f i r s t | k i s s
f i r s t | k i s s
Regulus gets teased for never having his first kiss, so his best friend helps him out , and breaks a few school rules along the way
warning and such: sort of angst, pretty fluffy, ass!hole!bartycrouchjr, not proofread idk
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"Bloody hell, Regulus! Tell me you're joking!" Barty looked at Regulus before doubling over with laughter, his cup of fire whiskey spilling all over the floor.
A decent number of people in the common room stopped at looked at the group of boys sitting around the fire before returning to the party. I could see from the other size of the room, the clenching of Regulus' jaw, his eyes scanning the room quietly, pausing on me for a moment before dropping his head and continuing to peeling the label off his bottle of mead.
Whatever was said was clearly intended as a joke, but the situation seemed to escalate. Barty quickly stopped laughing and tried to buddy up to the boy sitting next to him. A few younger girls even started flocking around, trying to get much too close for comfort to the boy. It didn't work, rather it seemed to make the situation much worse. Regulus set his bottle down and trudged up the stairs towards the boys dormitory, throwing a middle finger up behind his head at Barty who was begging him to stay and "lighten up" Even Evan was giving Barty shit for what just happened.
I couldn't help but watch the situation, feeling sorry for Regulus and butter at Barty, even though I have no idea what I just witnessed. I excused myself from conversation and made my way towards the staircase, only to be stopped by Evan.
"Leave him be, trust me."
"What the fuck was that all about?"
Evan opened his mouth and closed it again, looking around the room before grabbing my hand and leading me to the quietest corner.
"We we're just trying to have some fun, honest. But you know Barty...always takes shit a little too far."
"Evan?!"
"Regulus has never had his first kiss."
"What?!"
"Barty wanted him to 'take his pick' of the girls," he gestured to the girls who were now throwing themselves all over the remaining boys "but you know Reg..."
"That's disgusting!" My eyes met Barry's and his smile dropped once again. He knew he messed up, alcohol induced or not.
"Look, please don't tell him I told you...I'm sure he's-"
There was a loud, tell tale *crack* of apparition from upstairs before Evan and I looked at each other.
"Gone." we said in unison.
The next few days were tense, Barty tried to apologize to Regulus when he returned but was met with silence. The tension could be felt when they walked into the room, and poor Evan was caught in the middle of it.
"If you ask me, he's just being a twit about it! Just kiss someone and get it over with, eh?" Barty joked, throwing an arm over my shoulders at Lunch later that week.
"You're a pig, Crouch!" I threw his arm off of me, shuttering at the feeling.
"Oh come on, babe! Not you too! Don't be a prude, give us a kiss, yeah?!"
I tried to shove him off, but he had the upper hand. Before I knew it, he squealed like an actual pig, voice gone and hands shrinking drastically. I looked over at Sirius and Remus, who waved, wands still in hand.
"Thank you," I mouthed before getting up and going to join them.
"You okay?" Remus asked, handing me a piece of chocolate.
"All thanks to my knights in shinning armor!"
"What was that all about anyway?"
"Umm,"
We watched at the Slytherin table, McGonagall was coming over to undo the spells. A few students had told her what happened, and she promptly ushered him out of the great hall, dragging him by his ear. They passed Regulus in the doorway, who looked just as confused as everyone else. His eyes scanned the room again, giving a sheepish nod in my direction, though I think it was intended for his brother. He collected Evan and they walked out.
"Don't worry about it. Listen, can you guys help me with something?"
...
I felt confident with the spell after only a few days. Remus and Sirius had already had one in place, and we agreed on the 'don't ask, don't tell' mantra. Now, all that was left to do was put the plan into play.
"Hey, Pandora,"
"Oh, hello y/n. Would you like to sit and have dinner with us? I'm sorry to hear about Barty, what an awful young man!"
"Hopefully we got that taken care of! I actually have something I have to go take care of, but I was wondering if you could pass along a note for me?"
"Of course, love! Who should I give this too?"
"Regulus...please."
"Will he know what to do with it?"
"Yes. Thank you, Pandora!"
"Anytime!"
Merlin, I love her!
I made my way towards the Astronomy tower and waited. Impressively, I wasn't nervous or anxious. I figured this could only go one way, but even if it ended badly, it wouldn't actually be bad. My thoughts were interrupted by footsteps on the stairs behind me.
"You know, there are much closer places to talk!"
"Ahh, but this is half the fun, isn't it Reggie!"
"What...what fun?"
"Where's your favorite place in the whole world?" He shrugged. "Come on, it's not a trick question"
"New York City- Central Park but only when it's-"
I held out my hand, wand in the other and smiled at him.
"You're taking the piss out of me, aren't you?"
"We'll be gone 5 minutes."
"You've gone mental!"
"Don't you trust me?"
He groaned, taking my hand and holding his breath. In the blink of an eye we landed, dead center of Central Park. The street lights were just coming on, and there were hardly any people around.
"What are you playing at? We can't apparate and disapparate at school, how did you even-"
I grabbed his hand, working my fingers in between his. He looked around cautiously. PDA was still something he highly detested, and affection still made him nervous.
"Reggie, I know what Barty said to you, during the last Slytherin party..."
"Oh, for fucks sake! I don't want to talk about it!"
He tried to leave, but I pulled him back. I pulled my wand out and pointed it at the light we stood under. It flickered before a small cloud formed and it because to rain.
"What are you playing at?"
