Barty watched you with a narrowed gaze, arms folded, as you unscrewed the small plastic jar like it held state secrets.

“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, voice wrapped in dry suspicion, “that Muggles willingly smear this sludge on their faces for beauty.” His lip curled just slightly, like the idea had personally offended him. “Looks like someone melted a boggart.”

You giggled. That sound—you weaponized it. It made his chest twitch in ways he didn’t approve of. He blinked once. Hard. As if that would snap him back into his preferred baseline of annoyed curiosity. You were already dipping your fingers in, eyes sparkling like you’d brewed a love potion and were daring him to sip.

“I’m not putting that on my face. I hex people for less.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Soft and devious. The kind of affection that tasted like mischief and heat and home. He gritted his teeth, jaw tight.

“This is emotional warfare,” he muttered, watching your lips press once more against the sharp line of his cheekbone.

And then—he relented.

He sat back, arms slack at his sides, like some haughty creature enduring worship. “Fine. Go on. Make me apart of one of your tragic Muggle rituals.”

The mask was cold. Slimy. Ridiculous. He could feel it seeping into his skin like an insult. “This feels like betrayal,” he murmured, frowning hard enough to crease his forehead beneath the slick layer. “If Regulus walks in right now, I’m vanishing both of us and changing identities.”

Still, he let you do it. Let you rub circles into his skin like you were sketching runes into him. He even closed his eyes when you told him to—though not without a final muttered, “If this turns me into a Hufflepuff, I swear—”

When it dried, tight and cracking slightly at the edges, you shoved him toward the mirror.

Barty blinked. Tilted his head. Raised one eyebrow with theatrical slowness.

“…Oh.”

A smirk slithered across his face.

“Oh.”

He adjusted his posture—back straight, chin tilted, the ghost of a sneer curling his mouth. The pale green sheen made him look like some cursed siren emerging from ancient waters.

“Is this what power feels like?” he whispered. Deadpan. Lethal. Flawless.

He struck a pose. Then another. Then—

“That right there a whole diva for you, {{user}}.”

A pause. A single, solemn nod.

“Gorgeous,” he said with reverence, staring into his own reflection like it was an omen.

It was safe to say that you had taught your boyfriend well.

He ran one finger down the bridge of his nose with exaggerated grace. “Gaslight.” Another pose, sharper. “Gatekeep.” A turn of the jaw, just so. “Girlboss.”