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delicrieux · 1 year ago

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𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑫, 8. year one: october 28th to 30th, 1972

pairing for this chapter—f!lestrange!reader x barty crouch jr. warnings for this chapter—sum swearing, implied underage drinking (not reader), being a bad friend word count—3.4k

your birthday has officially arrived, not without some notable oddities.

author's note: missed being a miserable tween. also who can tell that barty might have a crush on her? not me definitely

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“so,” dorcas sounds, and the way she purposefully moves her head in your peripheries implies she will say something you won’t necessarily like, “your birthday is coming up,” a quick look from you, up and down – from the tips of her muddy boots to the wind-swept hair. a few snowflakes sit nestled between the curls, and her eyes crinkle with mischief, “are you having a party?”

you try your best to breeze through the clock tower courtyard unscathed, “no,” you state. lie. not exactly. it’s complicated, “what? why? have you heard something?”

she snorts, “nope, just asking. you seem to have a lot of friends.”

you suppose you are outstandingly popular. anyone approached is your friend upon a hello, but you only say such a thing to those worthy of your attention. most, of course, are in some even minuscule way related to your family. your immediate circle is just cousins. dorcas is, so far, the only one you’d never approach yourself, simply because she’s unremarkable and also a gryffindor.

somehow, still, you cannot shake her, and once the tremors of hysteria had melted into the hum-drum, you found yourself not wanting to do so, which unnerved you much more than her immediate presence at all times of the day. most times of the day. you try not to engage in public, especially in the sights of bartimus, marzipan, and matilda. barty you could still, perhaps, calm – a pointed look and a promise to tattle on some secret you’ve uncovered about him to his parents would make him malleable.

the girls, however, would propose a difficulty. they’re already proposing a difficulty. the odd stares you receive at times when dorcas waves at you, all with a good-natured smile that you feel, in those moments, you don’t entirely deserve.

hence, the haste. hence, you try to lose her, but she’s much more fit and much better at keeping up than her unsuspecting appearance might hint.

“yes, well,” you start, heat dousing your body and damp robes. the inside of the castle is warm this time of year as the elements grow increasingly unruly and cold. the dry air scratches at the back of your throat, and you inhale with a sniffle and a poorly masked cough, “i’m not planning anything.”

and you aren’t, truly, but that doesn’t mean no celebration will take place. in fact, based on what marzy and matilda are trying so hard to hide (and do such a honestly horrendous job, with all smug smiles and loud whispers and giggles a pitch too high), there’s an old classroom being transformed for a small gathering – forty people or so – to toast to your good health, mesmerizing beauty, unbridled potential, and immeasurable talent. you quite look forward to it, but you aren’t responsible for the invitations, as it’s supposed to be a surprise.

and even if you were, surely you couldn’t extend one to dorcas. a no name from a muggle family. she would be out of place.

more so, she would feel out of place. you doubt she’d be offered a warm welcome, and you couldn’t offer one to her either, not without being subjected to the potent glares and displeased remarks from those around you.

such a situation is not beneficial for anyone involved. thus, you are a good friend from sparing her of this ache, sparing the rest the discomfort, and sparing yourself a howler.

“i might throw a party for my birthday,” she says, stopping at the cross-roads where you must part – her for charms and you for potions. she fixes the strap of her book bag, bending somewhat under the weight, “will you come? if i decide to do one after all. ‘s quite far, still.”

“when is it?” you ask, somewhat impatient. your eyes scurry the interior, but no familiar faces as of yet.

“april,” ah, thank merlin, “april sixth.”

you shrug, but you don’t manage to meet her gaze, “maybe. if i’m not too busy. i’ll mark it on my calendar just in case.” april is still ways away, and by that time, you might figure out what to do with her.

she smiles, “i’ll hold you to it. don’t suppose you want anything?” you give her a puzzled look, “like, a gift.”

“oh, no,” you can’t imagine there’s anything she could give you that would please you and that would also be within her budget. once again, your endless compassion and big, open heart are on fervent display. if matilda and marzy knew (unpleasant details aside), they’d give you a standing ovation for your selflessness. it’s a bit vexing that dorcas doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. perhaps she’s a simpleton, “got nothing in mind.”

