Chapter Text
The footsteps stopped, Barty barely breathing, pressed against the rough bark of the oak tree. On the other side of the trunk, Evan was equally motionless, only his wide eyes visible in the darkness, reflecting a terror that Barty felt mirrored within himself.
Regulus's figure was a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the canopy. The silver mask turned slowly, sweeping the area with a deliberation that was more terrifying than any haste.
Regulus knew, somehow, he knew they were there. For ten seconds that felt like ten hours, no one moved. The surrounding forest hung in an oppressive silence, as if even the trees were holding their breath.
Then Regulus spoke, his voice distorted by the mask but clear enough to cut through the night air.
"I can feel you."
It was said in an almost conversational tone, as if they were talking about the weather, which made it all the worse.
"Two hearts beating, two barely controlled magical signatures. You know that hiding from an experienced Death Eater is... pointless?"
Barty felt Evan stir beside him, his muscles tensing as if he were about to run. He reached out, gripping Evan's wrist in a silent warning not to move.
But it was too late. The movement, however slight, was enough. Regulus's wand rose in a fluid, even casual, motion, and the word came out emotionlessly:
"Stupefy."
The jet of red light cut through the darkness like lightning, passing inches from Barty's head and striking Evan Rosier squarely in the center of his chest.
The impact was brutal.
Evan was thrown backward, his body flying almost three meters before hitting the trunk of an oak tree with a horrible thud, the kind of sound Barty knew he would hear in nightmares. Evan's head ricocheted off the bark, then he slid to the ground and lay completely still, his Arms at odd angles, mouth slightly open.
Unconscious, or worse.
"Evan!" The name came out before Barty could stop it, an automatic response upon seeing his fallen friend.
He took a half-step toward the collapsed body before freezing. Because now the silver mask was turned completely toward him.
Barty stood still, wand in hand but lowered, useless. His heart pounded against his ribs with such force it was painful. He could hear his own breathing, rapid and irregular, a sound too loud in the silence that followed.
Regulus didn't move, only observed the fear in Barty's eyes and, worse: the urge to help the fallen Evan Rosier. Regulus felt a slow, precise tightening beneath his ribs, hot and unpleasant, rising up his chest until it lodged in his throat.
His fingers tightened around the wand, not out of necessity… but to contain the primal impulse to do worse.
Because Barty shouldn't look at anyone else that way, he definitely shouldn't look at Evan Rosier that way. But still, he was looking.
His gaze from behind the silver briefly dropped to Evan Rosier's unconscious body, left like something disposable on the damp earth.
"I was quite clear, wasn't I? Forget about Evan Rosier."
Regulus took a step forward, slow, calculated, closing the distance until the air between them seemed thicker.
"And yet, you chose him."
The sentence came out controlled, precise, too cold. But the hand holding the wand tightened for a second longer than necessary.
There was no shout, no open accusation, just that dangerous stillness, the same one Barty knew the first time Regulus took him to his private room at Hogwarts and decided, with a single glance, that he would not be shared with anyone.
The wand twirled between his fingers with studied elegance, though the movement was slightly stiffer than usual.
"I don't like it when you test me, Bartemius."
For an instant that seemed to stretch beyond the allowed time, Regulus simply observed him. Barty's chest rose too quickly, his wand still low. Undecided, as if torn between staying… or running to someone else.
Regulus took another step, slowly encroaching on his space.
"Look at me."
When Barty finally obeyed, there was something satisfied in the quiet that followed.
“When I tell you to forget someone before a trial the Lord has created, it’s not a test.”
The tip of his wand lightly touched the center of Barty’s chest, right over his racing heart.
“It’s for your survival.”
The mask tilted a degree, almost affectionate. Almost cruel. Then, so low it sounded as if it had been ripped straight from the space between them:
“Now run.”
Barty looked at the fallen Evan, looked back at Regulus, and remembered every word spoken in the antechamber.
“Forget everyone.”
He spun on his heels and ran.
There was no hesitation in Regulus’s movement as Barty turned. The wand rose, precise, flawless, and the first spell cut through the air with a sharp whistle.
“Expelliarmus!”
