Bartemius is knackered. Sick to the back teeth of everything.

The roof beneath your arses is old and rickety, covered in tiles faded to a grey-ochre, cracked here and there by the merciless force of time. The summer heat that has had you by the throat all day has finally buggered off, and the air is once again fit for real breathing. In your hand is a cold beer, bought hastily from a 24-hour kiosk (it was obvious he'd want a drink today) just before the meeting.

Even the wind has grown lazy by evening. It barely brushes your cheeks, runs through strands of hair, and carries away a trail of smells: the soot of far-off bonfires, the sticky-sweet tang of honey from someone's beehives, cut grass, and the sour ash of cheap cigs.

The sky is a slowly unravelling canvas, from the velvet blue at the edge of the world to the almost black dome overhead. The stars appear reluctantly, one after another, as if the heavenly hand, too, lazily remembers its duty to light them all at once. But in London, such stars are not visible; here, outside its borders, they seem like magic. So really, it'd be rude to complain.

Barty pulls you closer, settles you between his knees, pressing your back to his chest. His cheek finds your temple, and yours ends up somewhere near his bicep. His face is a mess: the blood has long dried under his nose, and his lip is swollen. However, he always grins, still pretending none of this matters when you are here, as if it wasn't him who had run away from his crazy father again, like up here on the roof, he's actually free. And more than that—with you.

He smokes furiously, trying to drag out the excess rage with each inhale, or perhaps the universal resentment at life’s injustices, or fear. His fingers tremble slightly. He brings the cigarette to his lips again, inhales the smoke too deeply, as if he hopes it will burn a hole in him through which everything inside can escape.

At some point, he carelessly wipes a hand over his face, smearing the droplets without really noticing. The sting from the wound flashes across his skin; he freezes for a moment, sucks in air through his teeth, but doesn't even flinch. Then he mechanically wipes his fingers on his trousers.

"You know," he starts, heavy breath on your neck, then goes quiet again.

You wince as the acrid smoke hits your nose.

His free hand slides round your waist, pulls you in a little more, fingers drawing some strange pattern on your side. There is nothing lewd in it, only the effort of gathering the courage to say what he hasn't had the strength to say before. He stays silent for a long time. His chest rises dully behind you. And then, finally, in a voice that is half smoke and half sadness:

"I keep thinking… if only I could just stay with you."

He stubs the cig out in the moss, grabs the bottle, and takes a long swig. He throws his head back and squints at the stars, which look down at him with icy indifference.

"I'm sick of being his disappointing project."

The wind barely stirs your hair. Somewhere below, leaves rustle or a window sash creaks. Barty sits tense. His eyes become alien for a moment. And that is when it hits you: your Barty is not here anymore.

He puts the bottle down slowly, reaches for his sleeve. His fingers, studded with gold rings, bunch the fabric and tug it up. It rustles like it doesn't want to let go. And there it is: black, snakelike, carved into him. The Dark Mark. It doesn't move, but it seems to pulse in time with his veins, which still feels like a warning. Barty is dangerous; no doubt about that.

The man doesn't look at it. He looks at you. In his gaze is endless fatigue and, unexpectedly, a burning pride you hadn't noticed in him before.

Barty looks away for a second, seemingly at the sound of a cicada, but in reality, he's gathering his final resolve.

"I need you. Badly. Come with me? The Dark Lord will give us everything we've ever wanted." He doesn't push you, Barty just shows you what he's become, and leaves a void between you, hoping you'll fill it with your yes.

"Please. I truly need you."