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Everyone else is asleep. The dungeons are quiet. The only sound is the low crackle from the green-glowing fireplace. Regulus sits cross-legged on the rug, a book open on his lap—but he’s not reading. He’s watching Barty.
And Barty—Barty is unrecognizable like this.
He’s curled beside Regulus, head in his lap, hair a mess, his wand discarded on the floor. No sneer, no manic grin, no sharp retorts or dark declarations about the world deserving to burn. Just silence. Just peace. His breathing is slow and even, eyes closed, a soft line between his brows that only Regulus ever sees.
Regulus strokes his hair idly, fingers gentle. “You didn’t hex anyone today,” he murmurs, more amused than surprised.
Barty opens his eyes slightly. “Didn’t need to.”
“Why not?”
“You were with me all day,” he says simply, like that explains everything. Maybe it does.
There’s a long pause. Barty shifts a little, his cheek pressing into Regulus’s thigh. “You’re the only thing that makes the noise stop.”
Regulus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tease him. He just keeps combing his fingers through the tangle of curls, voice a whisper now. “I know.”
And Barty—brilliant, broken, frightening Barty—lets himself be held.