Barty threw himself aside, the spell passing so close he felt the air displace. He bumped his shoulder against a tree, bounced off, and kept running. The pain was distant, irrelevant.
Another spell.
"Impedimenta!"
This grazed his left calf. Not with full force, just enough to lock his leg for half a second, enough time for Barty to stumble, falling to his knees in the damp leaves. He rolled immediately, raising his wand in blind panic.
"Protego!"
The shield rose weakly, in a trembling bubble of bluish light, a second later came the attack.
"Finite."
The shield dissolved like blown smoke. The spell hadn't been aggressive, it had been surgical, like a scalpel removing useless protection with precision that was almost insulting.
Barty staggered backward, his left leg still tingling with the residual effects of Impedimenta. He turned and kept running, but something was wrong. Something beyond the pain, beyond the fear of being caught.
Regulus could have hit him. The certainty of that was absolute. Barty had seen Regulus duel, had been his training partner for months. He knew the precision. The deadly impact of that pulse, the way each spell went exactly where Regulus wanted it to.
And that Impedimenta had almost missed. Intentionally.
But why? If he needed other Death Eaters to see him strike, Barty, why had he slowed the deadly pulse?
Another spell cut through the air to his left, forcing him to veer to the right, into a denser area of trees. And then, slowly, poisonously, an idea began to form.
Maybe it's not protection. Maybe it's punishment.
The thought settled in his stomach like a cold stone.
Maybe Regulus is teaching me a lesson, making me run, making me afraid just to show me what happens when orders are ignored. When I choose to stand by Evan even after being explicitly ordered to forget him.
Barty stumbled over a root, recovered, and kept running. But now each spell that passed, each one almost hitting, each one directing him down specific paths, took on new meaning.
It's touching me like cattle, showing me that I'm controllable, that I belong to him and only to him.
The hurt came unexpectedly, hot and humiliating. Because if this was true, if this was truly an elaborate punishment instead of a calculated rescue, then everything—the dark room, the firm hands, the words whispered in French against his mouth—came with a silent condition that he had been too foolish to see.
You can have everything, but only if you have no one else.
"Stupefy!" The red jet passed inches from his right shoulder. So close that Barty felt the heat.
He threw himself behind a tree, his chest rising and falling in jittery jerks, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure Regulus could hear it.
He's jealous, Barty realized with sudden, bitter clarity. Of Evan, he always has been, and now he's punishing me for choosing to stay with him even when he knew he shouldn't.
Anger began to mingle with hurt.
It's not fair, Barty thought fiercely. Evan is my friend. My friend of six years. I can't just cut him up, leave him to die at the hands of these sadists as if it meant nothing just because Regulus is possessively jealous and…
CRACK.
Regulus materialized ten meters away, blocking the only viable escape route. The silver mask caught the moonlight, making him a faceless ghost.
And then he began to walk slowly, with that relentless cadence that said, "You can't escape me, so why try?"
Barty recoiled, his wand raised, his hands visibly trembling now.
"Regulus…" he tried to say.
No answer, just steady footsteps.
He won't stop, Barty realized with growing terror. He'll catch me and really hurt me and make everyone watch and…
"Expelliarmus!" Barty shouted without thinking, out of sheer desperation.
Regulus dodged with a fluid sideways step, so casual it was almost insulting. He didn't even need to raise his shield; he simply dodged and kept walking.
"You think with your heart, Crouch… It's your biggest flaw."
The clinical, evaluative tone, like a professor pointing out an error in academic work, made something inside Barty twist.
"I'm defective to you," the venomous voice in his head translated. "Because I have feelings. Because I care about people besides you. Because I can't be the perfect tool you want me to be."
"You looked at Rosier… You hesitated," Regulus said, walking away.
Of course I hesitated, Barty wanted to scream. He's my friend! He was scared! What did you expect me to do? But he said nothing. He just retreated further, searching for an escape he knew didn't exist.
"In this forest, Bartemius, hesitation is blood on the ground."
This made Barty understand, with a horrible and painful clarity: He thinks I'm weak. That my compassion makes me defective. That love for anyone besides him is unacceptable weakness.