"I wanted to give you the option. Of course you can say no, but if you..wanted..your..first..kiss.. to be with someone who loves you- unconditionally..."
I could see a beautiful color wash over his cheeks behind his hair which beginning to flatted in the rain. He shyly put his hands on my waist and looked up at me, somewhere between asking for permission and what to do next.
"You really did all of this? For me?"
"Of course I did!" My hands now resting on either side of his face.
"And this won't change anything between us?"
I smiled and shook my head. I watched Reg take a deep breath, hold tightly to my back and then-
It was soft, and sweet. We pulled away slowly, and he let his lips linger for a moment. First kiss and already a tease?! Bloody hell! I feel sorry for the girl who falls in love with him!
"Sorry," he chuckled. I put a hand on the back of his neck, encouraging him to keep his head down, our foreheads pressed together. "Can I- can we umm"
"Yeah!" I smiled, pulling him in for another kiss.
The second one was just as sweet, just a little longer and with more meaning behind it.
What are friends for?
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Grim-Old-Place
Inspired by this post, by @in-flvx. I fuckin LOVE magical homes.
***
Sirius Orion Black is the last of the male line, and Grimmauld Place Number Twelve is his tomb.
It is his home as well, but that’s neither here nor there. Not for Sirius, who sees further than Number Twelve’s façade: he is its Master, was born in the mistress’ bedroom, learnt to crawl and walk and run in its hallways and learnt to whisper and speak and scream through its doorways. Master learnt to read and write in the study its previous Master stayed in until his death, learnt to sit up straight and hold cutlery in the dining room that ends up abandoned, learnt to swallow his emotions down down down like his father before him and his father before him with a parent looming over his tiny human body.
It’s always been this way. Number Twelve knows no better than how his Masters of the Past and Present have been raised, have grown, have pushed their power into the tough-cold-living stone of its cellars. Number Twelve has belonged to the House of Black since before it was built, before it rose up from pre-existing foundations permeated with old magic. It has belonged to the family for generations, and in this day and age, its current Master shall be its last.
Number Twelve shall listen to him. Number Twelve was built to listen, to accomodate, to warp and change to the wishes and whims of its Master. It became a fortress because its previous Master wanted it to, strengthened the wards he weaved by borrowing his willpower—softened its floors when children fell because Master-of-the-Past did not like cries of pain, bore down on unwanted guests because Master-of-the-Past did not like most people. Number Twelve listens and follows both spoken and unspoken orders. That is what it was built for.
Number Twelve is not just a neglected, abandoned family home. It is not dilapidated and haunted just because it was left to rot for so many years, just because its only inhabitant was for nearly a decade was an old elf influenced by an object emanating magic fouler than any kind Number Twelve has ever housed; it is because its current master is unable to imagine it any differently, and Number Twelve adapts accordingly, because Number Twelve listens.
Master is the last bearing his last name, the last of the male line, and the House of Black is forgotten glory. It is a family that has sunken down from their presumed superior position like a rock hurled into deep waters. How else would this decline present, than decaying walls and festering infestations of vermin? Number Twelve is Master’s prison and it morphs itself into one, turns its air oppressive and its temperature down low, narrows its winding corridors and shrouds itself in misery.
Number Twelve becomes the representation of Master’s biological family, gone and dead-won’t-stay-dead, because Master sees Number Twelve as such. Ghosts creep behind ratty curtains and loom in shadowed corners, become mirages by moonlight and play in the motes of dust, and Number Twelve lets them because this is what Master thinks, what Master says. When Master’s mood drops, so does Number Twelve’s, because when Master is saddened and angered he thinks, deep down, that these other residents ought to be uncomfortable and irritable as well. When Master’s mood becomes cheerful, Number Twelve dutifully pushes the joy into its floorboards and walls, as Master wishes to share his happiness and Number Twelve gladly helps. Number Twelve locks doors when Master does not want to see the residents who are filling Number Twelve with life and Number Twelve changes its layout when Master does not want to be found. Number Twelve was built to listen to and follow orders, and it will do that until it falls apart. What Master wants, Master gets.
Number Twelve does not appreciate the other residents when they upset Master. Number Twelve does appreciate the other residents’ attempts to clean its rooms, wishes it could show how grand and beautiful it used to be and can be. But Master thinks cleaning to be a lost cause, so Number Twelve ensures it is a lost cause: it presses dust out of the smallest corners without any trouble, and it delights in Master’s delight when the other residents feed their frustration into its walls.
Number Twelve listens and acts. Master refuses to look in mirrors lest he see something he does not want to, so Number Twelve darkens them, dirties them, ruins them until they cannot be fixed. Master believes and does not want to be disproven about the hatefulness of the elf, so Number Twelve does not even attempt to improve the relationship. The elf was the one to bring the foul and dirty object through the very wards Master-of-the-Past erected to keep such magic out anyway, and Number Twelve is old enough, fed enough, to hold a grudge. Master’s joy, even if it is tainted by grief and ire, is Number Twelve’s joy. Number Twelve is, after all, simply glad to have a Master.
It has always been this way, even if it is different now, with a Master so similar yet so different to Master-of-the-Past. A fortress and a tomb are synonyms in the loosest definition, and Grimmauld Place Number Twelve now has a Master who sees it as his tomb: as Number Twelve cannot begrudge its Master anything, it will be a tomb. But Master sees it as his home too, deep down, and Number Twelve was built to be a home.
It will adapt accordingly.
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