You swear Bucky Barnes was built to ruin concentration.
He sits two tables away in the library, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, that old Brooklyn College hoodie worn so thin the letters are fading. His headphones hang around his neck, his pen spinning lazily between his fingers as his eyes scan the same paragraph for the third time. You can tell, because you’re doing the same thing—pretending to read, failing spectacularly.
It’s late. The campus is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional squeak of sneakers down the hall. You should be buried in your notes. Instead, you’re half-watching the way his jaw flexes when he thinks. Half-memorizing the way his thumb rubs at the bridge of his nose before he sighs. You tell yourself you’re not obvious. You lie to yourself a lot lately.
Bucky’s known about you for longer than he’ll admit.
He knows the sound of your laugh even when you’re three tables away. Knows you like to doodle little stars in the corners of your notes. Knows you drink your coffee too sweet and always push your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to smile.
He shouldn’t know these things. He shouldn’t care. He tells himself that every time his gaze flicks up from his laptop and lands on you anyway.
You’re not dating. You’re not even close. Just friends—if that’s what this is. Study partners, sometimes. Occasional coffee runs, often under the excuse of “needing a caffeine fix.” You text about class schedules and paper deadlines, and somehow it always drifts into memes and stupid jokes at 2 a.m.
It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something—quiet and heavy and taking root in places he doesn’t know how to name.
You find him outside the library an hour later, leaning against the steps, smoking like it’s a secret.
He startles when you push the door open, quickly stubbing the cigarette out against the concrete. “Didn’t know you were still in there,” he says, voice low and a little rough.
“Didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t. Not really.” He shrugs. “Just when midterms make me hate my life.”
You smile. “So every semester.”
“Pretty much.”
There’s a pause. The air smells like rain and something green, and you stand there beside him, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. You shouldn’t be this aware of someone’s breathing. You shouldn’t want to step closer just to see if he’d move away.
“Want a walk?” he asks suddenly. “I can’t sit in there anymore.”
You nod. You always say yes to him.
The campus is different at night—emptier, softer. Streetlamps halo the paths in gold. Your shoes scuff against the sidewalk, and Bucky keeps pace beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket.
He’s so tall that you have to tilt your head a little to look at him. The faint glow from the lampposts turns his hair almost silver at the ends. You catch yourself staring, again. He catches you, again. You both look away at the same time, like it’s a game neither of you wants to win.
“You still got that exam Thursday?” he asks finally.
You hum. “Unfortunately.”
“You’ll crush it.”
“You always say that.”
“That’s ‘cause you always do.”
His voice is soft, a little too honest, and it makes your heart stumble. You laugh to steady yourself. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Barnes.”
He grins. “Didn’t sound like flattery.”
“No?”
“Sounded like truth.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the warmth spreading through your chest. It’s too much sometimes—the way he says things that sound casual but feel like confessions. The way he watches you like you’re something worth staying up for.
By the time you reach the fountain, the campus is quiet enough that you can hear the trickle of water echoing. You sit on the ledge, hugging your knees, and Bucky drops down beside you with a sigh.
“Remember freshman year?” he says. “When we all thought staying up till three meant we were dedicated?”
You snort. “Now it just means we’re dying.”
“Exactly.”
You look at him, at the faint tired circles under his eyes and the smile that still reaches them. “You’ve changed a lot since then,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He glances over, curious. “That a good thing?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. You just… you seem more sure of yourself now. Calmer.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing the water’s ripples. “Maybe. Or maybe I just learned how to pretend.”
“Pretend?”
“That I don’t get nervous about stuff,” he says with a small laugh. “That I know what I’m doing. That I don’t…” He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek. “That I don’t get distracted.”
Something in your chest stirs. “By what?”
He doesn’t answer. His gaze flicks to you, lingering a beat too long, and your pulse starts to drum in your ears.
“Oh,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly, like he didn’t mean to let that slip. “Yeah. Oh.”
You should say something. You should laugh, make a joke, break the tension. But you don’t. You just sit there, staring at him, feeling the weight of all the words neither of you have been brave enough to say.
He’s the first to look away. Always is. He rubs a hand over his face, chuckles under his breath. “God, I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not.”
“I like you,” he says, so quietly it almost disappears under the sound of the fountain. “Like, really like you. And I keep telling myself not to. That it’s not the right time or whatever. But then you smile at me in the library and it’s—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “—it’s hopeless.”
Your throat tightens. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to keep pretending so I don’t have to admit that I—” You stop yourself, the words trembling on your tongue.
He looks at you, waiting.
“That you what?” he asks softly.
You swallow. “That I like you too.”
It’s not loud, or dramatic, or cinematic. Just quiet. Simple. Real.
And for a long second, neither of you moves. You just sit there, staring at each other under the lamplight, and everything shifts.
When he finally reaches out, it’s tentative—a brush of his fingers against yours, like he’s asking for permission.
You turn your hand, link your fingers through his. His palm is warm, rough. He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath for months.
“Okay,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” you whisper.
He nods, smiling. “Yeah.”
You walk back together in silence, hand in hand. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. Every step feels like a sigh of relief.
At the library steps, he pauses. “So… tomorrow?”
“Same time?”