“okay, well, i’ll think of something then,” she says, one step back, “later!” and away.

you have no qualms with lying. you’ve done it your whole life. your first words, perhaps, were, too, some miniature lie. lying is no different than playing, and playing is no different from acting, and acting is lying, and so it’s really not a big deal. you don’t know any other way of being, and you quite enjoy having others bend to your smiles or your frowns. most go great lengths to appease you.

even now, you claim to have accidentally forgotten your quill, when in reality, you didn’t pack it on purpose. regulus, always having a spare, gives you his own, and makes you promise not to lose it. you complain that it’s uncomfortable in your hand, and that the colour is ugly, but in fact you do like the deep brown shade and firm edge of the feather.

bartimus sets up your cauldron because your wrist hurts from the frigid cold, and evan measures the ingredients – he’s much more precise and curious about potions, and he does it unprompted, almost as if it’s expected of him. it sort of is.

you have no qualms with lying, but you pause when bartimus asks, “what’s with that gryffindor following you around everywhere?”

your heart thumps, and the cool, damp potions classroom rises in temperature. all in all, it’s the most polite way he could have phrased the question, oddly mindful of professor slughorn’s all hearing ears lingering just close enough for him to behave himself.

“i’m blackmailing her,” is the only thing that comes to mind, and it does sound convincing. so convincing, in fact, your tone and look implies that he’s the stupid one to consider otherwise.

evan frowns, peering at you over the vapours emitting from his cauldron, “blackmailing her? why?”

you shrug, “because it’s fun.”

“seems awfully happy to be blackmailed, if you ask me,” regulus comments coolly.

“please, told her if someone was to catch a whiff of distress on her, then, well, she’ll certainly have something to be distressed about,” you move the ladle and mix your potion and thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud, “you’re a terrible extortionist if you can’t manage otherwise. rodolphus said he had all sorts of minions from other houses. can’t embarrass the family.”

“right,” barty raised a brow, “rabby’s embarrassment enough.”

you bristle at the words, true as they be. still, pride and blood are important, “your whole family tree’s in gryffindor. think before you speak, crouch.”

“sparks are flying,” he grins, “or is it just me?”

“as if i could ever look at your gaunt face and find anything appealing,” you snip, “you should learn some manners when speaking to your elders.”

“sincerest apologies, madam strange.”

“shut it, both of you,” evan grumbles, carefully dropping some powder into his mixture. it hisses and gurgles and a new set of fumes spew, “can’t concentrate with all this yapping.”

“woof,” barty sounds.

“dog,” you spit.

“bitch.”

you gasp and throw the nearest object your hand grabs, which is a (sadly) closed bottle of ink. he ducts just in time, but the impact makes the glass shatter, leaving a scary red splotch on the wall.

bartimus straightens as slughorn strides over to check on the disturbance. a brief explanation from evan is accepted without hassle, and the wreckage is handled by a flick of the professor’s wand. a disapproving look and a quick glance at regulus as a reprimand and everything goes back to normal, including barty and you, who is doing a masterful job of ignoring him and pretending your breathing hasn’t been affected in any way.

eventually class does wrap up and everyone leaves for the next lesson. you walk with evan and regulus, bartimus trotting a couple feet behind like a faithful hound, waiting to serve, ever the sycophant. you wonder if it's too late to beg matilda and marzy to revoke his invitation to your birthday party, because you know for a fact that he has one. possibly tossed it into a bin upon notice, but he had definitely, at the very least, seen it.

***

there’s a snow storm on your birthday, a harsh, miserable gust that rages across the landscape and traps everyone inside. so dense you can’t see out the windows, and so cold frost bleeds to water from glass pains and drips in rivulets on the tiles. it’s too early for such weather, but not entirely unheard of. when you were very little, rodolphus told you that mother and father found you in a heap of snow, warm and unharmed. now, of course, you have a technical understanding of how children are made, but shockingly, you had stoutly believed your brother till late last spring, till your first blood and that slightly uncomfortable but enlightening conversation with aunt greengrass.

matilda knew this already, by a few good months, which revealed why, at the time, she always seemed a bit snootier than usual, as if she had figured out something very important and negated to share. for the remaining spring and the whole of summer, the two of you had grown closer and left marzipan out – what could she, still but a child, understand about the woes of burgeoning adulthood? it had left her a bit desolate, and she had spent her holiday chasing sirius around, and as she smothers you in a tight hug with sleepy happy birthday whispered into your hair, you think you still haven’t forgiven her for it.

