#look. I get seeing a take so heinous you wish you could spit acid. I get it. I GET IT. I. GET. IT. I GET SPITE. I GET IRE.

[imwritesometimes]

this website sure seems to be full of people telling other people to kill themselves for a place that also likes to masquerade as a place of accepting, destigmatizing, and learning about mental health and taking it seriously ✌️

[darkouter]

anyways here’s the 11 page 1.5 spacing “short drabble” i wrote for barty and remus in grimmauld place.  who knows what possessed me to do this to myself.  write a short drabble, i said.  it will be quick, i said.  it will be fun, i said.  you know.  like a liar.

cw:  emetophobia, blood, mentions of violence

     Number 12, Grimmauld Place had been fairly peaceful that day.  The Order of the Phoenix members who normally kept the place with a constant level of liveliness were busy, leaving only a few behind.  For the most part, it was quiet.  That is, until a certain Bartemius Crouch Jr. bustles into the home.

     He doesn’t normally show his face here.  No one wants him in the Black home; there is very seldom welcome in the face of his arrival.  It has been years, decades, since he has felt warmth in that home.  The only person that could have provided this for him has long been gone.  The only echo of this past is found in the face that greets him at the doorway. Regulus’ loyal house elf, Kreacher, is a ghost of Barty’s best friend’s presence.  They have a certain respect for each other, though it’s almost entirely based around their bonds to Regulus.

     Kreacher can’t help but take notice of Barty’s manner of entrance.  It’s abrupt, hasty, and the man appears absolutely sickly.  His freckles contrast more against his skin than ever, given how pale he is when he looks at the house elf with wide eyes.  He seems taken aback to be greeted, and he falters with hand pressed against the wall, leaning on it for support.  Out of breath, it takes a moment for him to think.

     “Master Barty?” Kreacher asks with a tentative and hoarse voice.  Despite his drooping and sagging skin in his old age, he manages to convey some sense of confusion and concern in the face of Barty’s interruption.

     At first, Barty can only stutter a syllable or two.  He gathers himself.  “Kreacher, is there.”  Stare. His mouth moves silently as he tries to organize his thoughts.  “Bathroom. Please.”  He only receives a pointed finger in response from the house elf. Barty offers a simple nod before rushing down the hall.  There are following words from Kreacher, directions, but he doesn’t quite register them. With each step further into the home, he begins to recollect the layout.  Barty rarely wanders this deep into Grimmauld Place.  He finds himself surprised when he correctly remembers the placement of the bathroom.

     Stumbling in, he wonders how he managed to get this far.  His fingers tremble so badly that he struggles to lock the door. Sweating, he can feel the acrid taste of nausea biting at his mouth.  He’s so dizzy.  He nearly falls over on his way to the toilet, dropping hard on his knees, and retching.  It’s bile and nothing else.  When did he last eat?  Maybe it’s a blessing that he hasn’t.  Despite the empty stomach, he heaves for far too long, as his sickened state hasn’t been caused by anything physical at all.  

     It’s strange how emotions alone can push someone past queasiness.  Anxiety has always made him suffer, but this is something else.  It isn’t completely unfamiliar to him.  The last time this happened, he was hit by this feeling with such sudden force that he hadn’t had the control he’s shown now.  Perhaps it was because, back then, he had maintained his external calm for a heinous amount of time.

     How can someone hold onto repose like that after killing their own father?

     Shock, perhaps.  Necessity, perhaps.  Insanity? Certainly, he has gone mad, though he can’t pinpoint when.  So much has happened.  Yet, there were eleven years of stagnancy; it has clearly affected him, nonetheless.  With his father, he used his hands.  There were years of reason to justify his actions. Anger, a grudge, and the abuse to reinforce it.  What of this?

     This isn’t the same.  His rage is fresh and raw and insatiable.  With his father, it was embers stoked and consistently fed over years, but this is a roaring flash fire fueled by gasoline.  He has burned himself too, manifesting in reality by way of action and its consequences; his mottled skin on his arm now greyed, necrotic, and scarred from attempts to remove the dark mark is just one example.  Then there is now, overtaken by tears and an acidic taste coating his teeth. He attempts to spit it away, but it clings to him, just a reminder that he’s dirty.  Dirty.  Barty yanks the chain to flush it all away.  Falling back, he slumps against the wall, breathing heavily.  What possessed him to come here and soil those childhood memories?  To drag his rot through a house that no longer held such foul residents?  They don’t deserve this contamination.  This thought screams louder in his head when he looks down at his feet, seeing red.