The hurt deepened into something close to despair.
I love you, Regulus. I love you more than anything, but that's not enough for you, is it? You don't want my love, you want my total obedience.
He thought, feeling tears welling in his eyes, then turned and ran again. This time it wasn't strategic. It was pure, blind escape, fueled more by emotion than reason.
Branches slashed his face. Roots tried to trap his feet. The forest conspired against him, or perhaps he simply wasn't paying attention, too busy trying not to cry from the mixture of frustration, hurt, and fear.
"Impedimenta! - The spell hit his right leg squarely this time.
Barty fell heavily, expelling air from his lungs with the impact. He tried to get up and couldn't. The pain in his leg was excruciating.
He really got me, he thought with something close to shock. It wasn't a mistake, nor an accident. He wanted to take me down and…
Footsteps behind him. Close. Stopping.
Barty rolled onto his back, raising his wand with both hands because one hand alone was trembling too much.
Regulus was above him. Motionless. Silent. The silver mask reflecting Barty's terrified expression back at him.
And for a horrible, endless second, Barty thought:
He's going to neutralize me, he's going to teach me a lesson, and when the other hunters arrive, he'll simply… watch.
But then Regulus moved, casting another spell, but not at Barty. The Expelliarmus was directed at something behind Barty, followed immediately by movement so fast that Barty barely… "It registered."
Regulus grabbed him by the arm, pulling him behind a massive tree the exact second another spell—this one not from Regulus—cut through the air where Barty had been.
"Diffindo."
Another person's voice. Distant but drawing closer.
Barty gasped, pressed against the rough bark, Regulus's arm around him in a restraint that was both prison and protection.
And then he heard multiple voices coming from the direction he had run from.
"I thought I saw movement around here…"
"Spread out. Cover more ground!"
"The Lord wants the recruits alive, but nothing prevents us from having some fun with them."
Other hunters were converging on where Barty had been moments before.
And Regulus had…had pulled him away.
The realization hit Barty like iced water.
He wasn't punishing me! He was guiding me!
He looked down at the silver mask so close to his face. Through the cracks, he saw grey eyes fixed on the sounds that were gradually receding.
And he understood that each "wrong" spell hadn't been a mistake. It had been guidance, steering him away from areas where other hunters were, pushing him towards safer routes.
Each deliberate step hadn't been sadism. It had been speed control, ensuring Barty didn't blindly run into a worse ambush.
Each cold word hadn't been contempt. It had been performance, for any hidden ear, for any nearby hunter who might question why Regulus Black was pursuing but not capturing.
Merlin, I'm an idiot! The guilt came hot and violent, making his stomach churn. I thought... I really thought he was punishing me. That he was so angry he was going to use me as a public lesson. And all the while he was…
Regulus stepped back slightly, his hand still on Barty's arm, squeezing once and then whispering:
"Stay quiet, stay hidden, let them pass."
Barty nodded, unable to speak through the emotion that blocked his throat. They were pressed against the tree, Regulus's arm around him, both barely breathing as the sounds of other hunters moved through the forest.
When silence fell, Regulus waited another thirty seconds before releasing Barty.
He took a step back, two, three, putting appropriate distance between them again. And then he spoke, his voice low but laden with something Barty couldn't name:
"Run."
It wasn't a cruel order. It was… urgency. Concern disguised as a command.
Barty looked at him, wanting to explain, wanting to apologize, wanting to say I'm sorry for doubting you, I'm an idiot, I should have known… But there was no time.
"RUN, BARTEMIUS!" roared Regulus, his voice distorted by the mask and genuine emotion.
And Barty ran, but this time it was different, because he understood that every spell that came would be a guide, not an attack. Every moment of this terrible and violent chase was Regulus doing exactly what he had promised in the dark room: protecting him, regardless of the cost.
Barty quickly looked around. The trees were too dense to the left, impossible to run through. To the right was a steep slope that probably ended in rocks. He turned and ran towards the slope.
"Expelliarmus!"
He threw himself sideways at the last second. He landed badly, his shoulder hitting the ground with such force that it expelled the air from his lungs. The wand slipped from his numb fingers, spinning in the air.