naturally, you have taken extra pains to make yourself prettier. your hair is glossier, and your uniform is tidier, and there’s a sheen of cherry lipbalm covering your mouth. narcissa, when she saw you, told you to wipe it off, and you did, only to reapply it when she wasn’t looking.

breakfast, the great hall’s polite congratulations, slytherin students that you almost recall the names of coming to wish you a joyous day. some revenclaws and marzipan’s brother come bearing chocolate toffies. it’s the same procedure as evan’s and matilda’s – the former’s birthday was just a few weeks into september, and matilda celebrated on october first.

you share the candies with the boys. evan takes one, regulus takes one, bartimus takes seven (to spite you, you believe), and you’re left with two. you offer one to marzipan, and she takes it with a smile, and offer one to matilda, who refuses, saying she’s on a diet. marzy’s expression crumbles, and she returns the treat, “never mind, not that hungry.”

“did you eat a strawberry?” bartimus asks, mouth full of toffies.

you frown, “what?”

“shit on your lips, what happened to table manners?”

“ignore him,” regulus interjects pointedly, “how are you feeling?” as in, how is it like to be twelve. bartimus’ birthday is just after sirius’, and so, regulus is the youngest of the present quartet, which leaves him naturally distressed.

evan scoffs, “’s no different.”

“i feel different,” you inform primly.

barty snorts, “don’t look different. still stupid.”

“hope you choke on that,” you glare. he snickers, the dolt, properly pleased to have ruffled your feathers. a quick communication between you and your pudding has you decided that you might despise bartimus crouch, or, more so, you despise the smug look he seems to fashion only when he’s pestered you into a foul mood.

briefly, you sweep the present crowd, and you spot dorcas sat among her friends, a table away. the sight alarms you somehow. perhaps it’s the picture of her happiness.

she must’ve felt you looking (such is the power of your gaze) because she perks up. twinkling brown eyes meet yours, and she waves with a grin, almost rising to approach, but your flash of an uncomfortable smile leaves her seated. when you glance around if anyone noticed, it’s only regulus that gives you a strange look, but says nothing.

sirius and his friends pass you as you tumble out the great hall. he, expectantly, walks right past, and it stings, but it stings even more when james calls your name much too cheerfully and says, “happy birthday!”

you walk past him as sirius had walked past you, without a moment of hesitation.

“you blackmailing him as well?” evan, surprisingly, asks.

you huff, “no, please hex him out of existence.”

“could be arranged,” barty says after an uncharacteristically thoughtful pause.

***

there’s definitely something more than punch being covertly served to the older students, but not like it matters much – you catch not a whiff of it, nor is any offered to you. suppose you are suspicious by the entirely inconspicuous clusters of people that exchange something and then part hurriedly with sour expressions that bleed into blushed faces and tipsy grins.

matilda, you note, is laughing ditzy with a second year slytherin. you suspect something nefarious, and make it clear with the slight narrow of your eyes. she cares not for it, which slights you, because it’s your birthday and you’re the most important person present.

speaking of, a pile of presents sits on a table, all expensive and neatly wrapped trinkets you possibly have no use for. still, the growing pile pleases you – once back in your dorm, it’ll be a challenge to go through it in a single night. you might just open a new one each day and have no gift-free evenings for the better part of the school year, but you are too impatient.

it’s all very pretty. the ceiling was enchanted to a deep, gleaming blue-violet, rippling along the dim, sparkling lights as though underwater. luminescent bubbles, a faint glittery mist, and floating incandescent jellyfish, translucent, yet you still raise your hand to touch one, feeling the slight coolness once it passes your fingers. you hadn’t asked who’s responsible for this display of magic, but you suspect it being narcissa.

when you smile at your ostentatious cake and count the flickering candles, you can only think of one wish – i wish sirius would come back to me. you inhale and then blow in one full swoop. the room drowns in cheers.

there’s faint music floating above your head, but nothing as interesting as to what sirius had made you listen to all those nights ago. you dance with evan, who seems much more awkward than you, and then with a few older students, with rabastan (unwillingly), and then with your girls. regulus had overtly refused your hand without explanation.

