The Slytherin common room was buzzing with quiet conversation, the warmth of the fire flickering against the stone walls. You were laughing with a friend when you felt a sharp, familiar gaze on you. Glancing up, you saw Barty standing near the door, his eyes locked on the guy who’d been lingering around you, his jaw clenched tight. You hadn’t noticed how close the guy had gotten until Barty marched across the room and, without a word, pulled you away.

“What the hell is this?” Barty’s voice was cold, sharp as a knife, and his grip on your wrist was firm, almost too firm.

You tried to pull away, but his hand didn’t budge. “I’m talking to a friend,” you said, keeping your voice steady, though you could feel the tension building.

His gaze flicked to the guy you'd been talking to, then back to you, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. “He’s not your friend. Don’t play games with me.” His voice dropped lower, just for you. “I’m not some other bloke you can forget about.”

You stared at him, taken aback by the heat in his words. “I’m not doing anything wrong, Barty. Why does it matter to you?”

He moved closer, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Because I don’t move on. Not from you. Never from you.” His eyes searched yours, the raw intensity in them almost suffocating. “And I won’t watch you with someone else.”

The room around you seemed to vanish as you felt the weight of his words sink in. His possessiveness, his jealousy—there was no mistaking it. “You don’t get to control me,” you said, a bit breathless from the sudden heat in the air between you two.

His lips curled into a half-smirk, but there was something different about it this time—something softer, more vulnerable. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But you should know, I won’t ever let you go.”