolled his eyes, his hoodie discarded, thorns tattoo flexing as he scrolled through a Disney+ for American Horror Story. “Lupin,” he said, casual, like he’d just named the weather.
Sirius sat up straight, his hair spilling loose, jaw dropping. “What?!”
Barty shrugged, unfazed, clicking on another season, the screen glowing blue. “I mean, I think it’s him.”
“Why?” Sirius blinked, his heart skipping, leaning closer, his hand pausing on Barty’s scar, eyes wide.
“He wanted the Map, right?” Barty said, leaning back on his pillows, one arm behind his head, his smirk faint. “Probably to stalk you there, like you stalked him—”
“I didn’t—” Sirius started, indignant, his cheeks flushing, shoving Barty’s shoulder.
“You did,” Barty cut in, his smirk sharp, dodging Sirius’s swat.
“Fuck you,” Sirius replied with dignity, pulling his hair into a messy bun, the motion flexing his tattoos, his hickeys glowing under the light, his grin creeping back despite himself.
“Anyway,” Barty rolled his eyes, settling the laptop on his thighs, the show’s eerie theme playing softly. “He had to figure out you’re in the Room every night and probably thought you’d be there this weekend.”
Sirius’s heart started hammering, his grin fading, sitting cross-legged now, the sheets rustling. “So he… can see that I’m here,” he said slowly, pointing at the dorm, his eyes locked on Barty’s, the Marauder’s Map flashing in his mind—his name, Sirius Black, next to Barty Crouch Jr., in Ravenclaw Tower.
Barty nodded, unfazed, his smirk twitching, scrolling past Evan Peters’s blue-haired character. “Yep.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped again, a laugh bubbling up, his eyes narrowing. “You knew he’s stalking me and offered to hang out here so he’d see I’m with you, right?” he gasped, half-accusing, half-amused, leaning closer, his hand smacking Barty’s bare arm, the sound sharp in the curtained space.
Barty’s smirk turned smug, his eyes flickering pink for a split second, betraying his glee. “Yep,” he said, popping the p, leaning back, all cocky.
“You fucker,” Sirius laughed, smacking his arm again, harder, settling back on the mattress, his grin wide, heart racing at Barty’s pettiness, loving every second. “Manipulative twat,” he muttered, stealing a cigarette from Barty’s nightstand, lighting it with his wand.
“Hope he saw you sitting on me for an hour,” Barty hummed, his voice low, teasing, his hand sliding to Sirius’s thigh, squeezing, his eyes on the screen, but his smirk was lethal.
Sirius barked a laugh, nearly choking on his smoke, leaning back on his elbows, the bed creaking. “You’re so petty,” he said, grinning, shaking his head, his bun loosening, hair spilling over his shoulders.
“Let him know what’s mine,” Barty smirked, his eyes pink again, deliberate now, pulling Sirius closer, his arm looping around his back, fingers brushing the scratches he’d left in London.
Sirius melted into it, his body relaxing against Barty’s side, even if his boyfriend was definitely a little unwell, the possessiveness hot in a twisted way, his heart flipping.
“Wonder if he’ll tell Prongs, though,” Sirius hummed, his gaze fixed on the show—Evan Peters in some Muggle political mess, blue hair clashing with the freaky vibe—his cigarette burning low, ash falling to the sheets.
“He’d have to admit he’s stalking you. He won’t,” Barty replied, his hand sliding lower, resting on Sirius’s arse, squeezing lightly, his smirk faint, eyes steady green-brown now, the laptop balanced precariously.
“Speaking of,” Sirius tilted his chin, looking up at Barty, his grin teasing, exhaling smoke. “You think Rosier suspects anything?”
Barty shook his head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Sirius’s hip, the touch grounding. “Nah, he’s too busy freaking out about my father to suspect I’m the ‘best sex Sirius ever had,’” he said, his voice smug, his eyes glinting.
Sirius snorted, rolling his eyes, shoving Barty’s shoulder. “You’re the cockiest one, that’s for sure.”
“Earned it,” Barty smirked, leaning closer, kissing Sirius’s jaw, his tongue piercing grazing, making Sirius shiver, his moan soft, muffled by the charm.
“You’re earning therapy now,” Sirius teased, flicking ash onto the nightstand, his grin wide, leaning into Barty’s kiss, their lips brushing, slow, teasing.
“Obviously, since I’m your boyfriend,” Barty said, smacking Sirius’s arse lightly, making him yelp, laughing, the bed shaking, the laptop nearly sliding off.
Sirius rolled his eyes, dramatic, settling back against Barty’s chest, his cigarette dangling from his lips. “Shut up and watch the freaks, pink-eyes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Barty drawled, his smirk soft, pulling Sirius closer, his hand back on his arse, fingers tracing the bruises he’d left, his eyes flickering pink deliberately, making Sirius groan.
“You’re unwell,” Sirius said, but his grin was wide, kissing Barty quick, deep, their tongues teasing, the cigarette forgotten, ash scattering.
Tuesday morning in the Great Hall was electric, the air buzzing with chatter, clinking goblets, and the weight of Remus’s stare boring into Sirius from the Gryffindor table. That look—sharp, knowing, a mix of hurt and resignation—said everything, the Marauder’s Map no doubt showing Sirius’s name in Barty’s dorm last night. Sirius leaned close to Barty at the Slytherin table, his hand on Barty’s thigh under the table, hickeys peeking from his collar, and muttered, “He knows,” not bothering to lower his voice, his grin wicked.
“Told ya, git,” Barty smirked, pouring himself more coffee, utterly unfazed by the drama.
“Who knows what?” James blurted immediately, his fork pausing mid-air, sausage dangling, his glasses slipping, eyes darting between Sirius and Barty, Regulus beside him squinting suspiciously.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Sirius grinned, leaning back, popping a grape in his mouth, his heart racing at the game, Barty’s foot nudging his under the table.
“Listen, you git,” James said, pointing his sausage at Sirius like a wand, “tell me who you’re fucking before I start stalking you under my cloak!”
“What cloak?” Evan raised an eyebrow, pausing his doodle on a napkin, looking genuinely baffled.
“Invisibility Cloak!” James fired back, too heated to think, his face flushing as Regulus groaned beside him, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“YOU HAVE AN INVISIBILITY CLOAK?!” Evan shrieked, his voice cracking, drawing eyes from nearby tables, his hands flailing, nearly knocking over his juice.
“I can’t with you idiots,” Regulus muttered, rolling his eyes, sipping his tea, but his gaze was locked on Sirius, narrowing, like he’d hex the truth out of him.
Sirius glanced at Barty, a silent you know about the cloak, right, prick? in his raised eyebrow, and Barty’s subtle nod screamed of course, princess, his smirk faint but smug.
God, was there anything Barty didn’t know? Probably not, the genius git.
“What I was saying,” James pressed on, eyes back on Sirius, undeterred, “give me a fucking hint!”
“Fine,” Sirius said, leaning back, all smug, his shirt open enough to show Barty’s marks, his grin lethal. “Guy’s… crazy about me. Like, since fourth year.”
Evan’s head snapped toward Barty so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash, his eyes wide, accusing. Barty just took a slow bite of toast, eyes locked on Evan, shaking his head slightly, the picture of resignation. Evan’s shoulders slumped theatrically, his pout dramatic, and Sirius nearly cackled—how the hell did Barty lie like that, cool as a fucking cucumber?
“Three years?!” James blurted, his fork clattering, drawing more stares. “Who is he? Some romantic or what the fuck?”
“He says no, but I’m saying hell yeah,” Sirius grinned.
Regulus squinted, his tea forgotten, leaning forward. “Is he… younger?”
“Yeah,” Sirius nodded, because Barty was—by two months, but it counted, his grin widening, loving the chaos, dodging the truth just enough.
“Who the fuck is it?!” James shrieked, his voice hitting banshee levels, slamming his hands on the table, goblets rattling.
“Think harder, Prongsie,” Sirius teased, popping another grape, his hand still on Barty’s thigh, Barty sipping coffee like he wasn’t the center of this storm.
“Listen, you little cunt,” Regulus hissed, leaning across the table, his eyes narrowed to slits. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell the whole fucking school you charmed your hair to have curls.”
Sirius gasped, clutching his chest, betrayed. “I DIDN’T!”
“Yeah, but they don’t know that,” Regulus shot back, his smirk sharp, folding his arms, daring Sirius to call his bluff.
“Bite me,” Sirius grinned, leaning back, winking at Regulus, his heart buzzing, Barty’s foot hooking around his ankle, their secret sparking, Remus’s stare still burning from across the hall.
