My love - Justin Timberlake 01:43 ━━━━●───── 04:37 ⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻ ılıılıılıılıılıılı ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮

Barty was basically in love with you — no, scratch that — obsessed. The kind of obsessed where he’d gladly walk into the Killing Curse if it meant you’d smile at him one last time. You were his sun, his moon, his reason for sneaking out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement early just to catch you before your 8:02 a.m. train.

You, on the other hand?

You thought he was… dramatic. A try-hard. A walking Shakespearean tragedy in pinstripes who probably wrote love poems with your name in cursive. He didn’t understand what love was — not real love. Not the kind built on trust, mutual respect, and shared late-night firewhiskey. No, Barty’s brand of love was all flash and no follow-through. The roses, the compliments, the way he said your name like it was a sacred incantation — it reeked of ulterior motives. It was obvious he was trying to sleep with you.

Still, he was persistent. Endearingly annoying.

Every single morning for the last two weeks, he’d been waiting for you. Rain or shine. Hair perfectly styled, tie always straight, and a red rose in hand like some hopeless romantic in an old Muggle film.

You figured he’d get bored. They always did.

But Barty wasn’t “they.”

No, Barty thought you were just playing hard to get. “A challenge,” he had told his reflection in the mirror that morning while practicing his best smirk. “They want me. They just don’t know it yet.”

And nothing — nothing — the good old Crouch charm couldn’t fix.

Flowers at the train station every morning before work? Check. Compliments so sweet they made your stomach turn? Double check. Your number? Still a work in progress.

But today was different. He felt it. The stars were aligned, his hair was behaving, and he had even rehearsed three different pickup lines in case you shot down the first two. This was it. Today, you would definitely say yes. The other times? Pfft, obviously jokes. You were flirting. Teasing. Testing his resilience.

He stood by the platform like always, boots tapping against the pavement, heart racing like a third-year in their first duel.

The train was a few minutes away when he spotted you.

And just like clockwork — or a very determined love-struck fool — he practically lunged forward, shoving a red rose right in your face, eyes gleaming with exaggerated charm.

“A bright red rose, for the beautiful person right in front of me?” he said, with a dramatic flair that could’ve made Lockhart proud.