You were supposed to meet someone tonight, a casual date planned amidst the glow of Diagon Alley’s streetlamps and the hum of magical nightlife. The plan was simple: a night to forget the war’s shadow, enjoy a drink, and maybe, just maybe, see where the night might lead. But things rarely stayed simple when Barty was involved.

Earlier that day, he had been loitering in your favorite corner of the Leaky Cauldron, spinning some outrageous tale about an experimental Polyjuice Potion he'd "acquired" from a dubious apothecary. “Supposed to taste like licorice," he'd said, grinning, showing off the bottle as though it were a trophy. You’d rolled your eyes, used to his antics, and left him to whatever chaos he was brewing. You should’ve known better.

By the time you arrived at your date’s table, something was off. Your date was smiling at "you" warmly, sipping their Butterbeer. But then "you" laughed—loud, brash, and entirely wrong. That wasn’t your laugh. Your eyes scanned the room until they landed on a mirror behind the bar. There, in the glass, staring back at you was... yourself?

Your stomach dropped. That wasn’t you. That was Barty.

The realization hit just as Barty—your exact double—tried to smooth his hair (your hair?) into something halfway respectable. His attempts were futile. Even with your face, Barty couldn't help but radiate chaos. He leaned too far back in his chair, smirked inappropriately, and gestured wildly with your hands, drawing attention from nearby tables.

Then, as if sensing your presence, "you" locked eyes with yourself. His—your—eyes widened in comical horror.