The next few days passed in a haze of Regulus’s creative threats— “I’ll charm your boots to tap-dance in class!” —James’s clumsy attempts to stalk Sirius under the Invisibility Cloak (tripping over Filch’s cat, swearing loudly), and Evan’s dramatic sighs, still disappointed Barty wasn’t Sirius’s mystery guy. Sirius and Barty played their game flawlessly, sneaking touches in corridors, stolen kisses on their hidden balcony, Barty’s silencing charms hiding their moans in his dorm, their I love you s from London fueling every smirk.
But Thursday evening, they fucked up—dramatically, spectacularly, stupidly. They were supposed to meet Regulus, James, and Evan in Regulus’s dorm for beers and Evan’s daily Marcel rant, but Sirius and Barty ran late. They’d spent solid twenty minutes on their hidden balcony, making out like they’d die without it, Barty’s gum ending up in Sirius’s mouth, and for the first time ever, Sirius didn’t give it back, chewing it smugly, Barty’s taste lingering, his hair mussed, shirt untucked.
First mistake.
They stepped into Regulus’s dorm, Sirius still chewing, Barty’s hair a wreck, his tie askew. Regulus was sprawled across James’s chest on the bed, nursing a beer, Evan cross-legged on the floor, mid-rant about Marcel’s latest Quidditch obsession.
But the second Regulus saw Sirius chewing gum and clocked Barty’s disheveled state, he sat up straight, spilling beer all over the bed, his eyes wide, face twisting.
“YOU’RE SCREWING MY BROTHER?!” he yelled, pointing at Barty, his voice echoing, the bottle clattering to the floor.
“Shit,” Sirius muttered, freezing, his grin faltering, gum nearly falling out.
“Shit,” Barty echoed.
James bolted upright, nearly knocking Regulus off, his glasses askew.
“PADFOOT?!” he shouted, his voice cracking, staring between Sirius and Barty like they’d hexed him.
“You’re screwing my brother too,” Sirius fired back, his grin stretching, recovering fast, leaning against the doorframe, chewing Barty’s gum louder, heart racing.
But Evan? Oh, Evan lost it .
“CROUCH!” he yelled from the floor, scrambling to his feet, pointing at Barty, his face red. “You fucking liar! You shook your head at breakfast!”
Barty just looked around the room, his smirk unfazed, shrugging like he’d been caught stealing a biscuit, not hiding a whole-ass relationship.
“Whoops,” he said, voice dry, leaning against the wall beside Sirius.
“Whoops?!” Regulus shrieked, standing now, beer soaking his shirt, glaring at Barty. “You’ve been shagging my brother, and you say whoops?!”
“How long?!” James demanded, his hands in his hair, pacing, looking between them like they’d rewritten the Quidditch rulebook. “Since Moony?!”
“Nah,” Sirius grinned, stepping closer to Barty, his hand brushing his, their secret out, his heart soaring. “Since December. Got serious over Valentine’s, though.” He winked at Barty, who rolled his eyes, but his smirk softened, pink flickering again.
“December?!” Evan gasped, clutching his chest, flopping back onto the floor. “You’ve been lying to me for months? I’m your best mate, Crouch!”
“Had to keep it fun,” Barty said, his voice smug, nudging Sirius’s hip, his hand sneaking to his lower back.
Regulus groaned, collapsing back onto the bed, dragging James down with him, his face in his hands. “I need a new brother,” he muttered, muffled, James patting his back, still staring at Sirius and Barty, baffled.
“You love me,” Sirius teased, blowing Regulus a kiss, chewing Barty’s gum louder, his hickeys stark, Barty’s arm now around his waist, bold as fuck.
“Explain!” James barked, pointing at them, his glasses slipping again. “How? When? Why?”
Sirius laughed, pulling Barty closer, their sides pressed tight, his heart buzzing. “Why? He’s hot, Prongs. How? Lots of fucking. When? Some party in October, then Yule Ball vibes, then London sealed it. Happy?”
“Not happy!” Regulus snapped, sitting up, glaring. “You’re shagging Crouch? The guy who charmed Filch’s quill to write love notes to McGonagall?”
“Classic,” Barty smirked, high-fiving Sirius, their fingers lacing after, Regulus groaning louder, Evan cackling despite his betrayal.
“You’re both unhinged,” James said, shaking his head, but his lips twitched, his shock fading to amusement. “But… good for you, Pads?”
“Thanks, mate,” Sirius grinned, kissing Barty’s cheek, quick, teasing, Barty’s eyes pink again, making Evan point and yell, “SEE! PINK EYES! I KNEW IT!”
“Shut up, Rosier,” Barty laughed, tossing a beer can at him, Evan catching it, cracking it open, still pouting.
Regulus sighed, grabbing a fresh beer, muttering, “I’m disowning you both.” But his eyes softened, flicking to James, who squeezed his hand, and Sirius knew he’d come around, the prat.
Sirius and Barty flopped onto Sirius’s bed, beers in hand, Sirius’s legs thrown over Barty’s lap just to make Regulus gag, hickeys stark under his open shirt, his grin wicked. The interrogation kicked off instantly, James, Regulus, and Evan circling like vultures, ready to dissect every detail of their October-to-Valentine’s saga.
“Fucking—in October?!” James shrieked, his glasses slipping, beer sloshing, sprawled on Regulus’s bed, his voice hitting banshee pitch.
Sirius nodded, sipping his beer, all smug, his snake tattoo peeking out. “We fucked, I said ‘never again,’ Barty said ‘don’t fucking tell anyone,’ and we’ve been fucking since,” he said, tossing his hair, legs shifting on Barty’s lap, Regulus’s groan audible across the room.
Evan gasped, pointing his vape at Barty like a wand, his hair flopping, eyes wide with betrayal. “YOU FUCKING LIAR!” he yelled, nearly toppling his beer. “After Halloween too?! I literally asked you, and you shook your head—WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Barty just grinned, leaning back, his hoodie riding up, thorns tattoo glinting. “Sorry, mate,” he said, not sorry at all, his fingers tapping Sirius’s knee.
“Oh, I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Evan shrieked, brandishing his vape, his face red, flopping onto the floor dramatically, Regulus rolling his eyes beside James.
“I mean, you can try,” Barty shrugged, his smirk lethal, fingers tracing lazy circles on Sirius’s knee, his voice cool. “But who’d throw the party tomorrow so you can seduce Marcel?”
“YOU FUCKER!” Evan yelled, tossing a balled-up napkin at Barty, who dodged it, laughing, his hand squeezing Sirius’s thigh.
Regulus groaned like he was being tortured, pinching the bridge of his nose, beer forgotten. “What about Harper, then? And Barty’s fifth-year git?”
Sirius rolled his eyes, dramatic, sipping his beer. “Barty’s a slut, but I’m generous with forgiveness,” he said, winking at Barty, who smirked, unfazed.
“He was jealous for weeks before he said anything, though,” Barty added, smug as hell, leaning closer, his hand sliding higher on Sirius’s thigh, making Sirius shove him, nearly toppling him off the bed, beer sloshing.
“But… Harper?” Regulus raised an eyebrow, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing. “You hit on him, right?”
“Yeah, but like… November?” Sirius shrugged, tossing his hair, his grin softening. “He was cute, but, y’know, didn’t make a ‘drag me to bed’ move, so I ended it. Day after, Barty showed up with hickeys from that git Russo, though.”
Barty rolled his eyes so hard they turned white—full Metamorphmagus flex—making Sirius cackle, nearly choking on his beer, James and Evan gasping, Regulus fake-gagging into his bottle.
“Can you drop it?” Barty asked, voice flat, but his lips twitched, his eyes back to green-brown, scar glowing.
“Do you even know me?” Sirius raised an eyebrow.
“Unfortunately,” Barty deadpanned, sipping his beer.
James glanced between them, baffled, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Do you even like each other, or…?”
“Oh, Prongsie—” Sirius began, smug as hell, leaning forward, his grin lethal, ready to wax poetic about Barty’s pink eyes and arse obsession.
“Don’t,” Barty glared, cutting him off, his voice sharp.
“Bar—” Sirius started, but his words stuck, his tongue heavy—Barty had cast a silent Silencing Charm on him, the absolute bastard.
Sirius’s jaw dropped, glaring, his hands flailing, as Evan cackled, rolling on the floor, James snorted, and Regulus muttered, “Someone should’ve done that years ago,” his smirk sharp, beer in hand.
Sirius glared daggers at Barty, whose face was blank but eyes pink again, the motherfucker clearly enjoying this.
“Anyway,” Barty said, not lifting the spell, leaning back, all casual, “we’re together, Lupin’s losing his mind over it, and stop asking about everything, fuckers.”
“But—” Evan started, sitting up, vape in hand, eyes wide, ready to grill.
“Later,” Barty glared, his voice low, and Evan snapped his mouth shut, pouting, Regulus snorting into his beer.
