in dreams there's a way to die

"I held you the way a boat holds water. I always felt us sinking." - Rudy Francisco

Barty often wishes he could have inherited his mother's talent for art, but where she could seemingly create a masterpiece representing a life-like scene with just a few brushstrokes, Barty has never managed to get any further than stick figures and abstract forms.

He can do some pretty nice mixes of colors though, even if lately they've been getting darker and darker, but it's nothing on what his mother can do.

He has a small icon painting his mother gave him hanging over his bed, a woman staring straight ahead with a face stern but sad, surrounded by a golden halo, warm and cold at the same time.

She looks beautiful, even if every trait of her make it seem like she shouldn't. It's an ethereal sort of beauty, almost otherworldly, and it is a beauty shared by the boy she's holding in her arms, a son she's trying to shelter from the world even as she knows that whatever feeble protection she can muster will never be enough.

"She's the Virgin Mary," his mother told him when she gifted him the painting. "Her son is the son of God, and it was prophesized that he would save the world one day. He was destined for great things, and his mother had to watch as they crucified him."

Something about his mother's look then had almost stopped him then. It was so oddly reminiscent of the way the woman in the portrait looked at the world that Barty couldn't stop the shiver that run down his spine.

(Did she know what he wanted to do, who he wanted to follow? Did she suspect him?)

(he still shivers every time he looks at that painting for too long, but still, he can't find it in himself to cover it)

His father sneers at him sometimes, when he thinks Barty's not looking. "Art is a woman's art," Barty heard him say once after one drink too many shared with friends from the Ministry, "and my Barty's a boy. This is just a child's fancy, it'll pass."

And maybe it's because his father dislikes his art so much that Barty spends so much time on it. He likes to think it's not, that his art is his in a way nothing else is, that it's more than just a rebellion against his father.

He's probably only fooling himself, but he's not ready to let that shred of hope of acceptance go, not the way he let go of everything else when he decided to join the Death Eaters.

(and Merlin, it should be wrong but he's never felt as home than he does with those people the world calls monsters – what does that say about him?)

.x.

Regulus is the first person outside of his family to see his art, if it can even be called that.

The youngest Black is visiting him – they've grown closer since they both were recruited, not quite friends but more than acquaintances, though if Barty had to name his closest friend Regulus would be the name he'd use, if only by virtue of the other boy being the only one to really know him.

He's early too, arriving well before lunch when their plans said they would meet after eating, but Barty finds that he doesn't mind.

He doesn't even mind letting the other boy look at his latest work, the one that's been almost haunting him for these last few days.

It's unfinished still, and painted only in different shades of grey, but Barty likes to think one can already glimpse what the finished piece will be like.

(a throne built of and on ashes, only as terrible as it is fragile, as strong and as weak as the world that surrounds it – it a throne built for a monarch who would burn the world to the ground and rebuild it in his image, a throne for the Dark Lord as Barty as seen him, terrible but great)

Regulus is quiet for long, long seconds Barty can't help but count, his silence almost breathless.

"I didn't know you painted," he finally says.

"Sometimes," Barty answers, shuffling awkwardly.

Regulus sends him a look Barty can't decipher. "Well, you're pretty good for someone who only does this 'sometimes'," he remarks.

"Thanks." Barty pauses and calls for Winky to put his art supplies away and tidy everything up. "Any reason why you're here so early?"

"Well, you said your father wouldn't be here today, so I thought we could go out for lunch instead of waiting. I know you'd probably forget to eat otherwise. Unless you're too busy?" Regulus asks, a smirk on his lips.

He has a point, Barty sighs to himself. "I'm not. Where do you want to go?"

"You'll see. It's a surprise, but you'll like it."

"Fine. Let's go then."

.x.

They end up in a small restaurant tucked away not far from Diagon's Alley. It's close enough to the magical alley to have customers, but far enough to be much quieter.

Barty has been there a few times already – both with his parents and without – but somehow the atmosphere feels different now, with Regulus by his side.

It feels thick with something like anticipation, and when he finally realizes what's happening it finally hits him like a Bludger.

This is a date. "It's date," he repeats out loud as they're shown to a table in the far corner of the room.

Regulus arches an eyebrow at him, his eyes lit with a glint that is half-anxious, half-mocking. "Some Ravenclaw you are," he drawls. "Of course it's a date, or do you think I drag everyone I know to lunch?"

Feeling a smile twitch on his lips despite himself, Barty tries to glare as he quips back, "Well, you never know with you Slytherins. This might just be an elaborate plot for some nefarious purpose."

Regulus snorts. "Well, I do have a purpose," he says with a wink. "But I also wanted to get you out of that house."

(he could get used to this, Barty thinks as he watches Regulus order his meal, a quiet smile on his face – the concern is nice and the company is even nicer, and he definitely isn't opposed to the attention – he really could)

The rest of the day goes smoothly, and actually passes by much more quickly than Barty expected it to. He knew Regulus was brilliant, though he is best at magics most people wouldn't approve of, but he never realized that he was so invested in researching new spells.

His ideas are fascinating, and not only because they touch on magics Barty's never been privy to. The Dark Lord had made them both part of his researchers, Regulus even more so than Barty himself, what with his access to the extensive Black library, and Barty had never realized that Regulus enjoyed it this much.

He could, and did, listen to him for hours on end.

(they don't kiss that evening, but Barty thinks he would have liked to)

.x.

The longer the war goes on, the closer they grow, until Barty moves out of his father's place and invites Regulus to stay whenever he wants to.

Regulus never officially moves in, but half of everything in their bedroom is his, and he spends more time there than anywhere else.

But Regulus also grows more and more tired, deep lines drawn on his face, lines from worry and… something else.

(it's guilt, but never of them ever voice it – they both know what would happen to anyone reneging the Dark Lord now, especially as he wins the war)

They both decide to ignore it until they can't, and so far it has worked perfectly fine for them. This flat is like a small haven of peace in the middle of the turmoil of the outside world, a safe place when it feels like the world shouldn't have any left.

They spend their nights tangled up in each other, tracing words they'll never say out loud on the other's skin, and pretending that they can still get a happy ending.

Barty's paintings get darker and darker, shades of black instead of grey now, with nary a trace of light left. The throne of ashes, left unfinished, sits proudly in the living-room, the first thing any sees when they enter the flat, a dark omen if there ever was any.

Barty's father congratulated him on wanting to join the Ministry the other day, unaware that he was doing so on the Dark Lord's orders, plotting his demise behind his back with the very people his father tries to arrest.

It tastes less like triumph than he'd thought it would.

The war is speeding up but everything feels at a standstill, and Barty's nights are haunted by the sad and knowing face of the icon painting his mother gave him, the face of a mother who couldn't protect her child from his own choices, and this too feels ominous.

It's like they're on the edge of something – it's the calm before the storm, and Barty knows it's too much to hope to be left undamaged by it.

And then… And then Regulus leaves.

["You're never coming home, are you?" Barty asks when he sees his lover's etched with desperate resignation.

"I'll try," Regulus answers, but they both know that it won't be enough, will never be enough.]

And then the Dark Lord dies.

And then Barty gets arrested.

(and then the world crumbles to ashes – or maybe it did long ago?)