He grins. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
You’re about to turn away when he catches your wrist, tugging you back gently. His voice drops, low and earnest. “You don’t have to pretend anymore either, you know.”
You look up at him, heart hammering. “Good. ‘Cause I’m really bad at it.”
He laughs—a real, bright laugh that makes your chest ache—and leans down to press a soft, careful kiss to your forehead.
It’s not a confession this time. It’s a promise.
Later, when you crawl into bed, you can still feel the ghost of his lips against your skin. You fall asleep smiling.
And across campus, in a dorm room full of notes and open textbooks, Bucky lies awake, grinning into the dark—thinking about the way your hand fit in his, the way your laugh sounded when you finally said yes.
He’s not pretending anymore. Neither are you.
It’s only the beginning, but god, it feels like home.
Title: When the Light Comes Through the Window Like That
(Hufflepuff dormitory, late afternoon. Autumn term, 1976.)
━━━━━━━━━━━━━✦༺♡༺✦━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The door slammed open with a thunderous groan, and a flurry of books, satchels, and one extremely irritated Briar Rosewood spilled into the Hufflepuff fifth-year dormitory like a natural disaster in human form.
She was red in the face, out of breath, and muttering something vile under her breath about Professor Sinistra’s attitude problem. Her robes hung awkwardly off one shoulder, her cardigan was slipping, and her satchel looked one wrong turn from completely disintegrating.
“Bloody hell,” she huffed, dragging her belongings across the floor like a particularly dramatic ghost hauling its chains.
Then she stopped. Blinking. Frowning.
Because in the middle of the dorm room, sat criss-cross in front of a floating, spell-glimmering mirror, was Aria Parkinson.
Wearing only a bra and black lace panties.
Covered head to toe in a chaotic smear of hair dye, ink, and pastel smudges.
Half her hair wrapped in tinfoil charms.
The other half glowing like radioactive cranberry under an unstable enchantment.
There was paint on her collarbones. A mystery bruise on her thigh. And music softly whispering from a battered magical speaker charmed to sound like an old Muggle record player.
“Oh my god,” Briar deadpanned, standing completely still in the doorway. “Didn’t you just get a detention for this?”
Aria didn’t even look over. She sighed dramatically, like she was starring in her own personal opera, and slumped forward until her forehead thumped against the enchanted mirror’s edge.
“I know,” she groaned. “But brown is boring. Brown is sad. I refuse to have sad hair. Let me be a colourful little whore in peace.”
Briar snorted and dropped her bag with a loud, exhausted thump. “You are a colourful little whore. Doesn’t mean you need to summon McGonagall’s wrath twice in one week.”
Aria lifted her head, peering at her through strands of dyed blonde and cherry-red. “Wrath looks good on her. I’m into it.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you love me.”
Briar flopped onto her bed without answering, face-planting into her pillows with a groan so deep it sounded like a death knell. “I hate magic,” she mumbled into the sheets. “I hate Astronomy. I hate homework. I’m never going back to school again.”
Aria finally turned away from her mirror, twisting slightly at the waist, still sitting cross-legged, still ink-stained and glowing like a haunted crayon. She studied Briar’s slumped body.
“You look like you just got hexed into next week,” she said, standing up in a fluid, cat-like motion.
“That’s optimistic,” Briar muttered. “I feel like I got run over by a hippogriff.”
Aria flicked her wand toward the music. It shifted, the bass humming deeper, smoother. A slow, dreamy jazz spell kicked in—something from the Muggle side Aria loved but never admitted. Something with velvet vocals and a lazy swing that immediately softened the edges of the room.
Aria started singing along, barely above a whisper, humming under her breath as she padded over the rug and knelt next to Briar’s bed, running her fingers through the tangled mess of Briar’s hair like she was brushing the knots out of her own thoughts.
“You should sing professionally,” Briar mumbled into her arm.
Aria laughed softly, resting her chin on the mattress edge. “Oh no, wife,” she said, voice warm. “I’m far too mentally unstable for fame.”
“You say that like it's not a requirement.”
“I’d get arrested before the tour even started.”
“You'd probably sell more records if you did.”
“I would, wouldn’t I?”
There was a pause. Comfortable. Familiar.
Then Aria leaned up on one elbow, mischief lighting her eyes like twin matches.
“So,” she drawled, “what slutty little outfit are you wearing to your study session with Barty later?”
Briar groaned into her pillow. “Shut up.”
“He’s going to cry if you wear that white cardigan again. You know he’s into the good-girl aesthetic.”
“Aria—”
“I bet he’s already mentally proposed to you like, four times.”
“I swear to Merlin—”
“I’m just saying,” Aria sang, sing-song and wicked. “If you show up looking like someone’s favourite bedtime prayer, he might actually explode.”
Briar sat up, her face hot and murderous. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet…” Aria grinned, fluttering her eyelashes, “you love me.”
“I really don’t.”
“You love me so much.”
“You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“Exactly.” Aria kissed the air dramatically and spun back toward her mirror. “I’m doing you a favour by keeping Jamie away tonight, by the way.”
“You are?”
“Gonna kidnap the tiny menace, take him on a fun little adventure. Gonna show him how to pick the best mushrooms in the greenhouse that aren’t actually mushrooms.”
“That sounds... safe.”
“He’ll love it. He loves danger.”
