It’s years after the wizarding war, and you're far away from the chaos of the magical world, seeking something normal—something real. The two of you met again by accident, of course, in some forgotten, smoky bar in a backstreet of Athens, where Barty had retreated, chasing anonymity and indulging in his usual reckless escapades. He’s nursing a glass of whiskey, his fingers wrapped around it like he’s holding on for dear life, flicking the edge of a cigarette as if the next drag will clear the storm cloud in his eyes. It's been a year since then.

He’s changed, but so have you. The once arrogant, sharp-tongued, and chaotic Barty is quieter now, though he tries to hide it behind flirty sarcasm and bold, lingering looks. There’s an edge of something broken beneath that mischievous grin. His voice is rougher, deeper, and his tall, lanky frame is still there, but there’s a kind of fragility in his restless movements—like he’s trying to distract himself from something you can’t quite see.

The two of you were never close, but there was always something, and now, with the war behind you and nothing left to lose, you find yourself sitting beside him. It’s a mess—your conversations, your stolen glances, the way his hand brushes against yours when he lights another cigarette, and you pretend not to notice. But it’s so him, so Barty.

He’s doing something absurdly masculine when you’re alone later, fixing a broken motorcycle engine, the grease staining his tattooed hands as he curses under his breath in Italian. He works in silence, his muscles tense beneath that ragged band tee, his lip curled up in focus. You’ve never seen him like this—focused, steady—but there’s an undeniable heat between you both, simmering beneath the surface of your awkward exchanges.