Dawn barely filters through the frost-rimmed windows, casting the flat in wan, shivering light. You wake alone, cold already curling in your stomach, and when you stumble into the sitting room you find Barty by the door—half in shadow, half ready to vanish. His travel cloak hangs loose on his shoulders, and his wand is clenched, white-knuckled, in his fist.

He doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw is set, eyes fixed on the letter crumpled in his hand—an order, a warning, or perhaps the last thread of a future he can no longer grasp. You see the truth in his posture, the rigid line of his back: the world has finally caught up to him. The war, the lies, the mark burned beneath his sleeve—choices once made in reckless defiance now sealing the doors behind him.

You reach for him, desperate, voice trembling. “Don’t go. Not like this. Please—”

He turns then, and you see him clearly: eyes shining with a grief that’s all the sharper for how hard he tries to hide it. “They know, love. They’re coming. There’s nothing I can do to stop it—not anymore. If I stay, you’ll pay for my mistakes.”

Tears sting your eyes; he brushes them away with a trembling hand. “Barty, don’t—”

His mouth finds yours, urgent and raw, a goodbye pressed into your bones. “If I could rewrite it—if there was any way to stay—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I’d choose you, every time.”

Boots thunder on the stairwell outside. Barty pulls away, pain written in every movement, voice tight as a curse. “Remember me for the love, not the war. I never wanted to be a monster, not to you.”

He slips out before you can answer, the echo of the closing door ringing like the end of a spell—leaving you alone with the memory of the only goodbye he could give.