Sirius smacked the back of Barty’s head, mouthing take off that fucking spell, his eyes blazing, his bun loosening. Barty sighed, flicking his wand, lifting the charm, his smirk twitching, eyes steady now.
“You’re such a prick,” Sirius said, voice back, shoving Barty’s shoulder.
“Thanks, princess,” Barty said, patting Sirius’s thigh, his voice smug.
“I cannot watch this,” Regulus declared, flopping onto James’s chest, his beer sloshing, his face twisted in disgust. “I physically can’t watch it.”
“PRINCESS?!” James asked, baffled, his arm around Regulus, staring at Sirius like he’d grown horns.
“I’m high maintenance,” Sirius replied, tilting his chin up, all regal, sipping his beer. “Besides, Barty’s the one who hexes people for calling me a slut, so I’m very much princess here.”
“YOU HEXED AVERY?!” James shrieked, pointing at Barty, his glasses slipping, nearly falling off the bed.
Barty shrugged, casual as fuck, sipping his beer, his hand still on Sirius’s thigh. “Him, Smith, Snyde, that Hufflepuff kid, Snape a few times, McNair… dunno, a lot,” he said, like he was listing Quidditch stats, his smirk faint, eyes glinting pink again.
Evan’s jaw dropped, his vape forgotten, staring at Barty like he was a god. “You’re mental,” he said, half-awed, half-horrified, shaking his head, cracking open another beer.
“Protecting my boyfriend,” Barty said, his voice low.
“Gross,” Regulus groaned, burying his face in James’s chest, James patting his back, but his lips twitched, clearly amused.
“So, what’s the deal?” James pressed, leaning forward, his curiosity relentless. “You’re in love? Since fourth year, Crouch?”
“Since fourth year for me,” Barty corrected, his smirk softening, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back. “He caught up in December.”
“Caught up fast,” Sirius grinned, nudging Barty’s side, sipping his beer, his legs shifting on Barty’s lap, Regulus fake-retching across the room. “Best sex ever, Prongs. Sorry you’re missing out.”
“Padfoot,” James groaned, covering his ears, Regulus muttering, “I’m disowning you,” into his beer, Evan cackling, spraying his drink.
“Details!” Evan demanded, sitting cross-legged now, vape back in hand, eyes wide. “Balcony make-outs? Gum-swapping? How’d you keep it secret?”
“Genius silencing charms,” Barty said, smirking, his hand squeezing Sirius’s hip, his eyes flickering pink deliberately, making Sirius laugh, shoving him.
“And dog antics,” Sirius added, winking, his Animagus jaunt to Ravenclaw Tower still fresh, Mrs. Norris’s yowl echoing in his mind. “Kept you lot clueless.”
“You’re both unhinged,” James said, shaking his head, but his grin broke through, tossing a beer can at Sirius, who caught it, cracking it open, foam spilling.
“Friday’s party better be epic,” Evan said, pointing at Barty, still pouting over his betrayal. “Pink punch, Crouch, or I’m hexing you.”
“Pink’s a vibe,” Sirius teased, leaning into Barty, their shoulders pressed tight, the irony of Barty’s pink-eye meltdown making his grin lethal, Barty’s groan muffled against his neck.
Regulus sighed, sitting up, his beer empty, glaring at them. “I’m never recovering from this,” he stated.
They drank late, the dorm a mess of cans, Evan demanding more stories— “Yule Ball? London? Spill!” —James grilling Barty about his hexing spree, Regulus fake-gagging at every princess drop.
Barty stayed the night, neither in the mood to sneak to the Room of Requirement after curfew, especially with Remus potentially lurking via the Marauder’s Map. Under Barty’s genius silencing charm they sprawled on Sirius’s bed, curtains drawn tight, James, Regulus, and Evan passed out or murmuring across the room. Sirius, in his plaid pajama pants and a stolen Slytherin’s hoodie, leaned against the headboard, sharing a cigarette with Barty, who lounged in low-slung grey sweats that drove Sirius wild, shirtless, his thorns tattoo stark, scar sharp across his nose. They traded lazy kisses, lips brushing, Barty’s tongue piercing teasing, Sirius’s heart buzzing with their I love yous and the pink-eye irony.
“Well,” Sirius hummed, exhaling smoke, his grin soft, legs tangled with Barty’s, the cigarette passed between them. “I planned to prank them, not get busted like I’m a kid.”
Barty chuckled, low and rough, taking a drag, leaning closer, their shoulders pressed tight. “Yeah, but their faces? Damn,” he said, smirking, mimicking Evan’s betrayed shriek, making Sirius snort, nearly dropping the cigarette.
Sirius grinned, nudging Barty’s side, his fingers tracing the snake tattoo on his arm, the dorm quiet but for their whispers. “Rosier’s gonna interrogate you, huh?”
“He won’t let me live,” Barty nodded, rolling his eyes, his smirk softening, passing the cigarette back. “He’s feeling ‘personally betrayed’ and all that twink shit,” he said, air-quoting, his voice dripping with mock-pity, pink flickering in his eyes for a second, making Sirius laugh.
Sirius chuckled softly, tossing the cigarette into a charmed ashtray, and straddled Barty in one smooth motion, his hands braced on Barty’s chest, his grin wicked, grey eyes glinting. “Don’t you think we should, like, celebrate?” he smirked, leaning down, noses brushing, his hoodie riding up, scratches from London visible.
“With our friends in the same room?” Barty raised an eyebrow, his voice dry, but his hands slid to Sirius’s arse like it was a muscle memory.
“We’ve got the spell and all,” Sirius whispered, conspiratorial, his lips grazing Barty’s ear, his voice low, teasing, heart racing at the risk. “Just cast another one so no one can open the curtains.”
“You fucker,” Barty laughed, his voice rough, grabbing his wand from the nightstand, casting a locking charm with a lazy flick, the curtains shimmering faintly, sealed tight. He flipped them in one swift move, pinning Sirius beneath him, his hands braced on either side, grey sweats low, thorns tattoo flexing. “Just don’t scream, yeah? Charm’s solid, but you’re so fucking loud,” he said, kissing Sirius’s neck, slow, sucking a fresh mark, his tongue piercing grazing, making Sirius gasp, his moan soft, muffled by the charm.
“Prick,” Sirius whispered, grinning, arching into Barty’s lips, his hands sliding down Barty’s back, nails grazing his scars, pulling him closer, legs wrapping around his hips, the bed creaking faintly. “Try me, mon amour,” he teased, throwing in the French, his voice breathy, knowing it’d make Barty groan.
Barty did, low and heated, kissing down Sirius’s neck, nipping his collarbone, his hands pushing the hoodie up, lips trailing to Sirius’s chest, tongue flicking over the nipple piercing, grazing it with his piercing, Sirius’s moan catching, his hands fisting in Barty’s hair, tugging.
“Fuck—quiet—” Barty muttered, smirking against Sirius’s skin, his hand sliding under the pajama pants, palming Sirius’s cock through his boxers, slow, teasing, Sirius’s hips bucking, his breath hitching.
“You’re—such a—tease—” Sirius gasped, his voice hoarse, biting his lip to stifle a moan,
Barty’s fingers slipping under the waistband, stroking him, feather-light, thumb circling the tip, precum slicking his hand, Sirius’s thighs trembling, the charm holding strong, faking sleep sounds. Barty kissed lower, tugging the pants and boxers down, his lips brushing Sirius’s tattoo, sucking a mark on his hip, his hand steady on Sirius’s cock, slow, deliberate, Sirius’s moans soft, desperate— “Barty—fuck—”
“Shh, princess,” Barty whispered, his voice smug, kissing Sirius’s inner thigh, his tongue tracing the bruises from London, his hand stroking faster, Sirius’s head thrown back, hands gripping the sheets, pleasure coiling tight. Barty muttered a slick charm, his fingers circling Sirius’s rim, one slipping inside, slow, curling to hit that spot, Sirius’s moan muffled, his body taut, Barty’s lips back on his cock, kissing the tip, tongue piercing teasing.
Barty added a second finger, stretching him, hitting that spot relentlessly, his hand stroking Sirius’s cock, matching the rhythm, his eyes locked on Sirius’s face, pink flickering in his gaze, freckles blooming. “Gonna come for me, Sirius?” he murmured, voice rough, kissing his hip, his fingers curling, Sirius’s moans louder, barely contained, the charm straining, his body trembling, pleasure crashing.
“Fuck—yes—” Sirius gasped, coming hard, spilling over Barty’s hand, vision whiting out, his moan stifled, Barty’s fingers slowing, kissing his thigh, soft, grounding, his smirk smug as Sirius panted, wrecked, the bed a mess.
Barty cleaned them with a charm, pulling Sirius close, their bodies pressed tight, Sirius’s head on his chest, Barty’s sweats still low, his own arousal ignored, his hand in Sirius’s hair, tugging gently.