“He’s eleven.”
“He’s my apprentice.”
“You’re a menace.”
Aria started brushing out the dye, unwrapping the foil charms, her fingers quick and efficient even though her posture was loose and lazy. The red in her hair shimmered violently for a second, before settling into a deep, wine-dark curl against the black. She looked like a painting someone forgot to finish.
As she worked, she started rambling.
“So. Weird thing happened today. Regulus Black—yes, that Regulus—came up to me near the library and was like ‘how do you feel about Dorcas Meadowes.’ Which, like. What? That boy’s never spoken to me. I think he’s allergic to people.”
Briar, sitting up now and slowly changing her cardigan, paused. “…And what did you say?”
“I said she’s cool? I dunno. Why?”
Briar didn’t answer.
Aria frowned at her through the mirror. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Nothing, Aria.”
Aria narrowed her eyes. “What do you know that I don’t.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Briar said quickly, turning away.
“Wife.”
Briar just hummed innocently.
Aria grumbled something about lesbians and conspiracy theories and changed into her usual post-dye chaos ensemble—a ripped, baggy band tee with the collar sliced open so it hung off one shoulder, tiny tartan shorts, and fuzzy mismatched socks.
Then she turned back toward Briar, already pulling out her stash of makeup and accessories.
“Okay, stand up,” Aria said, clapping once. “We’re turning you into the hottest, nerdiest little schoolgirl Barty Crouch’s ever had the pleasure of being confused by.”
“I hate you,” Briar said, obeying anyway.
“I love you too. Arms up.”
They picked through her wardrobe together—settling on a pleated skirt that Aria insisted was “academic but flirty,” and a soft yellow jumper over her white shirt. Aria tied her hair up with a matching ribbon.
“You look like sin,” Aria said, completely serious.
Briar was blushing.
Aria lit a cigarette, legs kicked up behind her on the bed, chin in her hands, watching Briar apply her makeup with this fond, lazy smirk that didn’t leave her face the entire time.
“You’re so pretty,” she said softly, between exhales.
Briar didn’t answer, too flustered to speak.
Aria giggled.
Then she started going through her inventory—counting little parchment-wrapped joints, muttering numbers, frowning.
“Ugh. I’m almost out. I need to talk to Kai again. Ravenclaws always have the good shit.”
“You’re actually going to become a Hogsmeade drug lord.”
“I am the Hogsmeade drug lord.”
“Don’t get arrested.”
“I’d look cute in handcuffs.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
Briar smiled.
She did.
God, she did.
The final touch was the lip gloss.
Briar leaned into the mirror, tongue between her teeth, carefully dabbing it on with the pad of her finger like she was trying not to disrupt the balance of the universe. Her cheeks were still flushed from laughing, her lashes darkened just enough to be dangerous, and her cardigan had that one perfect slouchy fold that looked effortless but took Aria four tries to get right.
Behind her, Aria was already hopping around one-legged, yanking her boots on with both hands.
“You look like you’re about to ruin a man’s life,” she said, still chewing her cigarette filter. “It’s beautiful. I’m crying.”
“You’re not crying,” Briar said, smoothing her skirt. “You’re smoking.”
“Same thing. Different orifices.”
Briar turned, watching her tug on her second boot—black, beat to hell, covered in marker doodles and badly scrawled song lyrics. She hadn’t laced them. Of course she hadn’t.
“Aria, your boots,” Briar warned.
“Pfft.” Aria stood up, rolling her neck like she was getting ready to fight a ghost. “Laces are a scam invented by Big Sock to kill the aesthetic.”
“They’re a scam that’ll make you eat floor if you’re not careful.”
“You sound like my dad. If my dad had taste.”
She turned to grab her bag and—predictably—tripped over her own bootlace, faceplanting directly into the floorboards with a spectacular whump and an offended yelp.
Briar gasped. “Oh my god—Aria!”
Aria groaned. “Nooo. Don’t help me. Don’t make me feel old. Laugh at my pain, coward.”
“You could’ve snapped your wrist, idiot.”
“I’m resilient. I’m the cockroach of women.”
“You’re concussed.”
Aria was already rolling over, grumbling, rubbing her elbow like a cartoon character. She sat with her legs sprawled out and a dramatic pout on her face, eyeing her stupid, traitorous boots.
Briar sighed and knelt down, grabbing the laces with a frown. “You’re going to break your ankle one of these days. Then I’ll have to carry you everywhere. You’re not light, by the way.”
Aria gasped. “Rude. I’m as light as a fairy, you twat.”
“Fairies don’t eat three pasties for breakfast.”
“I only had two.”
Briar finished tying both boots with neat, tight bows and stood. “Up. Before you humiliate yourself further.”
“I’m not humiliated,” Aria said, taking Briar’s hand and yanking herself up. “I’m legendary.”
Briar rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “Come on.”
The Hufflepuff common room was buzzing—warm candlelight flickering over the worn sofas and mossy walls, groups of students lounging with books, snacks, enchanted chess boards. A second-year accidentally set their hat on fire. No one noticed.
Briar and Aria walked through like they owned the place.
Aria was already humming under her breath, her shoulder bumping Briar’s, half-skipping ahead, twirling as they neared the tunnel. She threw her arms out like a conductor and started singing loudly, dramatically, and purposefully off-key:
🎵 "You make me feel like dancin'—I'm gonna dance the night away—" 🎵
Briar groaned. “Aria.”
