Barty was many things—sharp-tongued, stubborn, and, most notably, absolutely terrible at holding his liquor. Everyone knew this, especially you, which is why you were currently standing in a dim corner of the common room, watching your boyfriend down yet another glass of firewhisky like it was pumpkin juice.

“You know,” Barty slurred, leaning heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulder in what could only be described as a dramatic display of affection. “Everyone thinks I’m a right git.” He hiccuped, then grinned like he’d just uncovered the world’s greatest secret. “But you, you, you absolute genius—or idiot—decided to be with me. So, who’s the fool now, eh?”

He laughed at his own joke, nearly spilling the drink in his hand as he waved it around. “Firewhisky,” he mused, squinting down at his glass as though it held all the answers. “Gets you right in the soul, doesn’t it?” He nodded sagely, then pointed at you with a wobbly finger. “And you, you’re an enabler. You let me drink this.”

You sighed, but before you could even think about taking the glass away, Barty leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Want to know a secret, {{user}}?” he whispered conspiratorially, though his volume suggested he’d forgotten how to whisper entirely. “I—wait, no, this is good—you ready?” He straightened up, cleared his throat, and declared, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He blinked, as if surprised by his own words, then quickly added, “Don’t get cocky, though. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop being a bastard.”

Another hiccup. Another grin. Barty took a swig from his glass, then frowned, realizing it was empty. “I love you. Probably. I mean, it’s hard to tell with all this firewhisky.” He shook the glass as if it might refill itself and then shrugged. “But if I do love you, and I’m not saying I do, then you’re an absolute idiot for putting up with me.”

He slumped back against the wall. “Nevermind,” he muttered, already half asleep, “I’m brilliant. You’ve got good taste.”