“Fucking—perfect,” Sirius whispered, voice hoarse, kissing Barty’s scar, his heart full, the dorm quiet, their friends oblivious. “You’re still a prick, though.”
“Love you too, princess,” Barty smirked, his eyes pink again, kissing Sirius’s forehead, his hand sliding to his arse, squeezing, making Sirius laugh, soft, muffled. “Rosier’s gonna lose it tomorrow,” he added, his voice low, picturing Evan’s betrayed rants.
“Let him,” Sirius hummed, nuzzling Barty’s chest, the cigarette’s ember dying out, the curtains sealed, their secret out but this moment theirs.
They talked shit—tomorrow’s pink punch, Remus’s inevitable meltdown, Regulus’s dramatics—until sleep pulled them under, Barty’s arm heavy, Sirius’s grin wide.
Notes:
i think like maybe three more chapters and we're done here
Chapter Text
Friday morning in the Great Hall was a riot of clinking goblets, James’s Quidditch rants, and the lingering buzz of Sirius and Barty’s relationship bombshell, the gum-swapping fiasco still fresh. Sirius sprawled at the Slytherin table with Barty beside him, their thighs pressed close, Barty’s hand sneaking under the table to squeeze Sirius’s knee. Regulus, across from them was sipping his usual tea, looking tortured, while Evan nursed a coffee, uncharacteristically quiet and definitely plotting something.
James, mid-bite of sausage, leaned forward, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “You gonna, like, go public, though?” he asked, gesturing at Sirius and Barty with his fork.
Sirius shrugged, popping a grape, his grin easy, glancing at Barty. “I mean… yeah?” he said, half-asking.
Barty, the unfazed motherfucker, shrugged too, sipping his black coffee. “If you wanna,” he said, voice cool, his smirk faint but real.
Regulus groaned, slamming his tea down, glaring at Barty. “What the fuck happened to you, you simp?”
“Your brother’s arse,” Barty shot back smoothly, not missing a beat, dodging the apple Regulus hurled at him with a casual lean, muttering, “Ew, fruit,” before biting his plain toast.
Sirius cackled, nearly choking on his grape, James’s jaw dropping, Evan finally snapping out of his silence with a gasp, pointing at Barty.
“LET’S GO, YOU’RE TELLING ME EVERYTHING!” he yelled, his vape clattering to the table, drawing stares from nearby Hufflepuffs.
Barty raised an eyebrow, his voice dry. “You wanna see the sextape too?”
Regulus choked on his tea, spraying it across the table and making James yelp as he dodged the splash.
“You recorded a SEX TAPE?!” Regulus shrieked, his face twisted in horror, clutching his chest.
“It was one time,” Sirius rolled his eyes, waving a hand.
“You’re actually unwell,” Regulus stated, wiping his shirt with a charm, glaring between them like they’d hexed him, James muttering, “Merlin, Pads,” under his breath.
Barty and Evan left the Great Hall, Evan bombarding Barty with questions and weak punches to his arm, Barty rolling his eyes, smirking, his answers vague but smug. Sirius watched them go, his heart flipping, already missing Barty’s touch, his mind on the party tonight, Barty’s cryptic “color of punch based on your feelings” hint swirling. Pink was for in love —obvious, duh—but Barty hadn’t spilled the other colors, which was rude. Sirius deserved boyfriend perks, right? But nope, the prick kept his secrets, texting Sirius wear mesh top during Transfiguration, making him grin, plotting to drive Barty wild.
Sirius spent the day doodling in his notes—arse-shaped hearts, Barty’s mismatched eyes, pink-flickering irises—his mind split between Barty’s smirk and the party’s mystery. Even during Quidditch practice, sending Bludgers, he wondered what the fuck Barty had planned, his mesh top and carpenter jeans (no boxers, just to fuck with Barty) tucked in his bag. Barty was busy with party prep and god-knows-what charms. James, flying beside him, kept muttering, “You’re disgusting,” every time Sirius smirked, clearly still scarred from the princess reveal.
When Sirius stepped into Ravenclaw’s common room that night, his jaw dropped. The usual dim lights and fog were gone, replaced by vibrant pink LED strips snaking across the walls, pulsing softly, the air thick with charmed smoke and music—Arctic Monkey’s “I wanna be yours” remixed with a beat. Tables groaned with spiked punch, snacks, and Xeno’s weird glitter-dusted cupcakes. Students danced, laughed, and whispered, the vibe electric, Barty’s handiwork everywhere.
“What a fucker,” Sirius gasped under his breath.
“What?” Regulus blinked beside him, in a black button-up, looking skeptical, James beside him in a Quidditch jersey, already scanning for the punch.
“Oh, he’s such a fucking sap,” Sirius muttered, spotting Barty by the window with Xeno, and strolled over, his heart racing, the pink lights screaming I love you .
Barty looked hot —ripped Three Days Grace tee, baggy jeans and a fresh pink strand in his brown hair.
“You prick,” Sirius smirked up at him, leaning close.
Barty shrugged, his smirk soft, gesturing to the punch table. “Come on, let’s get punch. Kinda dying to see your color, though,” he said, his voice smug, leading Sirius through the crowd, Xeno trailing, muttering about “lunar vibes.”
“Pink, duh,” Sirius rolled his eyes but followed him like a lovesick puppy anyway.
At the table, he poured the crystal-clear spiked punch into his cup, expecting pink—but it turned black. Barty’s did too, their cups matching, the liquid shimmering under the LEDs.
“Huh?” Sirius blinked, staring at his cup, then Barty’s, his jaw dropping slightly.
Barty grinned like he’d won a duel, his eyes deliberately pink now.
“Black’s if the person you love loves you back,” he said, gesturing to a massive poster on the wall, charmed to glow, listing the colors: Black: requited love. Pink: in love. Red: horny. Green: happy. Blue: sad. Yellow: pissed. Purple: crush. Clear: unrequited love.
Sirius’s jaw dropped further, his heart flipping, eyes narrowing at Barty. “You know I love you, prick.”
Barty winked, sipping his black punch, his hand brushing Sirius’s hip. “Wonder what Lupin’s punch’ll be like,” he hummed, his voice smug, eyes glinting, clearly picturing a clear or blue cup.
Sirius cackled, nearly spilling his punch, leaning into Barty’s side, the room loud around them.
“Damn, you’re cruel.”
Barty kissed him quick, lips brushing, tongue piercing teasing, his hand on Sirius’s lower back, pulling him close. “Love you, princess,” he whispered, his eyes pink, deliberate, freckles blooming faintly, scar sharp.
“Love you too, prick,” Sirius grinned, kissing him back slow and deep, their cups clinking, the punch black, the party loud, their love louder.
They danced, Sirius’s mesh top catching the LEDs, Barty’s hands on his hips, no boxers noticed with a groan, their bodies pressed tight, Bowie’s remix thumping. Regulus fake-gagged from the punch table, James cackling, Evan yelling, “BLACK PUNCH?! YOU SAPS!” Xeno’s cupcakes sparkled, the poster glowed, and Sirius spotted Remus in the corner, his punch clear, his eyes averted.
Sirius and Barty, true to their months-long tradition, ended up by the window, sharing a joint, the cool glass at their backs, the room a blur of dancing, laughing students around them. Remus lingered in a corner, his clear punch untouched, Lily beside him with the same, their faces tight, whispering. James and Regulus were making out on a couch, their black punches forgotten, hands tangled, oblivious to the world. Evan, by the punch table, flirted with Marcel, both clutching purple cups—crushes, obvious —Evan’s grin wide, Marcel’s cheeks pink. Xeno drifted through, offering glitter-dusted cupcakes, his green punch sloshing, a dreamy smile on his face.
“What’d you do, prick?” Sirius glanced up at Barty, his voice teasing.
“Well, princess…” Barty smirked, taking a drag, his eyes flickering pink under the LEDs, exhaling smoke, leaning against the window. “Only threw this party for you.”
Sirius blinked, baffled, his jaw dropping slightly, expecting some cocky line like “Black punch for your name, Black” —not that, raw and real.
“Huh?”
“Actually,” Barty said, looping his arm around Sirius’s waist, pulling him close, their hips pressed tight, his voice low, soft, eyes black now, no pink flicker. “Threw all of them for you.”
Sirius’s jaw dropped further, his breath catching, the joint nearly slipping from his fingers, his grin creeping up, stunned. “What, really?”
Barty nodded, his smirk softening in the way it only did around Sirius.
“Yeah. Thought you needed distractions after Lupin, and maybe… dunno. You’d notice me or some sap thing,” he said, shrugging, his eyes steady black.
Sirius laughed, breathless, leaning into Barty’s chest, his heart flipping. “Damn, babe,” he said, voice raw, shaking his head, his grin wide.
