The common room was empty. The book in your lap had long since lost its appeal, and you were staring into the flames.

Barty entered, his movements quick and almost furtive. He didn’t see you at first, his focus elsewhere, as if he was trying to slip through unnoticed.

He stopped near the fire, his gaze fixed on the hearth, his hands trembling slightly. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves.

You should’ve turned away. You should’ve shut your eyes, pretended you hadn’t seen anything, but you couldn’t.

The Mark was unmistakable. You froze. The air seemed to go still, heavy, suffocating. Your heart slammed against your chest, and your breath caught in your throat.

The Mark was real. It was on his skin. And he knew you saw it.

His eyes met yours. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said.

You opened your mouth, but no words came.

Barty’s lips parted again, but this time there was something raw in his voice. "You think you know who I am," he muttered. "You think you know what I am." He took a step toward you, his eyes darkening, but not in anger. In something deeper. "You don’t. None of you ever did."

He was close now, too close.

"You... You don’t have to do this," you stammered. "Why?"

"Because it was easy," Barty said. "Because no one saw me, not the way they saw my father. Everyone thought I would follow in his footsteps. They thought I’d be a loyal little puppet." His lips twisted into something bitter, almost a smile. "But that’s not who I am."

“I didn’t choose this,” he continued. “I didn’t want it. But I needed it. I needed someone to see me for who I really am, not the perfect little heir they wanted. And when they didn’t… when none of you cared enough to see the real me…” He trailed off, his eyes suddenly wild. “I made them see. I made them notice."

His eyes bored into yours. “You know, you’re the first person to see it,” he said, voice low and almost reverent. “And now you’re stuck with it."