How Long Will It Take?

“Weep, oh willow weep

Let me hear your song

So that my soul can be filled with joy”

— How long will it take by Jeff Buckley

15^th August, 1979

Feet propped up on the small coffee table he had just brought in to his new room, Barty lounged on the worn-out, single-seated sofa. The sweltering heat of the August sun was seeping through the slightly-tinted windows, and the fan propeller was barely moving, creating a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was staring up at the wooden ceiling, his vision blurred due to the lack of sleep. A handful of hours earlier, he had gotten on a train ride from his house, to the university he had been accepted into, which had taken a total of seven hours— on top of the time he had spent packing the entirety of his wardrobe into a small trunk. His father had yelled at him the night before, complaining about his son’s lack of discipline, and his inability to do something on time. It was expected— his father jumped at any and every opportunity to attack his son, whether it was verbally, emotionally, or sometimes, even physically. Barty’s only answer was a roll of his eyes. Right now, at the given moment, his shoulders ached with fatigue, his eyes hung open tiredly, and his back joints were screaming at him in pain. He was not going to sleep, though. He had a flatmate to meet.

Usually, Barty could not care less about first impressions, or meeting new people— introductory talks bored him, and conversing with strangers wore him out. It was a surprise, even to himself, how he had friends. In his years of high school, he was never much of a follower of rules. He would say he was, somewhat, a ‘rebel’ but he hated that term, so he never used it. He had a desire for mischief, and a brain that flooded his thoughts with rogue ideas. What further kindled the fire, were a group of four people. A dark-skinned, blonde- almost platinum- haired boy, a girl version of him, a brunette with long braids, and a boy with jet-black hair possessing eyes that reminded Barty of the ocean before a storm. It would be a cliche to say, but Barty found a home in them. What he could never find in his careless, unloving father, and an absent mother, he found in four strange teenagers.

Barty had a pressurised childhood. His father had always posed his son as a special being, his outstanding creation, and was looking for something in him that would not mark him as a ‘failure’. He had exposed Barty to multiple things, looking for some sort of unique ‘talent’ in Barty, so he could parade him around, and show him off to his work colleagues about his absolute genius of a son. But, what could a four-year-old do? He wasn’t blessed with some ornate ability, like playing the piano, or solving equations as if he was some grand mathematician. He did not spit out some wise wordings, tellings of a future scholar. He was just Barty, and his father hated that. And, he hated his father for it.

Barty was, and has always been, quite arrogant. Growing up filthy rich, with a father whom he had, ever since he could remember, wanted to prove wrong, he spent majority of his time looking down on others. And, his mind reeled back to the first time he came across one of his now-friends— Dorcas, the one with the long dark braids. It was a day like any other, and fourteen-year old Barty had entered his classroom. His dad had pissed him off in the morning, complaining about the bits of hair he had dyed green a few days ago, and he needed to let the steam off. So, he chose his victim. She was sitting there, at the back of the class, presumably sketching something in her notebook, and the sight of her doing what she wanted to do freely, ticked something off in him, so he approached her. “That’s my seat,” he had said. And, the girl had looked up from her notebook, at him, unimpressed. Her eyes were narrow, slightly tilted upwards, and her irises were dark brown; it reminded him of the milk-chocolate his gardener used to eat each afternoon and offered to Barty, before he slightly cut one of the bushes in their garden unevenly, and got fired.

She gestured towards the vacant seat besides her, motioning for him to sit there, but Barty was a stubborn stuck-up, so he didn’t budge. “You’re still in my seat, y’know?” He insisted.

“Why? Is your name written on it somewhere?” She retorted, and Barty had felt himself heat up due to the embarrassment. It was not supposed to go like this. In the end, though, he just huffed and sat besides her, grumbling slightly to himself, but loud enough so that she could hear, and be annoyed. She turned towards him, and smiled— not a smirk, or the one a person does when they mean to say ‘I win, you lose’— but a smile that crosses one’s face when they’re amused by something someone did, in a good way. And, Barty found himself heating up under her gaze, once again. He was not used to this type of attention, and he didn’t know if he would ever be.

“Dorcas Meadows,” she had said, extending her hand towards him, and Barty stared at it, weighing the Pro’s and Con’s in his head, mentally making a list, wondering if a friend was worth having. The Pro’s had ended up winning, in the end.

“Barty Crouch… junior.” He finished lamely, shaking her hand.

“Junior?” She tilted her head to the side, in question.

