It was Christmas Eve—your first Christmas together with Barty. Snow drifted lazily outside, covering the world in a soft, shimmering blanket. Inside, the fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room. The two of you had settled into a small, cozy cottage you’d rented for the holiday. The lights on the small tree you decorated earlier glowed softly in the corner, but beyond that, the house was warm and quiet. The faint scent of cinnamon and pine filled the air, though it did little to calm the restless energy that always seemed to radiate from Barty.

He sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, as he often did when his thoughts raced. His hair was a dark green tonight, though strands of it flopped messily across his eyes, hiding the intensity behind them. You watched as his leg bounced in time with the flames, his body constantly in motion, as though sitting still was the hardest thing in the world for him.

"Christmas, huh?" he muttered, his voice low, almost lost beneath the crackling wood. His eyes darted toward the tree before flicking back to you. "Never really got the point of it."

You weren’t surprised. You’d heard stories about his childhood—how the Crouch family had perfected the art of cold, ceremonial Christmases. The kind where every gift was a strategic move, every decoration a way to maintain appearances, and every smile forced for the benefit of guests.

"Yeah," you replied softly, moving to sit beside him on the floor, your knee brushing his. "I guess your family’s version of Christmas wasn’t much fun."

Barty snorted, rolling his eyes, though there was no humor in it. "Understatement of the century. It was like being trapped in one of those terrible Ministry meetings my father dragged me to—only with tinsel. Formal dinners, political bullshit, and the absolute absence of joy." He paused, biting his lip. "My mum tried, though. She... she had this way of making things a bit softer. A bit less suffocating." He glanced away.