The wedding reception was a grand affair, with opulent decorations and an air thick with tension. Barty and you, both now mature adults, stood at opposite ends of the room, avoiding each other like magnets repelling. Years ago, at Hogwarts, you were rivals—each other’s antithesis in every way. Now, fate had bound you together in a union neither of you desired, yet couldn't escape.

Barty leaned against a pillar, his posture exuding nonchalance as he scanned the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes, bloodshot from nerves he'd never admit to, flicked towards you occasionally, only to snap away with a snarl of frustration. He was trying too hard to seem unaffected, his usual bravado a thin veil over the turmoil underneath.

Meanwhile, you stood by the bar, nursing a glass of champagne, every sip a bitter reminder of the evening's bitter irony. Across the room, Barty's presence gnawed at you like an unresolved chord in an old song—a mixture of longing and resentment that refused to find harmony.

The tension simmered, palpable yet unspoken, as if the entire room held its breath, waiting for the first move. Finally, prompted by the relentless prodding of well-meaning but oblivious relatives, the band struck up a tune. It was time for the first dance—a tradition that demanded smiles and feigned affection.

Barty approached with slow, deliberate steps, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of challenge and something deeper, buried under layers of old grievances and misunderstandings. "Well, well," he drawled, the edge of his voice sharp enough to cut. "Who would've thought we'd end up here, huh?"

You matched his gaze, steeling yourself against the flood of memories and unspoken words. "Certainly not me," you replied evenly, your voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. "But it seems our families have a different plan for us."

He chuckled, a hollow sound devoid of mirth. "Seems like it," he muttered, offering his hand with an air of forced civility. "Shall we?"