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The Ravenclaw common room is quiet this far into the evening - big and airy, with high arched ceilings that drip with silence as you lie on your back on one of the plush sofas. Most students are in bed by now, or down in the dungeons at the latest Slytherin party.
It's lonely, maybe, the bigness of the room and the way that the drafty silence swallows you. It all feels a bit off kilter - and you feel a bit out of place amidst it all.
You hear, then, of course, the sound of someone stomping into the common room. You hear it - because how could you not hear someone else's heartbeat when the world feels so quiet like this? How could you not know the sound of Barty marching over to you and standing over you by the couch?
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he asks - and it's gentle, low and kind in a way that makes you close your eyes, your legs hanging over the arm of the couch as you lie there.
"What are you doing here? I thought you'd be down at the party," you murmur, and you can feel the way he's staring at you.
"I was," he says bluntly. "But you weren't there. How'd you get in here, anyway?"
"I had a friend let me in," you say vaguely.
"I thought I was your friend," he snipes, and you squint one eye open to look up at him where he towers over you. He looks angry, his brows furrowed and his lips pressed together while he stares down at you, and you blink your other eye open slowly.
"Not my only friend," you point out. "Besides, I thought you'd be… preoccupied. You haven't told me what you're doing here."
"Neither have you," he retorts, and there's a sharpness to his voice that isn't often directed at you so bluntly - an edge that you can usually wind your way around quite easily.
But now, you find, you just close your eyes again and let out a sigh.
"I was trying to get some peace and quiet - you know, time alone. Guess I misjudged," you say pointedly, and Barty clicks his tongue in annoyance.
"Yea, you seem to be doing that a lot lately."
"Pardon?"
"Misjudging," he says bluntly. You open your eyes slowly, your brows pulled together - maybe in shock, maybe in hurt, as you move to sit up.
"You're not going to give me a hard time about what happened today," you say slowly - firmly. "I've already been chewed out for it - and it really doesn't have anything to do with you."
"Is that what you think?" he asks lowly, and when you stand up, he doesn't move back. He's close enough to you, now, that your crossed arms brush against his chest as he looks down at you, the back of your legs pressed against the couch.
You feel a bit caught, you find - a bit snared by the anger that clouds Barty's face. You could run away from it, you're sure - you could slip in some comment to distract him and slip away again.
But you find, this time, that your mouth opens and nothing comes out. His hand reaches up to brush his knuckles across your cheek, and you sort of wish he'd just slapped you instead.
"I'd like to concede," he murmurs softly, and you blink. His thumb skims over your cheek.
"What?" you ask wearily.
"I think you've won," he clarifies - like that makes anything better, like that makes anything here make sense.
"I'm not playing any games here," you say stiffly, and Barty hums as he continues his fluttering little touches against your cheek. You shouldn't let him, you know. But neither of you have ever been very good at doing what you're supposed to.
"I think you have been, love," he counters, and you wait for an accusation that never comes - a hard edge to his voice that you suddenly can't find. "I think we've both been."
"I think that's my fault," you offer weakly, and he clicks his tongue in disapproval.
"No it isn't, my love. It isn't," he says, and it's hard to think of it as a lie when he says it like that - sweet and earnest in a way that burns with unfamiliarity.
"I don't want to win that game," is your only reply, and your voice wavers just a bit. It's like a dam, you think, beginning to crack and creek under the weight of it all. Barty looks at you like he cares, his knuckles still stroking along your cheek as he steps impossibly closer.
"You don't?" he asks, as if he can't quite be sure of it - as if he's so careful of where he steps and what he assumes.
"...Yes," you respond wearily. His knuckles pause against your cheek for a moment so small you're not quite sure it happened.
"Yes, you do want to win?" he tries, with a patience that feels sticky and sweet.
"...No," you try again, and you're not really sure anymore which way you're leaning.
"No, you don't want to?" Barty leans with you - into you, always right where you need him.
"…No," you try again, and if the frustration that starts to simmer in your gut is reflected by Barty, he doesn't show it.
"Ok," he switches tactics, maybe out of kindness, maybe because he sees the way your shoulders bunch up and tense. "I think we have to talk about what happened today."
That, of course, snaps you out of it. You reel back, away from his touch on your cheek, stepping back until your legs hit the couch. One of Barty's arms shoots out to wrap around your waist as you threaten to fall back, and you use the momentum to sidestep him and step back, away from him again.