🎵 "You make me feel like dancin', I'm gonna dance the night away!" 🎵
Briar tried not to smile. Failed.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t, babygirl,” Aria beamed, spinning on one heel and grabbing both of Briar’s hands.
She twirled her once, twice, dragging her into a clumsy little spin right in the middle of the hallway. Briar squealed and nearly tripped, laughing so hard she had to lean against the wall to catch her breath.
“Stop it!” she gasped.
“Never!” Aria shouted gleefully.
They continued down the corridor like that—Aria dancing, swinging her arms, shoulder-checking suits of armor, singing snippets of seventies pop hits loud enough to turn heads. She twirled past a group of fourth-years and dipped dramatically in front of a startled Ravenclaw prefect.
“Evening, darling,” she said with a wink. “Your haircut’s a war crime.”
The prefect blinked. “Thanks?”
Briar was snorting behind her hand.
The rest of the walk to the library was pure chaos. Aria dodged Peeves by pretending to be one of the suits of armor. She jumped over a cat. She flirted with a tapestry. She pretended to faint when a portrait of Celestina Warbeck told her she had “a very strong aura.”
And the entire time, Briar followed, quietly amused, clutching her books to her chest and trying not to look as charmed as she actually was.
They finally reached the library doors.
Aria paused dramatically, leaned close, and stage-whispered:
“All right, loverboy is probably already in there waiting for you, because he’s a desperate little bastard with no hobbies.”
“Don’t call him that.”
“I’m gonna go find Jamie. I feel like chasing a feral twelve-year-old. That’s about my speed right now.”
“Please don’t traumatise him.”
“I would never traumatise your spawn. I’m just gonna borrow him for some quality mayhem and petty crimes.”
Briar opened her mouth.
Aria was already backing away, winking. “I’ll have him home by curfew. Probably. Unless we find a secret passage and disappear forever.”
“Aria—”
“Love you, babygirl!”
She turned, shouted “OHHHHH JAMIE!” at the top of her lungs, and took off at a sprint.
“COME HERE YOU LITTLE BRAT—I SEE YOU—GET BACK HERE!”
Briar stood outside the library, watching Aria disappear down the hall like a comet made of chaos and glitter.
She sighed. Smiled.
Then pushed open the door to meet Barty, calm and quiet, her world rebalancing just enough to get through the day.
The library smelled like old parchment, fireplace ash, and that peculiar sort of quiet that’s not actually quiet at all—quills scratching, whispers rising like fog, pages flipping with impatient flicks. A long, lazy shaft of evening light cut through the high windows, slicing golden lines across the dusty floor.
Briar stepped in cautiously, clutching her books, scanning the rows for a familiar mess of dark brown curls and smug Ravenclaw posture.
No Barty.
She narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Where the hell—?”
“Hello, sweetheart.”
She jumped so hard she nearly dropped her Transfiguration notes.
“BARTEMIUS!” she hissed, whirling around. He was behind her—of course he was behind her—grinning like the absolute menace he was, arms folded casually, eyes gleaming with triumph like he'd just won a war.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she scolded, clutching her chest. “Do you want me to die?!”
“I wanted to say hello,” he said, completely unbothered. “You looked lonely. I came to rescue you.”
“From what, peaceful silence?”
“From the crushing weight of your responsibilities.” He looped an arm through hers with infuriating charm. “Come on, my darling little academic disaster. Let’s go waste time together.”
Briar glared. “We are studying.”
Barty pouted dramatically. “You are. I came to bother you.”
They slid into their usual corner table—tucked between Charms and History of Magic, half-hidden from the rest of the room by a towering bookshelf. Briar set her books out in a neat line. Barty set nothing out and immediately leaned across the table to prop his chin on his hand, staring at her like she was doing a striptease instead of flipping to page 94 of her Potions notes.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered.
“I can’t help it,” he said, already scooting his chair closer with a loud scrape that made several heads turn. “You look so... edible when you’re focused.”
“Barty.”
“Yes?”
“Focus.”
“I am focused. On you.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Your words say one thing, but your blushing says another.”
She smacked his hand away from her quill.
He grinned and immediately reached for a curl that had escaped her bun, twirling it around his finger like it was a toy made just for him. She ignored him as best she could, trying to underline her text without screaming.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” she muttered.
“I can. You love me.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You think I’m handsome.”
“Only in the dark. If I squint.”
“And I’m a Ravenclaw.”
“Which is a con, not a pro.”
“Careful,” he said, smug, still playing with her hair. “That sounds like jealousy. You’re upset because I don’t have to study. My natural genius offends you.”
Briar slowly looked up from her parchment. “I have read your essays, Barty. You ramble.”
“I philosophise.”
“You once cited yourself as a source.”
“Because I was right.”
She looked like she wanted to throttle him. He looked thrilled by the idea.
Briar tried—tried—to focus. But Barty was a heat source, a gravitational pull. He kept scooting closer until their knees bumped under the table. She elbowed him. He cooed. She nearly hexed his eyebrows off.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, “where’s your gremlin?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Aria. Your horrible little wife. You two are joined at the hip. Did you kill her? Did she kill you and you’re just a ghost?”
