You and Barty sit on opposite ends of the workshop, the air thick with tension. The smell of carved wood and molten magic fills the room, every surface cluttered with half-finished wands, shards of unicorn hair, and splinters of phoenix feather.

“Let’s make this clear,” Barty says, his voice sharp but laced with that infuriating smirk. “You’re good, but I’m better.” He twirls a strand of dragon heartstring between his fingers as though it’s the key to his inevitable victory.

You roll your eyes, focusing on your own creation. The wand in your hand feels almost alive, resonating with your magic in a way that fills you with quiet confidence. “We’ll see about that,” you reply evenly, refusing to rise to his bait.

The hours tick by, and the rivalry fuels your work, each of you pushing the other to new heights. When the final wands are complete, the room hums with power. Barty steps closer, inspecting your work with an expression that’s equal parts admiration and frustration.

“Not bad,” he mutters, his voice softer now. “For someone who’s not me.” But there’s no malice in his words—just a quiet respect that wasn’t there before.

As the tension eases, his hand brushes yours, lingering just a moment too long. The silence between you shifts, the rivalry giving way to something unexpected, something unspoken but undeniable.