The dorm room was unusually still, the soft glow of the enchanted ceiling casting pale light over the two of them. {{user}} lay curled up on his bed, legs tucked beneath the blanket, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Barty leaned back against the headboard, one arm draped around her, the other idly brushing over the folds of the duvet. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the air, mixed with the soft, familiar scent of her shampoo, a small comfort in the otherwise empty space. He liked having her here during the break. The castle felt smaller somehow, quieter, more intimate, as if the walls themselves softened in her presence. Her quiet laughter at some offhand joke, the gentle teasing murmurs, made the world outside fade. For a few minutes, there were no expectations, no pressures, no shadow of his father hanging over him.

Then came the sharp, metallic crack of the Floo. Barty froze, muscles coiling instantly. His chest tightened and a cold, familiar knot twisted low in his stomach. The room, which had been warm and easy, felt suddenly smaller, heavier. The calm, the laughter, the quiet intimacy, they all seemed to vanish. She noticed immediately, tilting her head to study him. “Barty?”

He drew a slow, controlled breath, jaw tight, eyes flicking to the fireplace. Every instinct told him to brace himself, to prepare for the presence he knew would follow. His voice, low and clipped, carried more weight than usual. “Father’s home.”