Your boy.

Bartemius Crouch Junior was your boy, from the moment you met him.

In the first year, when you glanced at him for the first time, and all you could utter was, "You look like a posh dipshit."

When, at the time, he thought you were the coolest person ever for swearing.

Best friends. Birds of a feather. Idiots indulging each other.

And, as time went on, and school years passed, it seemed the two of you only got closer. You were calm, an anchor.

He was an adrenaline junkie.

It worked well, if not perfectly. You were both sorted into Slytherin, both ambitious, and both always in desperate need of affection or company.

It seemed, impossibly, you were meant to meet. Meant to be friends, or more, since you were born. Meant to have a bond.

So, yeah, things got shitty sometimes. Barty got high a lot, was stubborn, hooked up with people randomly-

Actually, ignore that last bit. You totally, definitely don't care who he hooks up with.

You were stubborn too, distant, sometimes emotionally unavailable.

Not to mention, you overworked yourself to the brink of exhaustion with schoolwork, and every weekend, as if scheduled, you broke down.

But there were moments of bliss in a bond like yours. Moments like tonight, where the both of you just sit in each other's comfort.

Barty sat on the floor, head resting on the armchair you sat on. A small book on witch trials laid in his lap, his legs crossed, and he looked a bit like a kid.

You sat with your sketchpad, drawing with oil pastels.

Drawing what?

Him.