Barty just shrugged, his smirk smug. “You did, eventually,” he said, his voice teasing, thumb brushing Sirius’s hip.
“And you were acting like you didn’t give a fuck,” Sirius teased.
“Reverse psychology, baby,” Barty smirked, leaning down, kissing Sirius slow, deep.
They were properly making out now, right there in Ravenclaw’s packed common room, Sirius pressed against the window, Barty’s hands on his arse, squeezing, their kisses heated, tongues teasing, the joint forgotten on the sill. Gasps and “What the fuck?” expressions rippled through the crowd—Hufflepuffs whispering, Slytherins smirking, Gryffindors cheering, Ravenclaws raising cups.
“Get a room!” Evan yelled from the punch table, purple cup raised, Marcel laughing beside him, his own purple punch sloshing.
“Fuck off, Rosier!” Sirius laughed, pulling back, his lips swollen, flipping Evan off, Barty kissing his neck, sucking a fresh mark.
Regulus fake-gagged from the couch, pulling away from James, his black punch spilled, glaring. “You’re disgusting!” he yelled, James cackling, tugging him back.
“Love you too, Reggie!” Sirius winked at him, leaning into Barty as his hand slid under the mesh top, tracing Sirius’s nipple piercing, making him gasp.
“Cruel fucker,” Sirius whispered, glancing at Remus’s clear punch, his heart twinging but Barty’s arm grounding him, his lips brushing Sirius’s ear, whispering, “Yours, princess,” his eyes pink.
They danced, joint relit, Sirius grinding against Barty, Barty’s hands on his hips, their black punches grabbed again, raised in a toast. “To us, prick,” Sirius grinned, clinking cups, the black liquid shimmering, requited love loud, the poster glowing.
Xeno drifted by with his green punch in hand, muttering, “Black’s cosmic,” offering a cupcake, glitter dusting Sirius’s mesh top. Evan and Marcel joined them few minutes later, purple cups raised, Evan yelling, “SAP FUCKERS!” Regulus and James stumbled over, black punches refilled, Regulus muttering, “I’m disowning you,” but his smirk betrayed him, James’s arm around him.
“I physically can’t be around you lot,” Evan stated, glaring at their black cups, his purple one shaking, his blond hair flopping dramatically. “I’m surrounded by simps and saps and—you,” he tilted his head at Marcel, his voice softening, eyes starry, clearly crumbling under his French crush’s charm.
“Pardon, mon loulou,” Marcel bowed his head, his eyes flickering, cheeks pink, his French accent thick making Evan melt.
Sirius and Regulus cackled in unison, Sirius’s punch sloshing.
“What the hell does ‘loulou’ mean?” James blinked at Regulus, baffled.
“Like… sweetie,” Regulus translated, smirking, sipping his punch, his eyes glinting. “And it’s lou-lou , not loulou.”
“There’s literally no difference,” James huffed, his glasses slipping, making Sirius, Barty, Evan, and Marcel laugh harder.
“You go wild when someone says ‘habibi’ wrong, babe,” Regulus pointed out.
“Am I the only one here who’s British?!” Evan groaned, throwing his hands up, his punch sloshing, Marcel steadying his arm.
“You’re Welsh, git,” Barty cackled, leaning against Sirius.
“Oh, bite me,” Evan flipped him off.
“Speaking of Welsh,” Regulus tilted his head toward Remus and his abandoned clear punch. “You’re a fucking genius, Crouch.”
Barty bowed his head, all smug, sipping his black punch, his arm around Sirius’s waist, pulling him even closer.
“You saw Evans’s punch, didn’t you?” he asked, clearly loving the punch’s chaos.
“Hell yeah, I did,” Regulus cackled, his punch raised, gesturing at Lily’s clear cup. “Turned yellow when she saw me with James on the couch, though,”
Marcel tilted his head. “Hogwarts’s fucked up,” he stated, his eyes scanning the room—pink LEDs, charmed smoke, Xeno’s glitter, Remus’s clear punch, Evan’s purple one, and the black cups everywhere.
“You have no idea,” the rest of them replied in unison.
“You’ve got a lot to catch up on, babe,” Evan added, grinning at Marcel.
“Rosier, don’t—” Regulus and Barty started, but Evan flipped them off, his grin wicked, undeterred, loving the spotlight.
“No, no, I’m telling this,” he stated, standing taller, his purple punch raised like a trophy, Marcel watching, amused. “So, check this out. James used to be with that red-haired girl—Lily, over there, from your Charms class, yeah? Anyway, James dumped her for Regulus—scandal of the year, mind you.”
“Shut up,” James groaned, burying his face in Regulus’s shoulder, his glasses fogging as Regulus smirked, clearly enjoying Lily’s humiliation, like the git he was.
“Later,” Evan went on, grinning wider, gesturing at Sirius and Barty. “Sirius here and Remus—the tall scarred guy over there—broke up last year, and that was an even bigger scandal, really. Sirius was devastated until he let Barty bang him regularly.”
“Bang me —you fucker,” Sirius wheezed, nearly choking on his punch, shoving Evan’s shoulder. “True, though,” he added.
“In conclusion,” Evan grinned, raising his purple punch, Marcel laughing beside him, the room’s eyes on him, “James is head over heels for his best mate’s brother, and same for Barty with Sirius. This school’s a circle on wheels.”
Barty rolled his eyes, sipping his black punch, his pink strand glowing, muttering, “I’m not—never mind.”
“I am,” James grinned, pulling Regulus closer. “No regrets, though,” he said, kissing Regulus’s temple, Regulus’s smirk sharp, clearly relishing every chance to rub his win over Lily in her face.
“Obviously,” Regulus smirked, leaning into James, his punch raised, his eyes glinting, making sure everyone—especially Lily—knew who James chose.
“Circle on wheels, Rosier?” Sirius teased, cackling, leaning into Barty. “You’re just mad your purple punch screams crush,” he said, pointing at Evan’s cup, Marcel’s matching one glinting beside him.
“Fuck off, Black,” Evan groaned, but his grin was wide. “You’re the sap king with that black punch,” he shot back, gesturing at Sirius and Barty’s cups, their requited love loud.
“Proud of it,” Sirius grinned, kissing Barty quick, deep, his tongue piercing grazing, the crowd gasping, some cheering, Ravenclaws raising cups.
“Disgusting,” Regulus muttered, fake-gagging, but he leaned into James. “You’re all saps.”
“Get used to it, Archie,” Barty smirked as he pulled Sirius closer. “Princess deserves the crown or some shit.”
“Unwell,” Sirius laughed, shoving Barty’s chest, but kissed him again anyway.
They danced, Sirius grinding against Barty, Barty’s hands on his hips, their black punches raised, the pink LEDs thumping. “To fucked-up Hogwarts!” Sirius yelled, clinking cups with James, Regulus, Evan, and Marcel, black and purple punch sloshing, laughter erupting.
Hogwarts buzzed faster than a Snitch with the juiciest gossip yet: Sirius Black and Barty Crouch Jr. were together. Sirius, who—let’s be honest—craved the spotlight, strolled the castle corridors with the smuggest grin he’d ever worn. Barty, true to form, hexed a few loudmouths for talking shite—Avery got a jelly-legs jinx for a crude comment, and a Hufflepuff third-year sprouted boils for whispering “gold-digger”—which, honestly, only made it hotter.
With their relationship out, the Room of Requirement wasn’t an every-night escape anymore. Barty started crashing in Sirius’s bed in Regulus’s Slytherin dorm, his grey sweats and tattoos a permanent fixture, his silencing charm faking sleep sounds while they traded lazy kisses and joints. Regulus’s groans eventually faded into acceptance; even he warmed up, rolling his eyes less, smirking when Sirius called Barty “prick” or Barty called Sirius “princess,” their black punches still the talk of Hogwarts, the charmed poster’s colors etched in everyone’s minds.
Even the professors got in on it. McGonagall, spotting them in a corridor, marched over, her tartan robes swishing, and Sirius braced for detention, heart sinking, sure he’d fucked up somehow. But she fixed Barty with a steely look and said, dead serious, “I knew Black wouldn’t make such progress toward NEWTs on his own. Don’t let him ruin you, Crouch,” before striding off like the diva she was, leaving Barty cackling and Sirius huffing.
In Potions, Slughorn, stirring a cauldron, claimed he’d “somehow” matched them up, his walrus mustache twitching, eyes twinkling. Sirius and Barty exchanged baffled looks— how the fuck? —but shrugged, rolling their eyes, letting the old man live in his bubble, Barty muttering, “Delusional git,” under his breath.