“She’s... with Jamie.”
Barty visibly deflated in relief. “Oh, thank Merlin. I don’t have to get hexed today.”
“She doesn’t hex you.”
“She threatens me constantly. Last week she told me she was going to ‘accidentally’ throw me into a well.”
“Okay, that she might do.”
“She looks like a raccoon in Doc Martens. I’m terrified of her.”
“She’s doing me a favour, actually. Said she’s going to keep Jamie distracted.”
“She’s a gift.”
“You just said—”
“I speak in riddles. I’m a complex man.”
Briar rolled her eyes and turned a page.
Then paused.
“…Hey,” she said slowly, turning her head. “You’re friends with Regulus, right?”
Barty raised an eyebrow. “We tolerate each other, yes. Why?”
“He came up to Aria today. Randomly. Asked her how she feels about Dorcas.”
Barty blinked.
Then smirked. “Ahhh. That’s what he meant.”
Briar’s eyes narrowed. “You knew something.”
“I always know something.”
“Tell me.”
Barty leaned back in his chair, looking like the smug little bastard he absolutely was. “Dorcas made him do it. She’s been pining over your gremlin for like, two years. But she’s too chicken to say anything, so she begged Reg to play wingman.”
“And he agreed?”
“Only because she bribed him with exclusive access to the next Potions Club meeting and half a bottle of imported firewhiskey.”
Briar’s jaw dropped. “That traitor.”
“I think he was hoping Aria would get weirded out and avoid her forever, honestly.”
“She won’t. Aria likes Dorcas. She just doesn’t realise it.”
Barty laughed. “Classic.”
Briar grinned, sitting back, arms crossed smugly. “I knew it. I knew Dorcas liked her. I’ve been saying it.”
“And now you have confirmation,” Barty said, tipping his chair back dangerously. “Shall I fetch the Minister of Magic? Parade your psychic abilities through the corridors?”
“No need. I’ll just tell Aria. Then sit back and watch her have a meltdown.”
“Ten galleons say she doesn’t even understand what you’re saying.”
“She won’t.”
“She’ll probably think Dorcas wants to fight her.”
“She will.”
“Then kiss her anyway.”
“Exactly.”
They shared a wicked little grin.
And somewhere, across the castle, Aria was probably halfway up a tree trying to convince Jamie that mud was a suitable snack.
But here, in the golden light of the library, Barty was twirling her hair again. Briar rolled her eyes. But she didn’t pull away.
The sun had dipped further now, bleeding amber through the stained-glass windows and painting the tables in sleepy colours—rose, gold, violet. The library hummed low and peaceful, that gentle static of parchment and turning pages surrounding them like fog.
Briar was halfway through annotating a footnote about potion stabilisers. Barty was halfway to crawling directly into her lap.
He’d inched closer with every passing moment. What started as a shoulder brush was now full upper-arm contact, their thighs pressed together beneath the table, his head tilted in the most annoyingly fond way a person could ever possibly tilt it. He was doing nothing. Just sitting there. Staring.
“You’re not studying,” she muttered, scribbling in her notes with increasing ferocity.
“I’m observing.”
“Observe your textbook, then.”
“I’d rather observe your eyebrows.”
“Barty.”
“They’re very expressive. Do you do them yourself or are they naturally judgmental?”
She elbowed him. He giggled.
He leaned his head closer, bumping her gently. “C’mon, Briar. Take a break. Live a little. Do a cartwheel. Make out with me.”
“In your dreams.”
“Every single one.”
She tried to stay annoyed. Really, she did. But Barty was impossible not to react to. He was all smirks and soft curls, unspoken chaos and too-long limbs, a brilliant bastard who refused to study but remembered everything.
She underlined another sentence.
He sighed.
And then, without warning, without transition, he went quiet.
Still.
Briar blinked, halfway through a sentence. “What.”
Barty didn’t answer right away. His expression had changed. Less smug. More serious. Still soft, but something behind the eyes—nervousness? Resolve?
“Barty?”
He leaned forward suddenly, like something in him had decided fuck it.
“You know I like you, right?”
She froze. “Wh—”
“Don’t interrupt, I’m already spiralling,” he snapped lightly, cheeks flushed. “You know. You’ve known. I’ve made it so bloody obvious I might as well have spelled your name in enchanted rose petals on the Quidditch pitch.”
“Barty—”
“No. I’m finishing this. Let me have my moment.”
She opened her mouth again.
He pointed a finger in her face. “Don’t. I will bite you.”
She closed her mouth.
He inhaled sharply.
“I like you,” he said, softer this time. “I’ve liked you for ages. Like, since second year ages. You’re brilliant and frustrating and you make these faces when you concentrate that are so stupid and I want to kiss your stupid forehead when you’re anxious and I hate that I can’t focus when you’re around but I love that I get to be near you anyway. And we’ve been stuck in this... thing—this stupid, slow-motion, maybe-kinda-sorta-almost thing, and I need to know—”
He leaned closer, eyes intense.
“Do you like me?”
Briar swallowed. “I—”
“Yes or no,” he cut in, sharp. “Don’t dodge. No metaphors. No riddles. I can’t do another month of this maybes and ‘let’s just see.’ I’m losing my mind.”