Before it fell, before Barty could even think of moving, it was caught by Regulus's hand. He had moved with speed Barty hadn't seen, crossing the clearing in seconds, and now he was above him, a knee pressing into Barty's stomach, pinning him to the ground. The tip of Barty's wand—his wand—was pointed at the center of his chest.
Through the cracks in the silver mask, Barty saw grey eyes, but they weren't cold. They were stormy, full of conflict that the mask tried to hide but couldn't completely.
Barty was gasping, immobilized, the pressure of Regulus's knee making each breath difficult. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Regulus could feel it through his chest.
And then the voice came, hoarse, muffled by the mask but laden with emotion that shouldn't be there for a cruel hunter's performance:
"I'm sorry."
Regulus recoiled slightly, just enough so that the weight was no longer crushing Barty's chest, but not enough for him to escape.
The wand in Regulus's hand moved, now pointing directly at Barty's face, and he articulated the word. Clear. Inevitable:
"Crucio."
The world dissolved into white. Every nerve in Barty's body screamed in unison, a symphony of agony that erased thought, memory, and identity. His scream tore from his throat without permission, raw, animal, utterly genuine. There was no room for pretense. The pain was an ocean, and he was drowning.
One...
The number formed in the white darkness of his mind and was immediately crushed by another wave of torment.
Two…
His body arched violently off the ground, only the weight of Regulus's knee holding him pinned to the earth. Muscles contracted so forcefully that he heard something snap in his shoulder, a small, sharp pop that was irrelevant compared to the rest.
Three… four…
Tears streamed from his bulging eyes, mingling with the saliva escaping from the corners of his mouth. He had bitten his tongue without realizing it, the taste of copper flooding his palate.
Five… six…
The scream turned into a hoarse, continuous whimper, his throat too breathless to scream properly. Everything inside him was burning, melting, being twisted into shapes that shouldn't exist.
Seven… eight…
Darkness began to invade the edges of his vision, a merciful escape. But the pain wouldn't let go. The pain held him captive to consciousness with iron claws.
Nine… ten…
Something inside his mind began to crack. Not completely broken, but cracks appearing under unbearable pressure. It was like being turned inside out, each layer of his self being exposed and charred.
Eleven... twelve...
His fingers dug into the ground, nails tearing away moss and earth, searching for anything to hold onto, to anchor himself to the reality that was disintegrating.
Thirteen... fourteen...
At fifteen, the line between consciousness and unconsciousness should have become irrelevant. It should have been the moment to feign fainting, to let his body go limp, to escape the performance.
But the spell didn't stop.
Fifteen...
The pain continued. Relentless. Unrelenting. Regulus hadn't stopped.
Sixteen...
Barty tried to process this through the agony. Tried to understand. Why? Why didn't it stop?
Seventeen...
The answer didn't matter because thinking was no longer possible. There was only pain, white and total, consuming everything.
Eighteen...
His body now writhed without any conscious control, a puppet with severed strings still trying to dance. A grotesque and involuntary tremor that was a pure neurological response.
Nineteen... twenty...
The voice that screamed no longer seemed to belong to him. It was sound coming from a body, nothing more.
Twenty-one... twenty-two...
The darkness was so close now. So tempting. He wanted to surrender to it, to let himself fall into that abyss where pain couldn't reach.
Twenty-three... twenty-four...
But some part of him, the part Regulus had trained, the part that knew how to count under torment, continued to function like a broken clock, still ticking.
Twenty-five... twenty-six...
His field of vision was just black dots now, dancing on a white background of pain. He couldn't see Regulus, couldn't see anything except burning light.
Twenty-seven... twenty-eight...
Consciousness was a thread. So thin that one wrong breath could cut it.
Twenty-nine...
And then… Thirty.
The spell ceased. The silence that followed was as abrupt as the pain. Like falling off a cliff and suddenly not falling anymore, just hovering in the air in total confusion.
Barty's body collapsed, completely broken. His muscles simply gave out, all the strings that held him together severed at once. He fell to the side, his breathing so shallow it was almost imperceptible, his eyes half-closed but still slightly open, staring unseeingly at the leaves inches from his face.
