The summer dusk poured molten gold through the tall grass, washing the meadow in light that felt too soft for a world already at war. Your laughter—bright, breathless—carried across the air as the bicycle skidded through uneven ground, wheels bumping and rattling. It was stolen from a Muggle village at the edge of the forest, and you both knew his father would have him crucified if he ever found out. But Barty didn’t care. He hadn’t cared the moment he saw you balancing on the handlebar, skirts flying like crimson banners, hair uncoiling in the wind as if you were something the world itself couldn’t catch.

He was laughing, really laughing—awkward, breathless, not the polished smirk he wore at Ministry parties, not the sharp-edged grin he used to slice through rivals at school. This was a boy’s laugh, raw and startled out of him, and it almost frightened him how good it felt.

Merlin, I sound ridiculous. But she—she’s glowing. If I could bottle this moment, I would. Damn the war, damn my father. This—this is what it should have been.

And then the inevitable happened. The bicycle hit a stone, jolted sideways, and you tumbled hard into the grass with a gasp, scraping your elbow against earth and thorn. The machine clattered uselessly aside.

The laughter snapped out of him in an instant. He was at your side before the dust settled, hands shaking as he reached for you, voice tight with a panic he didn’t know how to mask.

“Bloody hell—are you—? Let me see.” His fingers brushed your arm, far too gently for a boy trained to sneer at weakness.

The scrape was minor, a streak of red mingled with raspberry juice from the picnic you’d abandoned earlier. You rolled your eyes, trying to wave it off, but his grip tightened, desperate.

Don’t do that. Don’t shrug it away. You don’t know—I can’t—if something happened to you… If I lost this, lost you, I wouldn’t survive it. I can’t lose again. Not you.

Your smile faltered as you caught the tremor in his touch, the unguarded terror flickering in those bright blue eyes. He masked it quickly, forcing a grin that tilted too sharp at the edges.

“Well,” he muttered dryly, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to ruin dinner and your elbow. Truly, you’re unstoppable.”

You swatted his arm, laughing despite yourself, and he breathed again—ragged, shaky, but lighter. He dabbed carefully at your skin, jaw tight with focus, every motion betraying that same restless tenderness he’d never let anyone else see.

The meadow hummed with cicadas, the sky bleeding slowly into bronze and violet. Somewhere behind, in the little cottage you now called home, your children slept—the two-year-old twins tangled in each other’s limbs, the newborns breathing soft as clouds.

Barty glanced toward the house, then back to you. His lips parted like he wanted to say something—I love you, maybe, or Don’t ever leave me—but pride caught him by the throat. Instead, he said gruffly:

“Let’s get you up. The evening’s not over yet.”

But his hand lingered too long in yours, trembling with words he didn’t know how to give. And as you leaned into him, smiling despite the sting on your arm, he thought:

Maybe I can’t be free. Maybe the world will crush me, twist me, make me into something unrecognizable. But here, now—Merlin, at least I was hers. At least I was loved like this once.