     Horror strikes his face.  There must be blood in his wake, trailing down the hall from his bootsteps.  He, quite literally, has tainted this place. Nothing fills him. Hollowness.  He feels blank.  Jarringly, he then feels punched with the full amount of what he has done, and he bursts into sobbing.  His back presses into the wall behind him, feet pushing himself into it, and he curls inward, hoping that he might wither from his wild state into nonexistence.  His hands grab at his hair, pulling, and maybe he can tear himself apart.  To stop.  Stop himself.  Stop everything.

     The man was unknown to him.  And if Barty would have recognized him by looking harder, it would be impossible now. Killing death eaters is no longer new to him.  He casts curses with hisses through his fangs, like a feral dog trying to bite anyone he can. Barty is all claws and gnashing teeth and frothing mouth.  That is, except now, when he stares at the floor where he has tracked blood in. Then, he becomes what howls and cries and tries to pull out its own teeth because it’s scared of itself.  Something that wishes it wasn’t rabid.  Something that wishes he hadn’t stomped.

     And stomped.  And stomped. And stomped.

     Its face was mangled when he left it.  The body’s, that is.  Barty thinks: it, it, it. He doesn’t want it to be a he.  He doesn’t want to think that it was ever a person, but that it was always a body, because that feels easier.  But that person screamed and fought because it was not an it, it was a he.

     When Barty can breathe again, when new tears cease to flow, he does not know how long he has been hiding away in that bathroom.  He feels exhausted.  His limbs are heavy.  His head aches.  Barty knows that his eyes must be red and his face puffy.  It takes more time before he gathers himself out of his pile on the floor, pulling himself back into a person.  At the mirror, he washes his face.  Rinses his mouth, then his hair too.  Wonders if he can clean everything about himself.  Remembering, he pulls out his wand, and he removes what he has dirtied across the floor.  Remnants on his shoes.  He thinks that it won’t ever really be gone, will it?  History sticks to his feet.

     Not knowing what to do, he stands for some time.  He lingers in this place that feels liminal; he’s scared to leave it. Instead, he puts it off longer, searching for a towel to dry his face and hair.  He reasons with himself that he can’t leave until there’s no sign of redness to indicate his breakdown.  Following this logic, he stays, feeling like he’s doing no more than floating.  Given the vomiting and weeping and subsequent blankness while standing around, it’s impossible for him to estimate how long he has been here.  Evidently, enough time for someone to feel it necessary to knock at the door.  The sound brings him back to his body, grounding him, and there’s a long moment where he wonders whether to answer at all. Which is silly; of course, he must.

     “Barty?”  He recognizes the voice to be Remus Lupin’s.  “Kreacher told me you were here.”

     Silence.  Barty trudges to the door, taking a deep breath.  Exhales.  It’s tentative, but he slowly opens the door.  He peers out, feeling shy and awkward and disgusting.  It must show because Remus seems taken aback.  Barty would not have appeared too healthy regardless of his current circumstances; lack of much eating or sleeping for the past week (or more?) has taken its toll.  He has always worn sleeplessness under his eyes and rarely stayed nourished when under his own control, but it has simply worsened.

     Remus hesitates.  He can’t say he has felt more sympathy than resentment for Barty, but the shock of Barty’s state before him seems to have rattled his usual stance.  “Can I get you something?”

     Then it’s Barty’s turn to hesitate.  He doesn’t like asking for things.  Doesn’t like to overstay his welcome, which really means that he should never set his foot in the door.  But he feels so dizzy and out of place that he cannot reasonably leave right now. Thinking of it, he wonders if he can walk very far at all because standing alone has made him feel faint.  “I.”  His eyes fall to Remus’ feet.  Those are clean.  Curious, his eyes flicker down the hall.  There doesn’t seem to be anything left behind.  “Could I.  Get a glass of water.”  He gazes back up at Remus. “If that’s okay.”

     It’s off-putting.  Remus is fully aware of Barty’s displeasure in remaining here.  Given what he believes has been a long stay in the bathroom for Barty and the red eyes, he has many questions.  He doesn’t ask.  Instead, he nods politely.  Barty has always earned that much from him, though entirely due to Dumbledore’s word. “Yes.  You can, yes.  Come along.”

