The door’s always open—well, warded, technically, but it knows you. The moment your fingers brush the handle, the spell shivers like it’s stretching in recognition. It clicks back with a lazy groan, and you step into the scent of bergamot, leather polish, and that ever-present trace of old smoke.

Barty’s flat is a warzone of aesthetics. Spell books spill off the kitchen counter like they've tried to escape. One of his boots is lodged in the ceiling—again. A black-and-white scarf lies draped over a cauldron-shaped ashtray, and from somewhere near the sofa, the low buzz of enchanted headphones hums through the air like a sleeping beast.

He's sitting cross-legged on the windowsill, silhouetted against the Newcastle skyline, cigarette balanced between two fingers, wearing one of those sleeveless tees that looks like it was cut with a dagger. His silver-streaked hair’s tied back in a lazy knot, tattoos lit by the amber glow of the city below.

You don't say anything at first. You just let the moment breathe. The music in the background—some moody spell-infused post-rock—plays low, vibrating through the floorboards. Barty finally glances at you, eyes sharp even in the low light, then flicks his gaze back out over the Tyne.

"Thought I hexed the door to keep you out," he mutters without heat, exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth.

"You did," you say, dropping your bag with a soft thud. "Your wards like me better than you do."

He scoffs—a sound halfway between amusement and resignation. The window creaks as he shifts, leaping down in a way that would be theatrical if it wasn’t so casual.

"Ministry’s sniffing around again," he tells you, running a hand through his hair like it might shake the thought off. "Swear they’ve got a bloke watching my left boot."

You raise an eyebrow. "Just the left one?"

"It’s the one with the runes," he replies with a shrug, like it’s obvious. "Suppose I could’ve spread them out. Would’ve been cleverer. But what’s life without a bit of flair?"