Barty loves you in the way he does everything else. Intensely, carefully, and at a distance that keeps him safe.

You notice it in the small things first. The way he reaches for your hand and stops halfway, fingers curling back into his sleeve. How he stands close enough to feel your warmth but never close enough to linger. When you kiss him, it’s brief, like he’s afraid that if it lasts too long, something inside him will crack.

“You don’t have to leave,” you say one evening, as he gathers his books far too quickly.

“I know,” Barty replies, not meeting your eyes. “I just need to think.”

He always needs to think.

In the chaos of a world at war, laughter echoing through corridors, whispers of pranks and rebellion, Barty keeps himself contained. With you, he’s softer, but only in fleeting moments. A hand brushing yours under the table. His coat wordlessly draped over your shoulders when it’s cold. Affection given like contraband, passed quickly and hidden away.

When you try to talk about feelings, he deflects with sharp wit or silence.

There are days when he disappears into the library or the dungeons, and you’re left wondering if you imagined the warmth between you. When he returns, he acts as though nothing happened, as though distance is easier than explaining the storm in his head.

“You care,” you press once, heart pounding. “I know you do.”

His jaw ticks. “Caring doesn’t mean I know how to be… good at this.”