“it’s my birthday,” a demand. an excuse you can use only once a year, and you extort it fully.

he seems conflicted in the blue light, lastly, “fine. don’t step on my toes.”

dancing with regulus is different than dancing with sirius – regulus is shorter and younger, and his grip isn’t as firm, and he doesn’t once look you in the eye, and you’re a bit bored through most of it.

the night dwindles on, and you spot bartimus.

he catches you staring, and so he raises his cup, sat beside his older friends – a few second and third years that seem to be enthralled by his presence. it strikes you, strangely, how popular he seems to be. you don't like it.

and he's not exactly ugly, despite your claims. tallish, the tallest of your lot, a long neck, neat auburn hair, sharp eyes, maybe. not entirely horrid and twisted as he could have turned out to be or will turn out to be. he seems a bit older, but perhaps it's because he's always been lanky.

no, he is ugly, you think. the lights must've caught him funny, and maybe that's why it seems he's glowing, his pale skin shimmering a ghostly pallor in the enchanted darkness of your birthday celebration, that is yours and yours alone, and no one can steal the shine or the honour or the beauty away.

matilda joins his table, and you note, in great distaste, that she also looks very pretty, and the dress suits her much better than yours does you. all dresses are now suiting matilda better, because this is the body she was born in, and it makes sense that she will always have the upper hand and you will always be behind her, somehow.

you grow unsettled in a way that feels somewhat familiar, but nothing tangible enough to understand.

dorcas would probably laugh. your stomach swoops and then drops, and it feels like the jellyfish swim inside you. dorcas would definitely laugh and pull at matilda's ruffles. and sirius, sirius would laugh with her and he would comment on how the dress is awfully girly and in poor taste, and then you would tell him off, because he has no taste at all, but not in front of dorcas.

you glance at door. sirius isn't here. he was definitely invited, but, of course, he wouldn't attend.

of course. of course of course of course.

matilda, prettier and better, better, it's not fair, doesn't even look at you, not since she knows, of course, she must know you are watching. she can't not know. the parallels and the similarities are obvious in a way they aren't to you. briefly, you think of poisoning her. you could get away with it too. what's a birthday celebration without any diabolical scheming, anyway?

when matilda smiles at someone (bartimus), a creeping sensation crawls beneath your skin. there is definitely some vile deed being done here, but not any of yours, unfortunately. the gathering, you decide, must end, and everyone must leave disappointed and displeased to match your mood.

"punch?" marzipan manifests by your side. you startle, glance to her, note her boyish appearance in relation to matilda's ladylike one, and somehow, her expression manages to irritate you.

"got one," you show your glass for emphasis, "did you happen to notice a grimace on tilda, or are the effects of whatever substance they're pouring into these cups only visible to the sober?"

"not a sip," marzipan sighs, "i've tried asking a third year, said i'm too young," her misery brings you a slight bout of joy. marzipan will be twelve late february, and so, she will always be the odd one out, "did you want any?"

you shake your head, "no, not really. maybe. i dunno."

"doesn't seem like you're having fun," she notes. then, she softly grasps your upper arm and squeezes, "cheer up. it's your birthday."

your smile is terse. the tension has left you feeling sore, like you ran laps and took too hot of a bath and rolled into a very tight sleeping position. you feel a bit wrong.

regulus calls your name, and he drags you away easily and without question. you spare marzy a vaguely apologetic look, leaving her stranded in the middle of the room, all lonesome. she does, at that moment, look entirely pathetic, and maybe you are very tired, because somewhere deep down you feel a pang of something.

you are lead to the darkest corner and let go promptly. before you can complain, regulus pushes something into your hand and says, quietly yet seriously, “i won’t tell.”

he makes scarce afterward, and you’re left confused. truly, this celebration has become more trouble than it’s worth. all these emotions hidden behind an unmoving veneer. it cracks slightly when you take a closer look at your gift.

it’s a handmade card, glued and drawn poorly.

‘to my favourite (and only one i will associate) slytherin, happy birthday. i promise i’m better on the broom than i am at drawing, but i wanted to make you this card anyway. once the skies clear up, let’s go for a ride along the shoreline. i found some sights exploring. we could make a whole adventure out of it. know a perfect location to practice hexes. despite it all, i’m very glad i found you crying. -- your accomplice’

you hug the card without meaning to do it. you just do. you bring it close to your chest and lean your cheek, like it was something precious, and in a way, it is, because this is, by far, the most generous gift you have ever received.

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