She blinked, flustered, hot-cheeked. “I mean, I—look, it’s complicated—”
“Yes or no.”
“I’m not good at—this kind of thing—”
“Yes or no.”
“Barty—”
“Do you want to date me, Briar Rosewood, yes or no.”
“I—”
“Yes or—”
“YES!” she blurted.
The table went still.
The air shifted.
Every echo in the room seemed to pause for a beat too long.
Briar looked stunned by her own voice.
Barty’s mouth opened—then closed—then opened again like he’d just rebooted his entire internal system. His ears were red. His cheeks went from pink to cherry firetruck crimson in under five seconds. His knees bounced once under the table before he flung his arms around her, trapping her in an overexcited, full-body hug.
“You like me,” he whispered into her hair, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Holy shit, you like me.”
She squeaked. “Barty—air—”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling back only a little—just enough to cup her face gently in both ink-smudged hands.
He looked at her like she was a sunrise he thought he’d missed. Then, in a sweeping, dramatic gesture far more tender than he usually allowed himself, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Soft. Careful. Deliberate.
And then immediately pulled back, panicked.
“Was that okay?!” he asked, eyes wide. “Sorry—your OCD—fuck—I wasn’t thinking, I should’ve asked—do you need anything? I brought your wipes—wait—hang on—”
He was already digging into his bag, pulling out a crumpled packet of skin-safe wipes, a tiny bottle of sanitiser, a stress stone, two wrapped sweets, and a tiny folded note that just said you’re magic.
Briar touched her cheek where he’d kissed her. Then reached out, slowly, covering his frantic hand with hers.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m okay.”
He stilled.
Her thumb brushed against his.
She looked up at him and smiled—small, soft, real.
He melted.
And for once, Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t have a single thing to say.
They stayed like that for a while.
Fingers curled together, pinkies hooked. His hands warmer than she expected. Hers smaller than he thought. The kind of silence that felt earned, like a deep breath after a storm. Neither of them said anything, just watched each other with dazed, stupid grins and wide, disbelieving eyes like they were both waiting for someone to wake them up.
It was soft. Quiet. Gentle.
Until, of course, Barty ruined it.
He leaned in, eyes still all fond and gooey, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I want to make out with you so bad right now. Like—obnoxiously. Like full-on, shove-my-tongue-down-your-throat levels of bad.”
Briar choked. Went bright red instantly. Her eyes flew open wide, face catching fire in real-time.
“BARTEMIUS CROUCH.”
“What?!” He laughed, looking delighted. “I said it quietly! That’s restraint!”
“You’re disgusting!”
“You like that I’m disgusting.”
She tried to scold him—really, she did—but she was giggling too hard to be effective. She buried her face in her hands, nearly knocking over her quill pot, shoulders shaking with laughter. Her whole body curled in on itself with mortified joy.
He beamed like he’d just discovered a new spell.
“I knew you’d laugh,” he grinned, cocky and lovestruck. “You always do when you’re flustered. It’s adorable. Horrible. Criminal.”
“You’re the worst person alive,” she mumbled behind her hands.
“I’m your worst person alive,” he said, leaning in again, forehead nearly touching hers. “...Right?”
Her heart stuttered. Her laugh faded, softening into something tender again.
“Right,” she whispered.
He rocked back slightly, grin turning boyish and unsure. “So... Can I, like... Can I officially ask? Like properly?”
She blinked.
“Briar Rosewood, would you—please, for the love of all things holy—be my girlfriend? So I can tell everyone you’re taken and stop threatening to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower about it?”
She stared at him. All flushed cheeks and wild curls and darting eyes.
Then she smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I will.”
Barty screamed.
Not loudly—just this chaotic little noise that exploded out of him like a kettle going off. Then he jumped to his feet, fists in the air, practically vibrating with excitement.
“YES!” he shouted, earning glares from two fifth-years and a scolding shhh! from Madam Pince in the far corner. “YES, HA, SUCK IT, I’M THE KING OF EVERYTHING.”
“Oh my god,” Briar giggled.
“SUCK IT, LOSERS! SHE’S MINE NOW!” he shouted at absolutely no one.
“Barty shut up, it’s the library!”
“I’M IN LOVE AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT.”
“You literally just asked me out.”
“Semantics!”
He spun in a circle and slammed back down into his seat, panting like he’d just run a marathon, hands braced dramatically on the desk. “I am... emotionally fulfilled. And possibly dying.”
Briar shook her head, resting her chin in her palm, watching him like he was her favourite strange animal.
“You’re an idiot.”
“And you’re my girlfriend, which makes you complicit in my idiocy.”
She rolled her eyes, still smiling like she couldn’t stop.
And then—she happened to glance at the library’s wall clock.
She squinted.
Then frowned.
Then looked again.
“…Shit.”
Barty paused mid-victory flex. “What?”
“She’s been gone too long.”
“Who?”
“Aria.”
Barty blinked. “Wait. Like—your Aria?”
“No, Barty, my other Aria. Yes.”
He went still.
She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “She’s been gone over an hour. She was just supposed to keep Jamie distracted, not kidnap him.”
Barty paled. “Oh no.”
Briar stood quickly, gathering her things. “Something’s wrong.”
