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Barty doesn't understand why stupid Gryffindors think their parties are the best when Ravenclaw and Slytherin house parties are right there.
Oh, probably because no one invites them to the really cool stuff.
Losers.
A sentiment he can't relate to, thankfully.
The pre winter break party is in full swing, this year in the dungeons instead of the Ravenclaw tower. Lights are flashing, music is blasting from every corner and anywhere he looks, people are dancing and drinking their hearts out. They're also making out and taking questionable substances, but he's choosing to ignore those bits like the good samaritan that he is.
Instead, he focuses on weaving through the crowd, dodging overflowing plastic cups and sharp projectiles flying across the room. Seriously, for a bunch of magicians, people at Hogwarts sure loved fixing their shit the traditional way.
He passes by a couple that's fighting aggressively and watches from the corner of his eye how they stare each other down before they begin to violently make out. Couple goals, he supposes.
Barty initially came here with Regulus and Evan, intending to meet up with the rest of their group. Somehow, the two traitors disappeared five minutes into the party. He suspects either they went for a smoke without him—absolutely maddening and a betrayal he will be lamenting about for the rest of the week—or to make out somewhere where there's less people. He doesn't know which one he should be more upset about for not being invited to.
Momentarily, Barty considers climbing on a table or launching himself to the chandelier for a better vantage point. How is it that he cannot make a single person out in the sea of moving sweaty bodies? Surely, it can't be that hard to find someone he knows and somewhat gets along with.
Just as he begins to eye the chandelier, calculating the distance and speed he would need to be able to grab it, the sound of your laughter pierces through the music. Realistically, he knows you probably didn't laugh that loud and that the only reason he could hear you so well is because you were somewhat close by.
Still, that doesn't stop him from turning around like a man enchanted by a siren, his entire body fine tuned to find you amongst the crowd. And there he finds you, standing surrounded by your friends near the refreshment table while you laugh about something one of them said.
Your head is thrown back, your eyes little crescents that pull your entire face up.
You look radiant.
You look beautiful.
You look like the only thing Barty Crouch has ever wanted.
With a new goal in mind, he cuts through the ocean of adolescent bad decisions and sneaks up behind you. You're nodding along to something your friend is saying when they spot him first, but he only shakes his head and motions for them to be silent.
They know him and his antics by now, even if they don't quite understand how the two of you managed to become so close. But hey, he takes it as a good enough sign of being accepted into your social circles, just like you have little to no issues hanging out with his friends.
He comes to a halt behind you, his hands abruptly covering your eyes quickly.
“Boo,” he whispers into your ear.
Five seconds later he's on the floor, grinning despite the pulsing pain spreading across his body.
“Bartholomew you cannot keep doing this to me,” you complain while helping him up.
Your friends groan in unison, clutching their cups tighter. “Merlin, not this shit again,” one of them mutters. Barty ignores them rather expertly and focuses on you instead—a skill he's cultivated very thoroughly in the last seven years.
“It's Barty,” he replied playfully.
“Borsius.”
“Barty.”
“Bardenlow.”
“That isn't even a real name!” He cries out with too much offense for him to not be enjoying this little game of yours.
You nod, completely serious and sip your drink before speaking gravely. “It so does,” you assure him, “it means an idiot constantly harassing innocent people.”
He gasps, all dramatic flourish that makes you giggle. A flicker of pride blooms somewhere in his chest. “So I reckon your name means innocent person constantly harassed by an idiot?”
“If the shoe fits, my good sir.”
That's how your friendship worked—banter, insults thrown back and forth and the sort of easy atmosphere that settles like snow on winter mornings. No matter what he says, you always have something to bite back with. No matter how ridiculous your responses get, he knows he can still make you smile. And Merlin, does he adore your smile. It shouldn't feel so special because it's just a smile—but he can't help the way his heath beats faster when the corners of your mouth turn upwards. It's like watching the sunrise for the first time.
It makes him feel things he didn't think a wretched soul like him could ever feel.
“-arty, Barty!” The sound of you snapping your fingers and calling his name tears him away from his reveries and he blinks at you, trying to regain focus. You're standing in front of him, expression exasperated, like you've been calling him for ages without getting a response. It makes him grin to see how ridiculously expressive you are being today.
“Yes, my adored darling?” His tone is innocent enough, but the mischievous flint in his eyes gives him away. You're swatting at him before he can even breathe.
What a violent thing. He wouldn't have it any other way.
“See and here I was wondering if you wanted to dance,” you mutter, already turning around to search for your friends who mysteriously disappeared without either of you noticing. Seriously, is there something in the air or in the drinks that makes all your friends vanish into nothing? Maybe the music is enchanted to make them turn invisible or be transported into a different realm.