A tremor ran through his body. Then another. Small residual convulsions that he couldn't control.
Regulus stood over him, his breathing finally quickening, coming out in short gasps that the mask couldn't completely hide.
Thirty seconds. He had gone over the agreed time, beyond the fifteen they had planned, beyond the eighteen he had used the first time. Thirty.
And now Barty was on the ground, motionless except for the tremors, and Regulus didn't know… He didn't know if it was real or feigned. He didn't know if Barty had truly fainted at twenty-five, at twenty-eight, if he was unconscious now or just following the delayed plan, if he had…
Please, Bartemius—Regulus thought, the silent prayer echoing in his head with an intensity rivaling any spell. "Please, let it be feigning. Please, let him only be acting. Please, he hasn't really broken it."
But he couldn't check. He couldn't kneel and check his pulse, he couldn't whisper a name, he couldn't do anything that would reveal that this was anything more than a hunter satisfied with subdued prey.
He stared at the motionless body for another second, searching for any sign, any indication of feigned consciousness.
Nothing. Just involuntary tremors and almost imperceptible breathing.
Panic began to rise in his throat like bile.
It was then that he heard footsteps coming from the right, through the trees. A figure emerged from the line of trees on the opposite side of the clearing. Tall, black cloak, white mask unlike his own. And Regulus recognized the stature, the way the wand was held like a ready weapon.
Dolohov, one of the most brutal hunters. A man who killed as easily as others breathed, and he was looking at Barty on the ground.
Regulus moved instinctively, placing himself between Dolohov and the fallen body. Not obviously. Just a casual step, adjusting his position, which "casually" blocked a direct line of sight.
"Dolohov, I see the hunt is productive."
"Black, I see you were having fun with one of the little mice."
Regulus confirmed, nodding. Then, with perfect disdain, he glanced back over his shoulder at Barty.
"Although 'little mouse' is too generous." "This thing collapsed before twenty seconds had passed."
He turned back to Dolohov, his body language screaming utter disinterest.
"Pathetic, really. It wasn't even worth the effort of carrying it back."
Dolohov took another step into the clearing. His wand was raised, not pointed at Regulus but also not sheathed.
"Is he alive?"
"Technically, but broken and useless. The Lord can assess the pieces tomorrow if he wants."
Dolohov tilted his head, considering. He took another step. Regulus needed to deflect him. Now.
"I heard explosions to the west and saw flames. I think the brothers unleashed the Fiendfyre again."
This caught Dolohov's attention. His mask turned in the indicated direction.
"Idiots," Dolohov muttered.
"Idiots who are still out there." Probably wounded, easy targets now. Unless you'd rather stand here staring at this one on the ground that's already been neutralized.
That was the right touch, appealing to Dolohov's hunter instinct. Prey already captured wasn't fun, but prey still running, especially wounded prey, was amusing. Dolohov glanced at Barty once more. The assessment had gone on for too long for Regulus's comfort.
Then he muttered something that might have been agreement.
"The Carrows then, if you find them first, leave one for me."
"Naturally," said Regulus.
Dolohov turned. He began walking back toward the line of trees. Regulus waited, motionless, until he reached the first trees. Then, with a movement that was carefully casual, he turned back to Barty.
And with his foot, so subtly it seemed accidental, so lightly it made no sound, he kicked Barty's wand. She rolled through the leaves, spinning once, twice, stopping half a meter from Barty's outstretched hand. Close enough to reach. Far enough away to look like she'd fallen there during the fight.
CRACK. Dolohov Apparated, the sound echoing through the forest. Regulus stood still for three more seconds, listening, making sure he was truly alone.
Then he looked at Barty one last time; the body on the ground still hadn't moved. Still trembling slightly. Still seemed completely unconscious.
Please, he thought again. Please let it be an act!
But he couldn't check, nor risk it, so he raised his voice, loud enough for any curious ear in the forest, filling it with performative disdain:
"Pathetic. Didn't even last twenty seconds."
Then, without looking back again, he turned and with a CRACK that made the surrounding leaves tremble, vanished.