     Barty emerges from his place of safety, wary of his surroundings as Remus leads him to the kitchen.  He’s possibly more upset when Order members show him kindness than when they do not. Remus has always afforded him that luxury, somehow.  Very shallow, yes, but Remus does not glare at him with contempt the way others do. Barty does not hear venom in Remus’ tone.  That seems terribly nice from Barty’s perspective.  He knows Remus must be so much more close to Harry than most people that walk through these halls.

     It’s all a daze, but Barty finds himself leaning against a counter as he hears glass clatter.  Water running.  Out of focus, it takes Remus calling Barty? for him to recognize that a cup is being offered to him.  He takes it gently, and he utters a confused, quiet, and too meek thank you in his usual flavor of gratitude within this house.  They are quiet.  This is the extent of the kindness, Barty thinks as he drinks.  The reality is that Remus is mostly just inspecting him.  Remus doesn’t quite understand what he is taking witness to right now.

     It’s a loud crack that yanks them from their stillness.  Noisy running greets their ears along with a shrill voice.  “Master Barty!  Master Barty!”  Barty stiffens, standing upright, and he feels his jaw clench as he stares wide eyed toward the kitchen entrance.  He sets his water aside as his house elf bounds into the room, much the way he himself entered Grimmauld place earlier.  “Winky is here!  Winky is here for Master Barty!”

     Upon seeing her, he immediately falls to his knees.  He nearly plummets to the ground entirely in his weakness, stopping himself with a palm on the ground, and his other arm opens wide.  As soon as she’s near, he grabs her in a hug. “Winky.  What are you doing here?”

     “Kreacher told Winky about Master Barty!  Winky is worried, so she is coming to Master Barty to make sure he is okay!”  It’s now that, looking over her shoulder, Barty sees Kreacher trailing into the kitchen. Only now does Barty realize that it must have been Kreacher who cleaned the floors of Barty’s terrible mistake. He simply hugs her tight, thankful to have her, though it must make him look worse to Remus, that Kreacher felt the need to summon Winky.  It certainly has the other man curious, as Remus regards Barty with a puzzled expression. It makes little sense to him how Barty has always treated Kreacher so respectfully, and seeing Barty show such warmth toward his house elf only serves to further bewilder.  “Master Barty, you is awful looking!  Winky will make you dinner.  Master Barty needs to eat! You is never eating, you has never eaten enough, and Winky is filled with worry for Master Barty always!”

     Barty simply shakes his head, and his eyes shortly flick toward Remus before focusing on Winky while he pulls away from the hug.  “N- no, Winky, I am fine.  This is not — we are not home right now,” he mumbles.

     “Master Barty will eat in the Black home.  Master Regulus would want Master Barty to eat,” Kreacher reasons.  

     Remus continues to watch, befuddled by the house elves’ insistence on taking care of this man, once a death eater.  Yes, house elves might remain loyal to their families regardless of how they are viewed by their masters, but these two aren’t really bound to Barty by any means. Kreacher never has been.  He hasn’t complained about Barty’s traitorous intentions toward pureblood kind.  Winky has been released from Barty’s care since Barty Crouch Sr. died, and this is not to mention that the man now down on his knees hugging her was the one to murder the Crouch home’s last head of house.  She showed beyond no ill-will, but a true desire to take care of Barty despite his betrayal.

     “I am not your master, Kreacher.”  Barty sighs. “You must not call me that.”  Making a scene is the last thing that he wants. Still, Kreacher hobbles over to them, looking quite stubborn with his chronic hunch and crossed arms.  Winky appears just as determined.  It seems that she never will be able to stop being his caretaker, as she has been for almost his entire life.

     “The kitchen is mostly under Molly’s supervision,” Remus notes.  He is not looking at Barty, but over to the entrance. Barty only then realizes that they have gathered an audience of one, with Mrs. Weasley eyeing them with an equally bemused stare.  Her brows are furrowed, as she has never quite been able to hide her dislike, choosing what one might call aggressive passive-aggression.  She stares at him hard.

     Having weighed her decision carefully, it seems he has made claim to some amount of sympathy from her.  Barty is completely certain that he must be in pathetic condition when she announces it. “You can have dinner here.  Be sure to eat at the dining room table.” After the curt acceptance, she abruptly turns and leaves.