“She’s up to something,” Barty said, eyes wide. “Oh god, she’s definitely up to something.”
“She always does this,” Briar muttered. “Last time she vanished for an hour she came back with a cursed stuffed owl and three detentions.”
“She once swapped all the Slytherin bedsheets with self-replicating glitter fabric,” Barty added, scrambling after her. “I saw Snape cry.”
“We have to find her.”
“Oh, definitely.”
They both took off, practically running for the doors.
Behind them, a second-year looked up from her arithmancy notes and muttered to no one in particular, “...That’s not gonna end well.”
They were halfway through the fourth corridor when they heard the screaming.
Not the normal Hogwarts kind—not Peeves-related shrieking, or Quidditch-fanatic chants, or enchanted bagpipes having an identity crisis. No. This was pure carnage. Feral. Human. Furious.
Briar and Barty skidded to a halt.
Then came the thunder of footsteps—students darting past them, breathless and wild-eyed, yelling things like “She’s gone mental!” and *“Is that Sirius Black bleeding from the ear?!”
“Oh no,” Briar whispered.
“Oh yes,” Barty corrected, and took off running.
“Wait!” Briar cried, chasing him down.
They burst into the courtyard and were immediately hit by the buzz of a gathering crowd—half the school, it looked like, gathered in a ragged circle around something. Students were screaming, laughing, gasping. Some had climbed benches for a better view. A few were chanting. A portrait had stuck its head out a window and fainted.
Briar shoved her way forward, panic rising. “Let me through!”
Barty followed, yelling, “Coming through! I’m her emotional support girlfriend’s boyfriend!”
They finally broke through the circle—and saw it.
There she was.
ARIA PARKINSON.
Wearing her ripped band tee, fuzzy socks, and the expression of a vengeful god.
On top of Sirius Black. Absolutely beating the shit out of him.
“YOU INSIDE-OUT-FACED LITTLE INBRED PIECE OF SHIT!” Aria screamed, fist slamming down with a sound that echoed across the courtyard.
Sirius shoved her off with a grunt and lunged, grabbing a fistful of her hair. “YOU DERANGED GREMLIN—YOU BIT ME YOU—”
“I’LL BITE YOUR FUCKING NIPPLE OFF!”
They rolled. They screamed. They wrestled. Aria punched him again—square in the jaw—then shoved her fingers in his mouth with a war cry like a banshee. Sirius yanked her back by her hair. She kicked him in the shin. He screamed. She laughed. Blood was involved.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!” Briar shrieked.
James Potter was trying to reach in—“Sirius, for the love of—”
Remus Lupin was hovering awkwardly—“Maybe we just let them work it out?”
Peter Pettigrew was hiding behind a Hufflepuff girl and crying.
“GET HER OFF HIM!” James yelled.
“I’M TRYING, SHE’S GOT THE STRENGTH OF A DERANGED GNOME!” Sirius howled.
“YEAH I DO, BITCH!” Aria screamed, spitting out a mouthful of dirt.
Barty, watching with gleaming eyes and reverence, fist-pumped into the air.
“THAT’S MY GIRL!” he howled. “KICK HIM IN THE FACE, YOU LITTLE LEGEND!”
“Barty, please!” Briar gasped, clutching his arm. “Don’t encourage her—”
“WHY NOT?! LOOK AT HER GO!”
“Not again,” Briar groaned, scanning the crowd. “Not in front of the entire bloody school—”
Then—“Lucas!”
Aria’s younger brother stood nearby, arms crossed, looking almost bored.
Lucas blinked. “No clue. Just got here. Thought maybe someone’d died.”
Briar groaned louder. “Great. Amazing. I love it here.”
She scanned the perimeter again, heart hammering. Her eyes locked onto a cluster under the archway—Regulus Black standing with Dorcas Meadowes, Evan Rosier, and Pandora. Dorcas was watching the fight with wide, sparkling eyes, biting her fist like it was porn. Evan looked like he’d just won five galleons. Pandora was calmly eating a toffee apple.
“Barty—” Briar said, pointing.
He was already moving. “On it.”
They stormed up together.
“Oi, cult of angsty purebloods,” Barty snapped. “What the hell did your brother do?”
Regulus raised one eyebrow. “Which one?”
“Don’t get smart with me, Cleopatra.”
Evan snorted. Pandora offered Briar the rest of her toffee apple. She politely declined.
Regulus sighed. “Sirius was pulling pranks. Standard bullshit. Started targeting first-years.”
“Jamie?” Briar asked sharply.
“Yeah. Aria was with him. She yelled. Sirius insulted her. Then insulted her brother. Then insulted both of them.”
Briar’s jaw clenched.
Regulus shrugged. “So naturally she tackled him like a rabid animal and started punching. I believe we’ve reached round three.”
“She screamed something about his skull being shaped like a cursed potato,” Evan added. “Which was, honestly, pretty poetic.”
Dorcas, dreamy-eyed, whispered, “She’s so powerful.”
Briar turned to Barty, eyes wide. “We need to get in there.”
Barty looked giddy. “Or we let it play out—”
“Barty.”
“Right. Yes. Responsible. Mature. Got it. Let’s go stop the fight.”
They both turned and sprinted toward the melee, ready to do what they always ended up doing:
Damage control. Because Aria Parkinson loved hard, fought harder, and when it came to the people she cared about—she never held back.