“My dad’s Senior.” He responded, giving her a short explanation. But, she seemed to understand, acknowledging it with a small ‘ah’, and nodding slightly.

“I like your hair,” she said, gesturing towards the untidily dyed mess on his head that framed his face, and Barty almost beamed with excitement upon someone complimenting it. He coughed slightly, to make it pass off as if he had been getting compliments left-and-right, and what she had said did not affect him. It was poorly concealed, though, since that amused smile was back on her face.

“I like your hair, too.” He replied, to which Dorcas flashed her slightly crooked teeth, and at that moment, Barty knew that everything would be okay.

Later on, Dorcas had introduced him to Pandora Rosier, a quiet kid with a preference for spirals, and a gap between her front teeth that she showed off every time she smiled. Her twin brother, Evan, had almost immediately clicked with him. It seemed to Barty, that they were cut from the same cloth, and sewn from the same thread. They were attached to the hip, since Evan shared Barty’s partiality for mischief.

The last one he had met was Regulus Black. He was a quiet one, too. But, whereas, Pandora was the type to talk about things she liked once asked, Regulus remained silent throughout. Barty thought he would die without ever hearing his voice. And, it piqued his interest. It made him curious; made his eyes glint with barely concealed excitement, whenever he would ask Regulus a question and receive a glare, with nothing else. It was like he was a vault waiting for its code to be cracked. A treasure clove waiting to be discovered.

And, he found it. Regulus had been extra grumpy one morning, giving everyone nasty glares, and especially to Barty, because if looks could kill, he would’ve dropped dead right there and then. Barty wasn’t thrown off by it, though. He just felt like a cat entranced by a ball of yarn, and he desperately needed to unravel it; to unwind the ball, and see what laid inside. He did what he was best at doing: getting on people’s nerves. He poked the bear, and kept poking it, waiting for the claws to come out, waiting for them to scratch him, to show that something was there, in him. And, he was almost mauled by it, because Regulus got up from his seat, screamed: “I don’t want to talk to you!”, threw a book at Barty’s head (ouch), and stomped outside the classroom. Murmurs had erupted throughout, but Barty didn’t care, he finally got what he wanted, and he counted it as an achievement. Later though, he had apologised to him, on being forced by Pandora, and Regulus had accepted it, although begrudgingly.

It was a win in the end. They were an escape for him; a light towards the end of the ever-dark tunnel, blinding him, calling him, and Barty had sprinted headfirst towards it.

His mind reeled back towards the present, and he rolled his aching shoulders. It was getting late, the purple hues had overcome the blue ones in the sky, he noticed as he looked outside the window, and Barty wondered how much time he had spent lost in his own thoughts. His flatmate still hadn’t showed up, which disappointed Barty through and through, plus ignited some anger in him, since he could’ve been asleep by now, but he wasn’t, on account of meeting this stranger that he was going to spend a year in college with, and seeing what he looked like.

He took his feet off the small coffee table, and got up, stretching his limbs to relieve himself from some of his fatigue. He was tired; he was so tired. All he needed now, was a cold shower, an energy drink, and the softness of his new, unfamiliar mattress that was in his room at the very moment. The thought of laying down on a bed, tempted him to a concerning degree, so he made up his mind about not meeting this stupid flatmate, and instead of sacrificing his very-much-needed sleep, he would rather resign to his own room.

He opened his mouth, yawning loudly, when he heard a small 'click'— the sound of a door opening. Barty turned so quickly in surprise (and excitement), towards the source of the noise, that he ended up staggering a bit, and had to brace himself by the back of the sofa. He looked up at the door of their shared flat opening, and anticipation flooded through his veins. Fucking finally. He was, at last, going to bear the fruit of his patience.

The door swung open, and what walked through was a tall man— a very tall one, actually. He was all legs, and lanky arms. He was wearing a worn-out maroon coloured jumper, with a white shirt, its collar and ends slipping out from underneath it; chestnut-coloured pants, and a tattered pair of brown converse. His skin was honey-brown, Barty noticed as he pulled his gaze upwards, face littered with various scars and freckles. There were eye-bags under the man’s eyes, and he was carrying a small well-used trunk. What an individual. It was an impudent thought, but Barty couldn’t help but wonder how he managed to get in and study in this prestigious university.

The man’s full frame entered the flat, and Barty noted the ragged, wooden cane he had been using. It piqued his curiosity; he had to find out what had happened to the man that resulted in those (cool, and albeit, very sexy) scars, and why he used a cane.