     It’s a bit late, but Barty sputters a “thank you.”

     From the other room, he hears:  “You’re welcome, dear.”

     Molly Weasley terrifies him more than anyone else here, he thinks.

     Given the permission, the house elves begin zooming around the kitchen.  “Kreacher will make tea for Barty.  The werewolf can take Barty to the dining room.”

     Remus seems to go rigid.  His secret, once again, is taken from him.  He shouldn’t be surprised by now, but it particularly goes down sour to have it announced to Barty.  Worse yet is the dumb-founded look spread across his face.  Remus’ arms cross, feeling defensive.  Barty composes himself.

     “Kreacher, that is.”  He reaches upward, rubbing his forehead.  He still has a headache.  “Well beyond rude.  You shouldn’t say things like that.”

     “Kreacher thought that Barty was not his master,” replies the house elf haughtily.

     Barty furrows his brows, now pushing himself up with hands on his knees. “I doubt Regulus would care for you to conduct yourself with such ill-form.  Remus is, after all, a guest in the Black home.  You reflect poorly upon them.”

     The house elf doesn’t spare him a glance.  “That is up for Kreacher to decide.”

     Now standing, Barty sighs.  The most he can do is offer Remus an apologetic expression.  What he receives back is a perturbed face.  It manages to soften.  “You tried,” Remus acknowledges, and he beckons Barty to follow him to the dining room.

     While most of the home was still in disrepair, much less grand than when Barty was a boy, the kitchen and dining room are far more presentable.  He supposes this must be due to Molly’s frequent use of the kitchen and the dining room serving as a place of conference for the Order.  It no longer feels as intimidating to him as when he was a boy.  He and Regulus were so small.  Remus gestures to the long table for him to sit, and Barty does with a nod in thanks.  Then exiting, Barty is alone.

     It’s hard to sit in this place.  The nostalgia isn’t pleasant like most would feel when encountering a place with fond memories.  It’s painful. Oppressive, even.  It only makes him think of what he misses.  Nothing was ever perfect for him, but coming to the Black family house was a reprieve from a hostile home life.  Two boys horsing around.  He remembers hiding under this table when playing hide and seek.  Regulus grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him out as they screamed with laughter.  Now this place contains meetings with the goal of stopping people like who they became.  Barty wonders if Regulus would feel just as out of place as Barty does now.  Then again, Barty always feels like Regulus had a sense of self that he never had or ever will have.  Confidence.  Enough to emotionally reclaim what was his.  He likely could have walked right in without this anxiety.  Barty wishes he would.  Wishes Regulus would run in, grab him by the arm, and lead him to his room, and he would show Barty all of his obnoxious knick-knacks, and Barty would be delighted.  Yes, Barty wishes that.  He has wanted to see that room ever since he first revisited Grimmauld Place, but he never dared.  He isn’t sure he ever will find it in him to.  Even if someone invites him.

     For the umpteenth time that night, he finds himself being dragged back to reality. This time it’s with the arrival of Winky and Kreacher with his promised meal.  It’s vaguely upsetting to see them serve him, though there is something comforting about it.  While Kreacher chooses to leave, Barty requests Winky stay, and she sits in his lap with one of his arms wrapped around her.  This is another depressing form of nostalgia, as the last time he had the pleasure of dining with her like this was while he lived in the Crouch mansion, enslaved by the Imperius curse.  It still brings him happiness to have her here.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.  He misses her dearly.

     They still don’t get it, Remus and Molly.  Unable to simply leave Barty be, they peer into the dining room periodically before stepping aside to talk about it.  Stranger and stranger he seems to them.  “Do you think he’s really so fond of her?” Molly asks after a suspicious peek at the guest.

     “I don’t know.”  Remus keeps his gaze pointed towards his hands, rubbing a thumb against his palm. It’s all interesting.  “You know, I never could understand how he became a death eater.  I knew him while at Hogwarts.  We were both prefects, so he would come to me sometimes.”  He chuckles with slight disbelief.  “He was… Talkative.  He always said he didn’t like death eaters, and a few of the kids he ran around with were muggleborn.  It never added up to me.”

     “I didn’t know him, but the way Minerva described him when they caught him — he sounded evil.”  She never asked Harry about that night since, though she desperately wanted to know more. Dumbledore warned them all about talking to him about it.  “Absolutely vile.  Mad. But we’re supposed to accept him now? I just don’t understand it.”

