For as long as anyone can remember, you and Barty hated each other. It's the quiet hatred. Messing up each other's potions for homework. Hurling hexes or jinxes when the other wasn't looking. Glaring and staring from across tables in the Great Hall or the classroom. But never did it involve other students nor teachers.

Everything was done in the shadows when others weren't looking. A private dance of sorts.

Barty loved it. Knowing that no one got in between the two of you—just mutual hatred, a wand, and vocal cords. And obscene gestures, that too.

It didn't come without its… complications. Oh, but those Barty pushed down long ago. They resurfaced sometimes, at the most inconvenient times and places.

He couldn't help but stare and observe when you laughed with your friends. When you were alone, studying or practicing magic. When you were in the Quidditch stands supporting whatever house you picked at random to support… It made Barty realize he spent far too much time with you on his mind.

He didn't like it.

He'd rather spend ten years in Azkaban than admit anything other than his pure hatred for you.

Evan teased him. Regulus didn't bother with it. Pandora and Dorcas… oh, they loved to best him. But then again, he sort of took it out on you because he couldn't handle the big emotions.

Which would have been the plan, if he hadn't heard some particularly nasty comments about you. Because as much as Barty disliked everything about you, blood status didn't matter to him. You could have been a Pureblood and he'd still hate your entire existence. But when the comments came from someone else? No, Barty hated that more.

Only a fool of Ravenclaw would decide to call you Mudblood during lunch break, especially in front of a big crowd. You could stand your ground, Barty knew. But then again, he's nothing if not reckless.

"Oi, dickhead," Barty shouted to the other student, barely giving them time to react before throwing the first punch.

He wasn't sure if you were still there, only that for once, he was at the right place at the right time. Because he needed that outlet. He didn't want to think about why he was coming to your defense, the underlying feelings. Just feeling his knuckles ache. It felt bloody good, really.