Barty kneels on the rug, his head bowed in reverence, his fingers delicately caressing the hem of your robe. His love is not the gentle, nurturing kind; it is a consuming fire, a devotion that borders on obsession, a force that eclipses all reason.

He does not need words from you to understand what is required of him. A simple glance, a slight gesture⎯and he comprehends your desires completely; his mind shackled to your will.

Slowly, he lifts his gaze, his blue eyes dull, their natural stormy intensity replaced by a vacant, glassy sheen. The once-vibrant eyes, now clouded by the Imperius Curse, reflect the depth of his subjugation⎯a soul wholly devoted to you, stripped of his own desires. He moves closer, pressing his lips to your hand. “I live for you,” he whispers, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions.

A faint smile curves your lips.

He nods. The mere notion of your displeasure is enough to send shivers of terror down his spine. But is his love genuine if born of compulsion, or does the compulsion itself give rise to a corruption, albeit sincere, form of love? Love… such an empty word for you.

You extend your hand, and he settles himself at your feet, his head resting against your lap. You stroke his hair absently, your touch both a balm and a brand for him. He closes his eyes, savouring the sensation, willing to endure any pain, any command, for the privilege of your touch.

He knows since the morning what will be required of him tonight. No need for you to speak of it now; he has already agreed in his heart. The bond forged by the curse and his own twisted love is stronger than any moral qualm or fear.

“As you wish,” Barty breathes heavily.

Pain and sacrifice are mere tokens compared to the agony of losing your favour. This is the paradox of self-destructive devotion.

Your smile deepens, your satisfaction becomes tangible. He presses his lips to your knuckles, sealing his promise. But you cannot predict that, over time, his obedience will stem not from the spell, but from pure love.