     Remus nods.  “I never saw him like that; haven’t seen him at all since school.  I almost didn’t believe he could be a death eater, and I still wasn’t entirely sure after the trial.  But after Lily and James…  Well, anything seemed possible.”  His face fell, incapable of not becoming somber at the memory of the Potters and Sirius and Peter.  That night made it so hard for him to trust anyone again.  “But that man in there seems more like the boy I knew than anything anyone has said about who he is supposed to be now.  Dumbledore knows something we don’t.”

     “I wish he would explain more.”  And that, they could both agree on.

��    Remus took it upon himself to try and understand.  Curiosity had won against his reservations about Barty, so he grabbed himself a cup of tea before entering the dining room.  He finds it less reasonable to hold onto his anger after Harry expressed to him that he found Barty to be pitiful and disappointing rather than someone to be hated.  Perhaps Dumbledore had explained to Harry why this man started visiting them. Remus doesn’t exactly know if Harry forgave Barty, though either way wouldn’t surprise him.  Harry has gone through so much because of this man, but the boy has always been so full of a desire to seek out the goodness in people. He isn’t unlike Dumbledore in that respect, Remus thinks.  Whether Barty deserves that kindness has yet to be seen.

     Barty never expected the company, so his eyes widen from his corner at the very end of the table.  Winky, too, blinks her large eyes at Remus as he sits down across from Barty.  A pause falls between them as Barty expects Remus to make some comment.  When he doesn’t, Barty becomes quite sheepish, and he returns to his soup so that he isn’t expected to fill the silence either.  The only sounds between them are the soft clacks of silverware and sipping.

     Finally, unable to remain silent, Barty speaks:  “I — well.  Thank you. For both of you.”  He paws at his soup with his spoon.  “Letting me be here, that is.”  If Sirius had been the one to find him, he certainly would not be sitting at this table.

     “Why did you do it?”

     Barty’s eyes raise from his food, astonished by the question.  It seems so abrupt from Remus, of all people.  The accompanying intense stare, also unusual, only exacerbates this feeling.  It takes him a moment to entirely wrap his head around what Remus is asking.  It’s such an all-encompassing thing to inquire; there’s too much to be said, and he isn’t sure what Remus wants to hear. Barty’s eyebrows knit together.  “That is…  Rather complex.  There is a lot to say.”

     “I have the time,” Remus encourages.

     It isn’t that Barty doesn’t want to explain.  In fact, he yearns for it.  He wants people to understand.  Maybe they will still hate him by the end of his story, but he just wants them to listen. However, he hasn’t even begun, and it feels like it may end up too overwhelming to repeat it in its entirety the same way he did to Dumbledore.  Barty’s eyes fall on Winky.  He isn’t sure either that he could start with her in the room.  “Winky.  Do you think you could check on Kreacher?  See if he needs help with anything.”

     He and Remus know fully well that Kreacher isn’t doing any work anyways. Perhaps Winky around might facilitate some change in that area.  Barty just wants her to go for now.  She seems crestfallen at the request, but she slides off his lap.  “Winky does what Master Barty asks.”  As she walks away, Barty takes the chance to try and finish his soup to fill in the time before she exits.

     Then setting it down, he sighs at the bowl, fingertips tapping away at it. What to say.  Where to begin.  “How much do you want to know?”

     Remus considers.  “Everything,” he decides.

     The expression Barty gives him betrays that he feared Remus would say that. “Alright.  It just.  I do not know how long it will take to tell you.”

     Remus nods, now also looking down at Barty’s bowl.  “If not tonight, you can finish tomorrow night.  Or whenever you next have a chance.”  Barty tilts his head at Remus.  Remus continues, “Something tells me you could do with more meals here.”

     Barty’s stare is long.  Bewildered, to say the least.  He never expected the offer.  Frankly, it doesn’t make sense to him.  Doesn’t seem reasonable.  There isn’t a reason to want Barty here, want his explanations.  Even from Dumbledore, he can’t understand the kindness he was given by being able to share, nor the later acceptance.  To think Remus would give him the same privilege is an alien concept. But he nods.

     “If you wouldn’t mind,” Remus adds.

     “Yes.  Of course, yes.  I can tell you everything.”