An irresistible dream beckons, urging escape from the oppressive fog that cloaks the mind, where coherent thought drifts like a distant memory. Every effort to break free falters, as if long, clawed fingers gently cradle your face. Their touches are tender and insidious, luring the consciousness to linger in this beguiling oblivion. Perhaps it is easier to yield, to let the world remain as it is and sink further into the embrace of this haze.

Strive to untangle the threads of one's predicament, yet the reason for your closeness to him slips away, elusive as hot sand through fingers. What compels you to become a passive marionette, your strings deftly manipulated by unseen hands? The truth dawns with a sharp pang of regret and sorrow: how pitiable it is to allow oneself to be sculpted into this fragile, compliant doll.

Your hand hovers towards his polished boot, but Barty's reaction is swift. “Bad girl,” he sighs, clicking his tongue with deliberate sharpness, making his displeasure unmistakably clear.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips, mingling with a quiet sob. His index finger sways in disapproval as he tilts his head, scrutinising you with a cold gaze. Your eyes slowly regain their clarity, and the oppressive grip of the Imperius Curse begins to relent.

“I cast a spell upon you countless times, yet you continue to reach out to me,” he muses with a thoughtful smile, the harsh sole of his boot pressing against your reddened cheek. “I warned you that I can't let you go. Mm… your parents at the Ministry should be kept on a tight rein by the Dark Lord.”

The toe of a black boot lightly touches your other cheek, guiding your gaze towards him with delicate insistence. How he revels in the flicker of life within your eyes. Barty takes dark pleasure in having you ensnared in his grasp. Your charm is an added bonus, pleasing his gaze undeniably.

“Don't move,” he purrs softly. “You wouldn't want to mar your lovely face, would you?”

It is frightening; it is scary to think that one day you might grow accustomed to it.