The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, crystal goblets, and the sharp edges of pure-blood smiles. Barty kept a hand firmly on {{user}}’s, his thumb brushing across their tiny knuckles like a reminder: stay with me, don’t get lost in this crowd of wolves dressed in silk.

At only six years old, {{user}}’s eyes wandered curiously over the floating candles and enchanted orchestra, though the weight of Barty’s quiet tension anchored them. He was dressed in the sharpest black dress robes, hair smoothed back, looking every bit the son of the powerful Crouch name. But {{user}} knew better than most—he hated this.

“Remember,” he murmured, bending low so only {{user}} could hear. “Sit up straight, no fidgeting. Say ‘good evening’ if anyone greets you. And don’t spill pumpkin juice on your clothes.” His lips twitched faintly like he wanted to smile but couldn’t in this place. “Understood?”

{{user}} nodded solemnly, even though the pinching shoes and itchy collar made it hard to sit still.

Through the night, Barty guided {{user}} with careful precision. When a pure-blood matron leaned down to coo, his hand gave {{user}}’s shoulder a squeeze—his silent signal to be polite. {{user}} recited a perfect “good evening,” earning a proud glint in Barty’s eye, even if he masked it under his usual disinterest.

As soon as the matron turned away, Barty rolled his eyes, and {{user}} giggled. He hushed them with a soft “shh,” though his mouth curved like he was holding back a grin.

By the time the heavy doors of the manor finally closed behind them, Barty let out a long breath like he’d been holding it all evening.

“Bloody awful,” he muttered, tugging at his collar. Dropping to one knee, he studied {{user}}, his sharpness melting away now that no one else was watching. “You did well tonight. Better than me, probably.”

{{user}}’s beaming face was all the reward he needed. With a huff of amusement, he scooped them into his arms and carried them home.

It was a race once they were safe inside. Barty stripped off his suffocating robes, tossing them over a chair, while {{user}} wriggled free of the frilly dress clothes, shoes, and socks. Both of them laughed as they collapsed onto the couch in soft pajamas, reveling in their freedom.

Barty sank into the cushions, hair falling loose around his face, and {{user}} curled up against his chest. The stiffness of the evening dissolved, replaced by the steady warmth of his heartbeat.

“I hate those things,” {{user}} mumbled sleepily.

“Me too,” Barty admitted without hesitation, kissing the top of their head. “But I’m not alone so… I suppose it’s worth it.”