He was beautiful, Barty thought. The type of beauty you would see only when you're walking down some street in a populated city, not knowing where you’re going, catching a glimpse of it, and never coming across it again. It was unique, it was holy; something out of his otherworldly dreams. It pulled Barty towards him, and he wasn’t complaining.

They locked eyes, and Barty felt a thrilling rush course through his veins. The man’s eyes were peculiar. At first glance, they seemed brown, boring— nothing out of the ordinary. But, if you looked closer, and watched intently, you could see the rings of green, and specks of yellow in there, creating a flurry of earthy colours. It reminded Barty of the sky just before the sun set, when the harsh rays created strokes of bright yellow, oranges, and reds, and the clouds littered the horizon in uneven shapes. Barty was enthralled, to say the least.

He blinked, suddenly realising he had been staring at the stranger for a handful of minutes, and that he probably made him uncomfortable. So much for first impressions. He cleared his throat, which had been dry due to reasons Barty was not proud of, and opened his mouth, “Hi, I’m B—“

He barely even had the words out, before the man shoved past him, and made his way to his own room, shutting it close. Barty’s mouth was hung open, stuck in that same syllable, and he was staring at the place where his flatmate had been in, not a minute ago, which was now empty. He was sure at least seven different emotions had passed through his face right now. He raised his eyebrows, then narrowed his eyes, frowning slightly, before grimacing and pressing his mouth in a straight line, then scratched the back of his neck in pure confusion. Pure, unbridled, irrepressible confusion. His thoughts started and ended in a series of long ‘???’, and he was still staring, wide-eyed, at the same spot the man had been in.

What the fuck?

This was an offence; a major offence in Barty’s book, and he was not going to let it go this easy. He had stayed up for long hours, sat on that stupid, small, one-seated, uncomfortable sofa with his aching joints, filled himself with hope and high expectations, just for it to be so easily crushed? Just for Barty to be ignored, and shoved aside? Not on his watch. He was not about to let this slide.

Barty scowled, and made his way to his flatmate’s room, not even bothering to knock before pushing it open, and striding inside. His flatmate, the doll he was, was sitting on his single bed, with his trunk open in front of him on the ground, jumpers and worn-out pants flooding out of it, as if taken out in a frenzy state of mind. Barty could see some records lying around, David Bowie, Queen, The Who, Pink Floyd— Sex Pistols, are you kidding me?— but he ignored the rush of excitement he felt, and focused on the anger for the man who had just ignored him.

The man in question just looked at Barty, unamused, then pulled his gaze away, continuing to unpack his trunk. Barty felt so disrespected— and he had a father who hated him for a living.

He moved further inside, making his way to the area between where his flatmate was sitting on his bed, and where his ragged trunk was flung open on the ground. He leaned forward a bit, staring directly into the man’s eyes, “Hello.”

He met Barty’s eyes, and Barty ignored the way he felt goosebumps crawl up his spine, looking thoroughly indifferent.

“Hi,” he answered, looking at Barty with no emotion, whatsoever. He was a case Barty needed to solve.

“Hm. Pleasure to meet you—“ as far as ‘pleasure’ goes, “—do you know who I am?”

The man slightly rolled his eyes (the audacity), as if exchanging a few words had already put the universe’s weight upon his shoulders. “No,” he replied, looking far more disinterested than Barty would like.

“Would you like to?” Barty asked, not letting the conversation go.

“No.”

Okay, ouch. What an ass.

“What an ass.” Better to speak than to die, am I right?

“Thank you. Can you leave?” No, he couldn’t, actually. He really, really, couldn’t.

“No. What’s your name?” Barty moved from where he was standing, to sit besides the man, on his bed, putting one leg on the mattress and sitting on it, with the other hanging on the side of the bed.

The man eyed Barty up-and-down, and made an expression so similar to disgust upon seeing him sit on his bed, that Barty almost felt bad for doing it to the poor guy.

“Did you not see the sheet of paper they gave you on your first day?” He asked, with the air of an all-knowing, holier-than-thou person, before resuming his task of unpacking the trunk.

Barty huffed, “No, I didn’t. Just answer my question, why don’t you?”

The man side-eyed him. Barty could see the cogs turning in his mind, deciding whether he should just answer him, or not. He sighed, shoulders sagging because of it, and it seemed the former won.

“Remus Lupin.”

What a name.

