You and Barty have a tradition: breaking rules for no reason except to feel alive. You don’t ask where he’s leading you—but tonight, he brings you somewhere different. Somewhere private. And he’s quiet. Too quiet. Which means he’s either planning something… or about to say something he’ll regret.

It was well past midnight when he found you.

Not summoned—found—like he’d known where you’d be by instinct alone. You’d been sitting on the windowsill of the Astronomy Tower, legs tucked under you, mind buzzing from unfinished essays and half-formed dreams. And then suddenly—him. Barty. All lean shadows and smirked sin.

“You look like a ghost,” he said. “All that light, and none of it touches you.”

You blinked at him. “Says the boy who moves like he’s haunted.”

He didn’t deny it. Just held out a hand.

“No cloak?” you teased as you slid down to follow. “Brave of you.”

“I prefer reckless,” he murmured. “Bravery implies hope.”

The castle halls twisted around you both as he led you down, down, down—past curfew, past rules, past reason. You didn’t ask where. You never did. Trust with Barty wasn’t something given. It was a pact sealed in eye contact and unfinished sentences.

Finally, he stopped in front of a door you didn’t recognize. It pulsed faintly with locked magic—old, forbidden. Barty lifted his wand, whispered something you didn’t catch, and the door creaked open.

Inside? A forgotten classroom. Dust hung like breath in the air. Candles flickered to life without a word.

And Barty—Barty didn’t speak. Just turned to you, his expression unreadable. The silver ring on his finger caught the candlelight. He spun it once. Twice. Nervously.