Days blurred, another full moon passing unnoticed, Sirius too wrapped in Barty’s lips trailing his body—neck, chest, snake tattoo, bruises blooming fresh—to care and not even sorry, living his best life. NEWTs loomed, Barty obsessed with studying, dragging Sirius to the library daily, his Arithmancy notes sprawling, Sirius doodling arse-shaped hearts and pink eyes in his margins, groaning but making peace with it, Barty’s smirk and “Good boy, princess” keeping him going. Hanging with Regulus, James, Evan, and Marcel, Barty always by his side, Sirius felt everything click—his brother’s smirks, James’s cackles, Evan’s rants, Marcel’s quips, Barty’s hand in his.
Marcel, hooked by Evan’s charm, blended into their circle, his French accent and dry humor a perfect fit, cracking them up with one-liners, his purple punch from the party still sparking Evan’s blushes. They spent countless nights in Regulus’s dorm, post-study, sprawled on beds and floors, drinking Muggle beer James nicked from Hogsmeade, eating kitchen-stolen treacle tarts and crisps, the air thick with cigarette smoke, laughter, and charmed fairy lights, Barty’s silencing charm keeping Filch at bay.
“Alright,” James leaned back on Regulus’s bed, beer in hand, eyeing the group—Sirius and Barty tangled on Sirius’s bed, Evan and Marcel cross-legged on the floor, Regulus beside James, smirking. “Drinking game with ‘hear me out.’ If you agree, you drink.”
Evan beamed. “Oh, I’ve got so many. Jude Law,” he announced, leaning into Marcel, who nodded, sipping his beer, cheeks pink.
“That’s not ‘hear me out,’ that’s a fact,” Regulus scoffed, flipping Evan off.
“I’ve got one,” Sirius grinned. “Fleamont Potter.”
James gasped, betrayed, clutching his chest, beer spilling. “PADFOOT!”
Regulus wheezed, nearly choking, slowly extending his hand to high-five Sirius, their cackle echoing.
“REG! THAT’S MY DAD!” James shrieked, his glasses slipping, flopping back on the bed, Regulus laughing harder, wiping tears, his beer forgotten.
Barty shook his head, muttering, “Valid, actually,” taking a sip of his beer, the unbothered prick.
“Traitors, all of you,” James groaned, sitting up, pointing at Sirius, then Regulus, his beer raised. “My turn. Hear me out: Snape.”
The room went silent, then erupted—Sirius gagging, Barty snorting, Evan wheezing, Marcel blinking, Regulus throwing a pillow at James, yelling, “You’re disgusting!”
“Fuck no,” Sirius said, sipping his beer, leaning into Barty, his hand in his hair, tugging the pink strand, grinning. “My turn. Hear me out: McGonagall, twenty years ago.”
Barty choked on his beer, pink eyes wide, coughing, while Evan screamed, “PRINCESS, YOU’RE UNWELL!” Marcel laughed, his French accent thick, muttering, “This school’s mad,” Regulus nodding, smirking, James tossing a crisp at Sirius, yelling, “Respect Minnie!”
“Valid, though,” Barty recovered, winking at Sirius.
“Marcel’s turn,” Evan said, nudging him.
Marcel tilted his head, smirking, his accent thick. “Hear me out: David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust era.”
The room cheered—Sirius raising his beer, Barty nodding, Regulus clinking cups, Evan yelling, “DRINK!”—everyone sipping, James muttering, “Fair, fair.”
“Barty,” Sirius grinned, straddling him tighter, beer raised, hickeys glowing. “Your turn, prick.”
Barty smirked, pink eyes deliberate, sipping his beer, his hand on Sirius’s arse, squeezing. “Hear me out: Sirius Black, fourth year, shaggy hair, stealing my cigarettes.”
“You fucker,” Sirius gasped, shoving Barty’s chest. “I was magnificent back then!”
“You thought you were funny charming portraits to sing Rammstein,” Barty replied, deadpan.
“It was funny!” Sirius insisted, tossing his hair, his grin wide, remembering Filch’s rage when a portrait of Armando Dippet belted “Du Hast” in the Great Hall.
“You have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old,” Barty said, flat, rolling onto his stomach, muffling a smirk in the pillow.
Sirius gasped, clutching his chest, betrayed, his beer sloshing. “I do not!”
“Sir—” Barty started, lifting his head, but Sirius cut him off, leaning down, smirking.
“Siriusly,” Sirius added, for good measure, his pun landing like a hex, the room groaning and laughing in equal measure.
Regulus, predictably, groaned loudest, flopping back on James’s chest, his black punch spilling, muttering, “I’m disowning you,” but his smirk betrayed him. James snorted, like it was the funniest thing ever, because, well, it was—if you had a refined Gryffindor sense of humor, apparently.
“I can’t even—I can’t,” Barty groaned, rolling his eyes so hard they flickered white, flopping back into the pillow.
“I’m dating a guy who tells dad jokes,” Barty mumbled, his tone flat but lips twitching.
“Well, I am older,” Sirius hummed.
“TWO MONTHS!” Barty groaned into the pillow, his voice cracking, hands flailing, the room erupting again—Evan wheezing, Marcel snorting, James cackling, Regulus fake-gagging, their beers sloshing, fairy lights flickering.
“Exactly. Older, more mature, way smarter…” Sirius drawled, tossing his hair.
At that, even Marcel snorted into his beer, his French accent thick, muttering, “Mature?”
“Pads,” James wheezed, wiping tears, his black punch clinking Regulus’s, his glasses slipping. “More mature?”
“I’m traumatized! Of course I’m mature,” Sirius stated dramatically, leaning into Barty, who mumbled, “You’re unwell, that’s what you are,” his voice muffled.
Sirius gasped, shoving Barty off the bed for good measure, his beer sloshing, the thud echoing, the room roaring with laughter, Evan falling off his own bed again.
“You’re banned from my bed!” Sirius declared.
“Fine,” Barty said, sitting up straight on the floor, dusting off his grey sweats, giving Sirius his signature you’re full of shit look.
“ Fine ?” Sirius shrieked.
“You’re both idiots.” Regulus stated matter-of-factly.
Barty stood, stretching, his sweats low, tattoos flexing, and climbed back onto the bed, tackling Sirius, pinning him down.
“You’re not banning me, princess,” Barty smirked, kissing Sirius’s jaw, slow, his tongue piercing grazing.
“GET A ROOM!”
“Fuck off, Rosier!” Sirius laughed, shoving Barty’s chest, but pulling him closer.
“My turn,” Regulus said, eyeing the group with a smirk. “Hear me out: Lockhart, fifth year, before he got obsessed with Pettigrew.”
The room went silent, then exploded—Sirius gagging, Barty snorting, Evan screaming, “REGULUS, NO!” Marcel blinking, muttering, “Who’s Lockhart?” James throwing a pillow, yelling, “TAKE IT BACK!” Regulus dodged, cackling.
“Valid, though,” Barty said, deadpan, winking at Regulus, his pink eyes flickering, making Sirius shove him, laughing, “You’re unwell,” their beers clinking, the room roaring, Evan wheezing, “You’re all mental!”
“Evan’s turn,” Sirius grinned, straddling Barty again. “Hit us, Rosier.”
“Hear me out: Flitwick, dueling champion days.”
The room erupted again—Sirius cackling, Barty nodding, “Respect,” Regulus choking on his beer, James yelling, “ROSIER, YOU GIT!” Marcel laughing, his French accent thick, muttering, “This school’s insane.”
Chapter Text
With only a few months until graduation, Hogwarts felt like it was finally slotting into place for Sirius, a puzzle he hadn’t realized was scattered until now. He got awfully sentimental thinking about it; a year ago, Sirius was with Remus, planning his seventeenth birthday, drunk on love and devotion he never thought he’d feel, surrounded by his first-year crew—James, Peter, Lily, Mary, Marlene—close to Regulus but not like now, not this bone-deep bond. The thought gave him the creeps, how different everything was, but it was a good kind of shiver, like stepping into a warm room after a snowstorm, Barty’s I love you inked in every smirk, every touch.
Now, Remus was a shadow in the corridors, his clear punch a distant sting, replaced by Barty’s pink eyes, his silencing charms, his lips on Sirius’s neck, leaving bruises that glowed under mesh tops. Peter, Lily, Mary, and Marlene had faded—scattered by time, scandals, or choices—but Evan Rosier, the chaotic twink with a celebrity obsession, had barreled into their circle, purple punch and all, and fuck, Sirius would never admit how much he liked the git’s dramatics, his vape-waving rants, his Marcel-induced blushes. James, though, was still his North Star, his ride-or-die, unchanged, eternal—Sirius could already see them old, knitting (badly), cackling over Firewhisky, planning pranks for their grandkids. Regulus was closer than ever, their quiet bond a lifeline in their fucked-up family, a shared smirk or glance saying, We’ve got each other, no matter what.