“Or maybe, you just need to read less weird fucked up fae fantasy books,” you reply to what Barty subconsciously said out loud. “Hey, I thought you said you like my fucked up fae books!”
“Yeah, for the smut, not the world building that has you walking into my dorm at 3 in the morning with a whiteboard to theorize about random power struggles in different continents.”
Ah, he does vaguely remember doing that once. Or maybe twice. Okay, maybe it was every other week whenever he picks up a new book Lily recommends, but he can't help it! It's not his fault that you’re the only person who can keep up with his crazy—you’ve only got yourself to blame for that.
He looks at you, really looks at you this time around. He memorizes the shape of your eyes, the crinkle around your lips and brows, the slope of your nose and the curve of your smile. He tries to imprint the way the blue lights dance across your face, painting shadows and sparks like you're something out of this world.
He thinks you may actually be.
You're giving him that look—the one that makes his knees weak and his heart stop for all of three beats before it begins to thump like crazy. The one that promises adventure and laughter if he just closes his eyes and follows you. The one he's learnt to trust more than he trusts anything else.
“So? Are we dancing or what, Crouch?” You ask, shoving him lightly with that smile he knows he'd gladly die for.
He shoves you back, offering you his hand when he grins wickedly. He probably looks like the devil himself now, but he's delighted when you take his hand in yours without hesitation anyway. “We so are,” he confirms, squeezing your hand tightly before pulling you with him towards the dance floor.
The music pulses around you, alive and impossible loud. It drowns out the sound of students shouting and singing along in terribly off key renditions. It allows the world to shrink away until there's no one but you two left.
Barty’s hands settle on your hips like they've done a million times before. You hold onto his waist while you sway to the music. Something lovely and upbeat begins to play.
You twirl and jump and laugh until your throats are raw.
The dance floor begins to thin out, the blue lights dimmer now when a slower, more sensual song plays on the enchanted speakers.
You look at each other, startled by the sudden change in the atmosphere—like you knew that staying for this song would mean crossing the line you've been avoiding for years now.
But Barty has never been particularly good at waiting, so he grabs your hands to place it around his waist while he pulls you close by the neck. There isn't much space left between you, the heat that he radiates mixing with your own and seeping through the layers of clothing you're wearing.
He smells like cigarette smoke and expensive cologne he probably stole from Regulus.
He smells like what-ifs and close calls.
Like bad decisions and no regrets.
You can't think when he's this close, with his stupid hazel eyes staring into your soul and his piercings glowing blue under the lights.
Stupid Barty with his stupid acid streaks and his stupid hair that looks so soft to the touch.
Stupid Barty that makes you forget how to speak.
Stupid Barty who's staring at your lips like he's never wanted anything this bad.
“Are you thinking about kissing me in a disco like some cheap movie flick?” You blurt out. You regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth and Barty knows.
He laughs, shaking his head.
“No,” he replied, “I am thinking about kissing you just for the sake of it.”
He doesn't expect an answer, very sure that he rendered you speechless like you always do when you look at him for a moment too long.
He's wrong.
You respond by huffing and digging your fingers into his waist with such force it sure will bruise tomorrow morning.
He can't wait to show it off.
You grab his face roughly, smashing your lips together rather ungracefully but neither of you can find it in you to care.
Years worth of tension finally breaks with one single kiss. He's grabbing your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer while your teeth clash together and your nose bumps against his.
The kiss is everything it should be between friends who aren't quite friends but don't have the courage to be more—awkward, tense and hungry.
He pulls away for a moment to watch the kind of effect he has on you. Your pupils are blown wide, glowing like sapphires under the blue lights. Your fingers are still digging stubbornly into his flesh, sending a pleasant feeling all across his chest.
He wants to kiss you again, so he does. This time he does it with more deliberate care and calculation. He angles his head just enough to slot his lips comfortably against yours. He builds his rhythm until you're moving in natural sync.
He kisses you until the world spins so fast he has to pull away for air. Until the air tastes like your chapstick and your perfume.
You're just as breathless, cheeks warm and expression surprised. Like you didn't expect to start making out with your closest friend on a random sunday.
“Want to get some air?” He asks in what you assume he thinks is a casual manner. In reality, it's a piss poor attempt that barely masks the shaking in his voice or the tremble of his fingers tangled around your neck.
You ignore it and nod anyway.
The night is still young, you both decide when you sneak around the empty corridors, barely concealing your giggles whenever you stop to exchange heated kisses underneath the moonlit sky. It's young and so are you, so why should you wait any longer to break the tension and confront the feelings you've been holding in for so long?