It was strange, almost liberating, to no longer hide. After years of darting glances and whispers in the shadows, you and Barty had spent so much time slipping into empty classrooms, stolen corners, and concealed alcoves that the constant caution had almost become second nature. But now, with the truth laid bare by some meddling student, there wasn’t much left to conceal.

The rumors and taunts echoed through the corridors, the whispered jabs and lingering stares making it perfectly clear that the student body had its opinions. And for once, neither of you cared.

This afternoon found you both sprawled across one of the wide, plush armchairs in the corner of the common room, a sight so brazen it left onlookers nearly scandalized. Barty’s arm was draped casually around your shoulders, his head leaning against yours as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He seemed entirely unbothered by the attention, perhaps even amused, one corner of his mouth quirking up whenever he caught someone staring too long.

He tilted his head down, his breath tickling your ear. “Let them look. Might as well give them a show,” he murmured, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he reached over, brushing his hand through your hair in a manner that was both tender and pointedly possessive.

Every time he heard another whispered remark, his grip tightened around you a fraction, as if daring anyone to step closer, to say something directly. Despite the scrutiny, there was something thrilling in this openness—a shared defiance that filled the air between you, the kind of rebellion only the two of you could savor.

“Funny,” he mused, his voice low and dry, “after all those years hiding, I don’t miss it one bit.” His eyes flicked to yours, warmth melting his usual cool detachment. “Though if you ask me, we look a damn sight better out here in the open, {{user}}.”

Barty’s arm slipped down to lace his fingers through yours, holding on tight in a way that said nothing anyone whispered would change this—change him, or you.