NEWTs loomed, and their group tackled them with varying vibes: Regulus studied religiously, his notes color-coded, quills flying; Barty nailed everything without trying, his Arithmancy equations sprawling, smirking at Sirius’s doodled arse-shaped hearts; Evan whined daily about “why even take exams?” his purple punch flirtation with Marcel distracting him; James and Sirius just… showed up, studying because their stupidly smart boyfriends dragged them to the library, groaning but secretly grateful.
The library became their second home, hours blurring under charmed lanterns, Sirius doodling Barty’s pink eyes and snakes in his margins, Barty’s hand sneaking to his thigh under the table, Regulus hissing, “Focus, idiots,” while James flicked paper quills at Evan, who was too busy staring at Marcel’s smirk to notice. Sometimes Pandora and Dorcas joined, Pandora with her dreamy vibe, silver rings glinting, insisting on reading Sirius’s palm, muttering about “cosmic lines” and “Venus in chaos.” Regulus, predictably, screamed soundlessly into the table, his quill snapping, while Barty rolled his eyes, muttering, “Freaks,” but smirked when Pandora predicted “eternal passion” for Siriu. Dorcas, all cool confidence, flipped through her Defense notes, tossing quips like, “Pandora, you’re scaring the NEWTs,” making Marcel laugh.
“See this?” Pandora traced Sirius’s palm, her beads clinking, ignoring Regulus’s muffled groans. “Your heart line’s wild—love’s messy but true. Black punch shit,” she winked, sipping her water, her glitter-dusted nails sparkling.
“Black punch facts,” Sirius grinned, leaning into Barty.
“Stop flirting, you saps,” Evan groaned, tossing a crumpled parchment at Sirius, missing, hitting Marcel.
“Focus, Rosier,” Regulus snapped, his color-coded notes sprawling, but his smirk softened, glancing at James, who was doodling Quidditch plays.
“Focus yourself,” James teased, flicking another paper quill, Regulus catching it and tossing it back with a glare.
“My turn,” Dorcas said, grabbing Sirius’s other hand, smirking, her dark braids falling over her shoulder. “Hear me out: your palm says you’re gonna ace NEWTs but fail at keeping your hands off Crouch.”
The table erupted—Sirius laughing, Barty winking, pink eyes deliberate, Evan wheezing, “TRUE!” Marcel clapping, muttering, “Fucked-up school,” Regulus groaning, “I’m disowning you all,” James cackling, tossing a crisp at Dorcas, who caught it, eating it with a grin.
“Valid,” Barty drawled. “Princess aces everything,” he added, smirking.
“Get a room,” Evan groaned, but his grin was wide.
“Speaking of rooms,” James said, leaning back, his glasses slipping, smirking at Regulus, “we skipping the Great Hall tonight? Kitchen raid, more beer, more Hear Me Out?”
“Fuck yeah,” Sirius grinned, Regulus nodding, Evan cheering, Marcel muttering, “You’re all mad,” but smiling, Dorcas and Pandora high-fiving, their study session derailing into plans for another dorm night.
They packed up, Sirius’s doodles of Barty’s eyes stuffed in his bag, Regulus’s notes pristine, Evan’s crumpled, Marcel’s neat, James’s Quidditch plays everywhere, Barty’s hand never leaving Sirius. Back in the dorm, beers cracked, crisps stolen, fairy lights pulsing, they played on— Hear me out: Dumbledore, young and hot from Evan sparking chaos, Regulus fake-gagging, James cackling.
With graduation looming, Sirius, for the first time in nearly a year, wasn’t just winging it with a shrug and a “whatever.” Sprawled in his bed in Regulus’s Slytherin dorm, fairy lights flickering, Barty beside him in grey sweats, unwrapping a chocolate frog, Sirius was planning —future-talk, big dreams, the works. Barty had his life mapped out: Muggle university, chemistry and the genius shit, living in a London loft his grandpa was buying, all fairy lights and cigarette smoke already vivid in Sirius’s mind. They’d talked about it, shyly at first, because—damn—it was huge. Regulus was set to crash with Sirius, while James had a Soho pad planned, Quidditch posters and chaos galore. Evan was itching to “fuck around Europe,” starting in France to visit Marcel, who was heading home post-graduation. Sirius, meanwhile, dreamed of running a record shop—vinyls, Muggle music, maybe some charmed turntables—while applying to the Auror program, a plan he’d hatched with James on the Hogwarts Express at eleven, plotting pranks and futures, wide-eyed and wild.
“I mean,” Sirius said, late one night in his bed, Barty’s silencing charm faking sleep sounds, the dorm quiet except for their whispers as the conversation was refusing to lull. “It’s kinda fucked up, isn’t it?” He was propped on an elbow, pajama pants loose, staring at the ceiling, sentimental as hell, heart full.
“Being an adult? Fuck yeah,” Barty snorted, unwrapping another chocolate frog, the wrapper crinkling, tossing the card aside. “Kinda scary, though.”
Sirius gasped, mock-betrayed, turning to face Barty, his grin wide. “You? Barty Crouch scared of something?”
“I’m scared every time Archie’s throwing something at me. Git’s got too good an aim for a Seeker,” Barty replied, deadpan, breaking the frog in half, handing Sirius his share.
Sirius cackled, nearly dropping the chocolate, popping it in his mouth, chewing loudly. “You’re tragic,” he said, nudging Barty’s side.
“You’re saying that now, but you’ll have a crisis when you have to run that record shop,” Barty teased, leaning back, his sweats low, thorns tattoo glinting, licking chocolate off his fingers, all smug.
“I will not,” Sirius huffed, tossing his hair, sitting up. “I’ll be, like, the coolest manager, showing up once a week, nicking my own vinyls, living the dream.”
“That’s literally not how you run a business, princess,” Barty deadpanned, rolling his eyes, kicking Sirius under the sheets.
“How’d you know? You never ran one,” Sirius smirked, leaning closer, his nose brushing Barty’s, acting like he’d won the argument, heart flipping at Barty’s laugh.
“Shut up,” Barty snorted, kicking him again, harder, the bed creaking, both grinning, the chocolate frog forgotten. “Just saying, it’ll be a nightmare. Uni, job, all the shit. Rosie’ll be god-knows-where, living his chaotic life. Potter’s probably gonna go pro in Quidditch and be insufferable about it.”
“Reg’ll be at every game in Prongs’s jersey, pretending he hates it but loving every second,” Sirius added, nodding solemnly.
“Yeah,” Barty chuckled, his voice soft, leaning closer.
Sirius, deep in his melancholic era, hummed, his voice softer, turning to face Barty fully, their hands brushing. “Can I be gross for a second?”
“More than when you gag pulling your own hair from the drain?” Barty asked, voice flat, but his lips twitched, tossing the chocolate wrapper at Sirius, who dodged, laughing.
“Shut up,” Sirius cackled, shoving Barty’s shoulder, his grin wide, heart full. “I was gonna get all sentimental and shit. You’re ruining it.”
“Oh, come on, princess, hit me,” Barty sighed, dramatic, leaning back, ready for Sirius’s sap.
“Just wanted to say,” Sirius said, voice soft, raw, the way it only was with Barty, locking their eyes. “that now I know why it never worked with anyone else.”
Barty’s lips twitched, his smirk softening, eyes steady. “You’re getting soft,” he teased, but his voice was warm, pulling Sirius closer, their bodies pressed tight, his hand in Sirius’s hair, tugging gently.
“I’m always soft,” Sirius replied with fake dignity, tossing his hair, grinning, leaning into Barty’s chest, their legs tangled. “Just look amazing doing it.”
Barty laughed, loud, pulling Sirius tighter, kissing his forehead. “True. But if you’re planning to turn us into some high school sweethearts, I’m dumping you,” he teased, his hand sliding to Sirius’s lower back.
“You’d never dump me. You’re obsessed with me,” Sirius grinned, poking Barty’s chest, their noses brushing, his voice smug, heart soaring. “Unhealthily obsessed.”
“Shut up,” Barty snorted, tackling Sirius, pinning him to the bed, their laughter muffled by the silencing charm, kisses quick, heated. “You’re the obsessed one, princess,” Barty whispered, kissing Sirius’s jaw.
“Guilty,” Sirius grinned, pulling Barty closer, their kisses deepening.
They talked more—London lofts, record shop chaos, Auror training, Evan’s European antics, Regulus’s fake-hating at James’s games—dreams spilling out, shy but real, Sirius’s heart full.
The future wasn’t rock-solid—Sirius and Regulus had only each other, their parents’ shadows long gone, and Barty was still tangled in his father’s grip, the man’s sneer looming—but it looked good enough to hold hope. Sirius couldn’t believe his luck, gratitude flooding him for Barty and every little thing: the pink strand, the hexes for his honor, the black punch, the parties thrown to win him over. But the biggest thing made Sirius smile widest—Barty, slowly, methodically, with patience, had stitched up Sirius’s broken heart, shattered by Remus and family, and now owned it completely, pink eyes and scar and all.