"Why won't you leave this alone?" you ask, a desperate sort of edge to your voice. "You weren't even there."
"I just think -" he starts, gentle and patient, still, in a way that makes something mean simmer under your skin. "Baby, please listen to me. I just don't think that's an alright thing to happen."
"You," you falter, something about his kindness and his petnames making your head spin. "No, you - it's fine."
"I just think that maybe if you're having breakdowns in class, then something's wrong and - baby, please," he continues, but you shake your head, stepping further away from him.
"No," you insist. "This isn't - this has nothing to do with you."
"You don't think that," Barty counters, taking a step forward to match you. "It does -"
"It doesn't," you snap, and now that you've started, it feels a bit like you can't stop. Barty lets you, holding both of his hands out in front of him placatingly as you continue on, and the patience in it makes it all hurt just a bit more. "God, I can't believe you came up here for this. Look, I get it, Barty - I do. I'm - I'm mean and I'm awful to you and I won't talk to you and I get that you want to get back at me for that, but -"
"Ok, love, just -"
"No," you barrel on, because it's all coming out now - and you're not sure you can make it stop. "No, because - I get it. I'm - I'm the notch on your bedpost that you'll never get, I'm the game that you can't win, I'm -"
"I love you," Barty says, and the earth sort of tips, sort of swallows you whole.
"Shut up," is your weak response, your voice wavering and your hands trembling.
"I love you," he says again, and your eyes, you find, start to treacherously blur.
"I love you," he continues, and you want to turn away when he steps towards you - you want to flee, to run. But you don't - because it's Barty, smoothing his hands over your cheeks, palms warm against your skin as his thumbs wipe away the tears that begin to dribble down your cheeks.
"I love you," he says one more time, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
"I don't think you're supposed to," you respond waveringly, and you feel his lips against your forehead, and then overtop of each of your closed eyes. You expect some quip from him about how he never does what he's told - never does what he's supposed to. But his lips just find the tip of your nose, instead.
"I think I am," he counters gently, and perhaps it's surprise that has you blinking your eyes open to look at him again.
"I win," you murmur, but it sort of falls flat between the two of you.
"I always knew you would," is Barty's response, and something in you softens impossibly further.
"I think I love you, too," you add, and the grin that spreads across his face, you think, is like the sun breaking out from behind the clouds.
"Stick with me a bit longer, lovely," he coaxes. "We'll make sure you more than think it."
"I don't think you need to convince me," is your murmured response, and you're rewarded by scattered kisses across your cheeks and nose.
You let him, notably - you let him manhandle you onto the couch until you're sitting in his lap and he's cradling you there like you're the holiest thing he's ever laid hands on.
You let him, as he presses kisses to your skin like prayers and whispers promises of devotion to you.
You let him, when he presses his forehead against yours and looks at you like he loves you.
"I still think we need to talk about it," he offers gently, and you sigh. "Not now, if you don't want. But… some time."
"Nothing happened," you insist, but the bite has left your voice - softened by his hand stroking through your hair.
"That's not what I heard," he counters softly.
"Yea, well," you mumble, and the kiss that he presses to your temple feels distinctly like an apology.
"I just think, maybe, that if you're losing it in class, you're overworking yourself," Barty offers, and you shake your head.
"I was just tired -"
"Too tired, if that's what it's doing to you."
"Again, you weren't even there," you point out. The reprimanding tap that he gives your nose is too gentle to really mean anything.
"And I think that, maybe," he continues, a sigh leaving you as you lean your forehead onto his shoulder. "Maybe, you could let me take care of you a bit, so that it doesn't happen again."
"I don't feel like I've won anymore," is your mumbled reply, and you can feel the laugh that shakes his frame as he tightens his arms around you.
"I thought we weren't playing anymore?" he counters, and you sniff indignantly as you press your face further against his neck.
"I'd like to table this discussion until another day - you said I could do that," you remind him. Barty nods, a hand on the back of your head to keep you pressed against him.
"Course you can, my love. We can do whatever you want - it's all up to you," he insists, and as he rocks you back and forth, kisses pressed to the crown of your head and arms firmly around you, you find it a bit difficult to truly believe that you haven't won at least a bit.