Barty snickered, which earned him a glare, “Remus, eh? Parents a big fan of folk tales, and mythology?” He joked, and hoped it would annoy the other man to a very high degree.

“A lot of mocking from someone whose name ends with ‘crouch junior’,” Remus mumbled under his breath, which would have been left unheard by anyone else, but Barty had been blessed with super sonic hearing, so he obviously heard what Remus had said, making Barty stretch his grin even wider.

“Are you always this much of an arse?” Barty asked, relaxing his posture a bit.

Remus did not pull his gaze away from the task he was doing, and said, “I don’t know, are you always this annoying?”

“Hey, my last’s better than Lupin, at least.” He replied, swinging his leg that was on the side of the bed. Remus, to his dismay and to no one’s shock, ignored him, concentrating on unravelling the mess on the floor. Barty took this chance to stare at the man, again. He wasn’t getting kicked out, shockingly, so he took whatever crumbs he was offered. Beggars can’t be choosers, right? The sky outside the window was nearly dark, and the light in the room was cascading its brightness upon the man in front of him, creating shapes and shadows on his face. Barty was not blind— he always had a keen eye for art. And, Remus was pure art. He was a statue, sculpted by love and admiration and care, as if he was some fragile thing, and one wrong move could ruin it all. Though, he wondered, nothing could really ruin the kind of beauty the man possessed. The scars added to it; the jagged lines on the top of his nose, stretching from his left cheek to the bottom of his right eye; up his left eyebrow; across the top of his lips, creating a slit; the lines winding their way down his collarbone, and further where the jumper, and the white shirt had concealed it. He had the urge to trace his finger along the lines of the scars, and imprint them to his memory. It was shocking to Barty, how someone could see this beauty, and not immediately surrender themselves to it. He could stare at him all day; from the fluffy crown of tawny curls on his head, to the beautiful freckled skin of his, down to the scruffy pair of shoes he wore. He had just met him, but when Barty saw something worth his admiration, he showered it with all his ferocity.

“Can you not?” Remus spoke sternly, making Barty sit up straighter, snapping him out of his thoughts. Could he not what? Could he not stare at him? Could he not admire him? Could he not be an absolute divine presence to be with? Could he not— “Your leg. Stop swinging it. It’s distracting me.”

Barty flashed him a smile, “Got a preference for legs, do ya?” Don’t blame him. He saw the opportunity to make that type of joke, and he ran with it.

Remus, in return, turned a bright shade of red, and Barty would have thought he was going through some sort of stroke, if the circumstances weren’t what they were right now.

“No, I don’t,” Remus gritted out, his jaw clenched. Barty found it cute. “Get out. Don’t make yourself at home in my room.”

He knew it would come to an end, one way or another, and he was still not done with his arsehole of a flatmate, but Barty grinned nonetheless, “Yessir. Will do— or won’t. Whatever you want.” He got up from Remus’ bed, flashed him a quick wink, and walked out the door, sneaking one last glance behind him before leaving. Remus’ attention was back on his trunk, and Barty felt the sudden urge to walk up to him, slap him on the face, shake him, shout ‘Look at me while I’m leaving!’, turn towards the trunk, kick it, get on his knees, plead to it, asking ‘How do I become you?’ so he would be the sole object to Remus’ scrutinising gaze. He knew it was a little pathetic, but what was Barty if not plaintive? Blame his father for it, just as he blamed everything wrong with himself on him.

Barty closed the door, all the tiredness from the previous, long hours, washing over him at that moment, and he nearly buckled under the weight of it. He forced his legs to move, heavy with fatigue. He was not even in the mood for a cold shower anymore. He just needed sleep. Deep, sweet, comforting, all-of-the-above, sleep.

He opened the door of his own room in their shared flat, the sight of his bed filling Barty with so much relief, he almost cried because of it. Bless sleep. Bless the bed. Bless the mattress. Do not bless Remus. Bless his mind for being tired. Bless everything but Remus. Stupid fucker.

Do not bless Remus.

He pulled the covers of his bed, which he had hastily put on when he arrived early in the morning, down, and got in. He missed Dorcas. He needed to call her first thing tomorrow morning.

As he slipped under the covers, his eyes fell heavy with exhaustion, and it took little-to-no time for him to slide into another dimension, where reality did not exist, and he did not have to pretend to be someone he was not.

Very faintly, in his dreams, he could hear the scratchy sound of a Queen track playing, and envision a mess of golden curls, scars, freckles, and a cane.