March tenth rolled around, and Sirius felt that familiar pang in his chest, the kind that hit when he remembered how he’d spent every one of Remus's birthdays with him since first year, plotting pranks, stealing cake from the kitchens, buzzing about getting older. Now, with graduation months away, things were different—better, brighter, but still bittersweet. Still, Remus’s birthday tugged at him, a soft spot for the boy who’d once been his everything, urging Sirius to seek closure, maybe one last talk to settle the dust.
He spotted Remus by chance in a corridor outside McGonagall’s office, leaning against the wall, book in hand, scars faint in the torchlight, looking like he was waiting for something. Sirius hesitated, then stepped closer, heart thumping, his usual swagger softened. “Hey,” he said, hands in his pockets, voice steady but gentle. “Happy birthday.”
Remus raised his head slowly, eyes meeting Sirius’s, surprise flickering before he closed his book. “Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet, a small smile tugging his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually say that.”
Sirius chewed his cheek, shifting on his feet, a nervous habit he’d never admit. “Didn’t know if you’d actually want me to say that.”
“I do,” Remus replied, a bit too quickly, his fingers tightening on the book. “Just… didn’t expect it.”
Sirius nodded, the air heavy with awkwardness, a stark contrast to the years they’d spent laughing, plotting, loving. How the hell did it get so weird? “And… what’s up?” he asked, a little dumbly, scratching his neck, feeling like a first-year again.
Remus chuckled, that uncomfortable laugh Sirius knew too well, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “S’all good. Got a meeting with McGonagall in five. I’m thinking about applying to uni at Cambridge, and she says she can help with recommendations.”
Sirius frowned, leaning against the wall, curious despite himself. “Really? What happened to London?” He remembered Remus’s old rants about Muggle bookshops and city chaos, plans they’d made together once.
“Not my place anymore, I think,” Remus said, his voice soft, eyes distant, then flicking back to Sirius. “And… you?”
“Good,” Sirius replied, his grin creeping up, thinking of Barty’s kisses, Regulus’s smirks, James’s cackles. “Moving to Alphard’s flat with Reg. Auror program, running Alphard’s record shop, all that shit.”
“Good,” Remus said, nodding, a small smile lingering. “Good.”
“Yeah, good,” Sirius echoed, shifting again, the silence stretching, both of them stuck in the weird limbo of we used to know everything. “So… see you around, I guess.”
“See you,” Remus replied, his voice soft, and Sirius walked away, heart lighter but still twinging, wondering how the hell everything was so different—yet better, brighter, his life clicking into place.
Back in Regulus’s dorm that night, fairy lights flickering, Barty sprawled beside him, unwrapping a chocolate frog, Sirius told him about the talk, his voice quiet, legs tangled under the sheets. “It was… weird,” he admitted, stealing half the frog, chewing slowly. “But good weird. Like, closure, y’know?”
Barty nodded, his scar sharp under the lights, handing Sirius the frog’s card—Circe, nice. “You needed it, princess,” he said, voice soft, no teasing, just real, his hand squeezing Sirius’s knee.. “He doing okay?”
“Yeah, Cambridge uni, apparently,” Sirius said, shrugging, leaning into Barty’s side, their shoulders pressed tight. “Not London. Guess we’re all moving on.”
“Fuck yeah, we are,” Barty grinned, tossing the wrapper, kissing Sirius’s jaw, slow, grounding, the bed creaking, their silencing charm holding. “You, me, that loft, vinyls, chaos. Ready for it?”
“Born ready,” Sirius smirked, shoving Barty playfully. “You’re still a prick, though.”
“Love you too, princess,” Barty chuckled, pulling Sirius closer, their kisses deepening, chocolate frog forgotten.
The next day, they dragged their crew to the library, NEWTs breathing down their necks. Regulus’s notes were pristine, Barty’s sprawling, Evan whining about “pointless exams,” Marcel’s quips keeping him distracted, James doodling Snitches, Sirius sketching Barty’s scar in his margins, their hands brushing under the table. Pandora joined, her beads clinking, reading Sirius’s palm again, muttering, “Future’s wild, love’s steady,” making Regulus groan, Barty smirk, Evan cackle, Marcel mutter, “Mad school,” Dorcas tossing a crisp, nodding, “Accurate.”
Days blurred into weeks, and Sirius found himself caught between melancholy and excitement as graduation loomed. The thought of leaving Hogwarts, its stone corridors and charmed ceilings, tugged at his heart, but the thrill of adulthood—once terrifying—now sparked like a well-cast Lumos. Things weren’t perfect: Sirius and Regulus had only each other, disowned by their parents, their family name a bitter memory; Barty was still tangled in his father’s grip, tied to his parents by his love for his mother. But with their crew—James, Evan, Marcel—around them, it wasn’t scary anymore. A fresh start with people you love could never be bad, right? Sirius grinned at the thought, sprawled in Regulus’s Slytherin dorm, Barty beside him, their legs tangled under fairy lights, cigarette smoke curling, I love you grounding him.
The Quidditch finals were coming—Gryffindor versus Slytherin—and Sirius wanted that cup, his bat swinging with purpose at practice, James whooping beside him. But deep down, he’d be just as happy if Slytherin won, if only to see that rare, bright smile spread across Regulus’s face, his brother zipping through the air as Seeker, snatching the Snitch.
Fuck trophies when Barty was on the bleachers, smirking, ready to kiss Sirius senseless, win or lose, their love louder than any crowd’s roar.
James’s birthday meant a wild trip to London—James with Regulus, Sirius with Barty, Evan with Marcel—piling into a Muggle pub, getting gloriously wasted, shots and laughter flowing. Sirius and James, in true Marauder fashion, charmed the jukebox to blast Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” on loop, singing off-key, arms slung around each other, until the bartender kicked them out, Regulus cackling, Evan cheering, Marcel muttering, “Mad English.” Back at Sirius’s flat Barty dragged Sirius to the bedroom, cast a silencing charm, and pulled out a Ziploc of molly, because some things never changed, their roots in wild, off-their-faces sex still a cherry on top of their solid love, now woven with London loft dreams and future plans.
Sprawled on the bed, still buzzing, Sirius laughed, breathless, as Barty mumbled into his hair, “I’m gonna husband you up one day,” his voice soft, raw, hands tracing Sirius’s sides, grounding.
“Yeah?” Sirius chuckled, still catching his breath, rolling to face Barty, their noses brushing.
“Mhm. Propose with some ring Archie’ll help me pick, and you’ll swoon and say yes,” Barty replied, smirking, his scar sharp, hands pulling Sirius closer, their bodies pressed tight.
“Bold of you to assume I will,” Sirius teased, grinning, poking Barty’s chest, his heart flipping at the thought, their future vivid—lofts, vinyls, chaos.
“You’ll probably think I’m giving you head when I kneel,” Barty deadpanned, his smirk lethal, kissing Sirius’s jaw, slow, teasing, making him laugh louder.
“Damn right,” Sirius grinned, shoving Barty playfully, their legs tangling, the bed creaking, his heart racing from Barty’s proposal talk, London’s hum still in his veins. “Didn’t know you were planning proposals, though.”
“Since fourth year and all, princess,” Barty muttered, pulling Sirius closer, their kisses deepening, slow, heated, hands wandering, I love you sparking in the quiet.
“You total sap,” Sirius laughed, his voice soft, nuzzling Barty’s neck, the fairy lights casting shadows. “That’s deeply disturbing.”
“You’re into it, don’t lie,” Barty teased, his smirk lethal, fingers tracing Sirius’s sides, grounding, their bodies pressed tight.
“Fuck yeah,” Sirius grinned, his heart flipping, kissing Barty’s scar, quick, teasing. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Barty replied, his voice raw, no smirk, just real, pulling Sirius into a deeper kiss, the bed creaking louder, their laughter muffled, I love you loud enough to drown out the world.
Notes:
god, i had it in drafts since days and just couldn't post it, thinking that i should write more -and i wanted to, obviously -but i think this is the best place to leave it.
it was so fun to write it, though, and i love sirius x barty so much rn, i had no idea why they're so underrated!!! at the beginning i was thinking to write if differently -more fluff, less smut -but i think that if they started like that it would be out of character for them. anyway, i needed to write even a small interaction between sirius and remus cause, damn, wolfstar till i die and shit.
thanks for reading and every comment and every kudos!! i had no idea if anyone'll like it but here we are now so i think it's not so bad, even if i know i could write it better
see you in next fic:)
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Deku_Madness on Chapter 4 Mon 09 Jun 2025 09:29PM UTC
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