Barty sat halfway down the slope by the lake, tucked behind the crooked trunk of a beech tree where the castle windows couldn’t easily see him. From here the sounds of class were distant and dull, swallowed by stone walls and the wind moving through the grass. It made the world feel quieter, simpler—like the castle and everything inside it had nothing to do with him.

He lit his cigarette slowly, shielding the flame with his hand. The tip glowed and he pulled the smoke into his lungs, letting the burn settle deep in his chest before exhaling toward the lake. The water looked dark today, rippling restlessly under the grey sky.

His knee bounced against the grass without him noticing. It had been one of those mornings again—his mind racing too fast, thoughts colliding until sitting quietly in a classroom felt impossible. The professor’s voice had turned into nothing but meaningless noise.

So Barty had left before he snapped at someone.

Of course, being alone didn’t mean his thoughts stayed quiet. They never did. They always drifted back to the same person, circling the same problem he had never managed to solve.

Evan Rosier.

Barty stared down at the cigarette between his fingers, rolling it slowly while ash gathered at the tip. It had been years now and the feeling still hadn’t gone away. If anything it had rooted itself deeper, something permanent lodged under his ribs. Not a stupid crush like the ones people whispered about in corridors.

Something worse.

An obsession.

And the worst part was that Evan knew. Barty had seen it in the way Evan sometimes looked at him—steady, sharp, like he understood exactly what lived in Barty’s head. Like he felt it too. Which was exactly why Barty kept the line where it was.

Friends. Best friends.

Anything more would only rot eventually. Barty knew himself well enough to be certain of that. The anger in him came too easily, the moods swung too violently, and somewhere along the way he’d learned a simple truth: people like him ruined things. Evan deserved better than being dragged into whatever broken mess Barty had been born as.

Footsteps rustled through the grass behind him, cutting through the quiet. Barty turned lazily, expecting a prefect or some self-righteous Gryffindor ready to drag him back to class.

Instead he stilled for half a second.

Evan Rosier was walking down the slope toward him, and even from a distance he looked unfairly striking. His skin held a darker, sun-warmed tone against the pale sky, light blonde curls messy from the wind. Freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, and his gaze caught the light strangely—one eye a clear blue, the other deep brown.

Evan had the look of trouble, sure, but the quiet, mysterious kind that people leaned toward without thinking. Nothing like Barty’s own sharp-edged, half-unhinged aesthetic that practically warned people away.

Barty leaned back against the tree, lifting the cigarette to his lips as a crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Look who it is,” he called lazily. “Skipping class too, Rose?”