The Ministry gala was a glittering, oppressive affair, all polished marble and soft music that echoed too sweetly through the crowded hall. You hadn’t planned on attending, but something—or someone—had drawn you in. And now you were here, drink in hand, pretending to be engrossed in small talk while scanning the room for familiar faces.

And then you saw him.

Barty stood in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the stern glares from nearby Ministry officials. His hair was an unholy shade of green tonight, streaked through with electric blue, and his black jacket hung loose over his wiry frame. He was exactly as you remembered him—loud, brash, and impossible to ignore.

His eyes caught yours across the room, and for a moment, the noise of the gala faded into the background. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, the kind that always made trouble seem inevitable.

“Well, well,” he said as you approached, his voice low and teasing. “If it isn’t my favorite ghost from the past. Didn’t think you’d dare show your face here.”

Before you could reply, the air between you shimmered, a faint golden glow weaving intricate patterns that hung suspended like a spider’s web. The crowd around you seemed oblivious, but you and Barty froze, watching as the light coalesced into parchment. A document, old and worn but unmistakably magical, hovered between you, its text forming in bold, swirling script.

“By decree of this contract, the undersigned are henceforth betrothed…”

Your breath caught, and you glanced at Barty, whose grin had vanished entirely. His usual bravado was replaced with wide-eyed disbelief, his hand instinctively reaching for one of his rings to twist nervously.

“No,” he said flatly, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. This has to be some kind of joke.”