He’s leaning back in his chair, wand still faintly glowing, a wicked grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

You approach—slow, suspicious.

“Don’t think I didn’t just see that,” you say, arms crossed.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even try to look innocent.

“Define that,” he replies, all too pleased with himself.

Your eyes flick to the wand. “It was glowing. What were you hexing?”

He shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “A chair.”

“…Why?”

His grin sharpens like a blade.

“Because,” he says, voice low and smug, “it had someone else sitting next to you.”

Barty doesn’t get jealous—not that he’ll admit. But he’ll hex anything that dares get too close. Chairs included.