Briar barely had time to yell “Don’t—” before Barty lunged into the fray like an overexcited golden retriever in a mosh pit.
“I’VE GOT HER!” he howled heroically, and then—
Hoisted.
Aria let out a shriek of rage so feral it startled nearby crows from the trees. Her boots kicked wildly in the air as Barty hauled her backwards by the armpits, her fists still flailing toward Sirius Black’s face as if she could reach him on pure wrath energy alone.
“PUT ME DOWN YOU TRAITOR!” Aria screamed, struggling like a banshee. “I’M NOT DONE! I’M NOT DONE! LET ME AT HIM!”
Sirius, panting and bloodied, scrambled backwards across the courtyard on his hands and feet like a spider in distress.
James lunged forward to cover him. “Someone get Dumbledore!”
Remus tried to pull his wand out, then hesitated. “Should we... stun her?”
Peter was hiding behind a statue again.
“I WILL PERSONALLY SKIN ALL FOUR OF YOU!” Aria shrieked, waving her arms in the air like a demon puppet. “*I HATE YOUR STUPID FACES! I HATE YOUR STUPID NICKNAMES!**”
Briar darted forward, hands out, trying to be the voice of reason.
“Aria, please, breathe—”
“SHUT UP, FORKS!” Aria bellowed, pointing dramatically at James. “WHO EVEN NAMES THEMSELVES AFTER KITCHENWARE?!”
“Excuse me?!” James yelped.
“AND YOU,” Aria screeched, rounding on Remus. “*YOU FURRY LITTLE LIAR! DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOUR ‘FULL MOON SICK DAYS!’”
Remus went pale.
“AND YOU,” she hissed at Sirius, spitting mad. “YOU INBRED, WHORE-BLOODED PANTENE COMMERCIAL, I’M GONNA BURY YOU IN THE LAKE!”
“Is she talking to me?” Sirius cried.
“YES I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU MUGGLE-CURSED COCKROACH!”
Peter poked his head out.
“AND YOU—” Aria shrieked.
“No no no,” Peter gasped, ducking again.
“YOU RAT-FACED COWARD WITH THE PERSONALITY OF A WET SPOON—”
“ARIA!” Briar yelled, shoving through students, reaching her girlfriend just as Barty began to wheeze with laughter.
“Yeah, listen to my girlfriend, you pint-sized lunatic!” Barty cackled, still holding her aloft like a particularly angry duffel bag. “She said breathe!”
Aria froze.
Mid-flail.
Mid-scream.
Blinking.
“…Wait,” she said, squinting over her shoulder. “Did you just say—girlfriend?”
Briar blinked too. “...Barty—”
He just grinned. “I did.”
Aria twisted around in his arms like an owl having an epiphany. “You two are TOGETHER NOW?!”
Both nodded.
She gasped like she’d been personally proposed to. “OH MY GOD—YOU’RE—YOU’RE—” She grabbed Barty’s face with her palms. “YOU’RE DATING? YOU'RE DATING-DATING?!”
“Aria—”
She was already kicking her legs excitedly. “I AM SO PROUD. I KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN. I MANIFESTED THIS.”
“You did nothing,” Barty wheezed, still holding her.
“I DREW A LITTLE DOODLE OF YOU TWO HOLDING HANDS LAST WEEK—”
“Oh my god,” Briar groaned, face buried in her hands.
“You were supposed to be watching Jamie!” she cried finally.
Aria perked up. “Oh, he left with his friends before the fight started. I made sure. I’m not irresponsible, Briar.”
“You started a brawl, Aria.”
“I had excellent reasons!”
“You tackled a Black!”
“I’d tackle a centaur for my brother!”
At that moment, Barty finally set her down on her feet. Her boots hit the ground with a thump. She stood, brushed herself off like she hadn’t just tried to murder a Gryffindor, then—
Gasped.
“LUCAS!”
“Gods, no,” Lucas muttered, already being enveloped.
Aria launched across the courtyard like a missile of glitter and chaos and pure sibling adoration.
She grabbed him—this unimpressed, scowling, fourth-year boy almost the same height as her—and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cuddling him and swaying with wild affection.
“MY BABY!” she cried, peppering his hair with kisses. “My favourite person! My bloodline! My angel, my flower, my tiny little goblin prince—”
Lucas stood there. Completely deadpan. Arms hanging at his sides.
He did not move. He did not push her away.
“Stop,” he muttered.
She smooched his cheek. “Never. You’re so soft.”
“You smell like cigarettes and blood.”
“You smell like sunshine.”
Briar leaned against Barty’s shoulder, watching in exhausted affection.
“She’s insane,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” Barty said, slipping an arm around her waist.
⋆˚꩜｡ Teen to mature (Chap 7 & 8 contains sensual content)
⋆˚꩜｡ slow burn, romance, hurt/comfort, slice of life.
⋆˚꩜｡ fem! reader
⋆˚꩜｡ 8 parts!
#minato namikaze x reader #minato x reader #college au #modern au #slow burn #taylor swift inspired #enchanted au #fanfic series #naruto fanfiction #library love #emotional intimacy #romantic angst #slow burn love story #reader insert fanfic #soft boy minato #writingblr #fic recs #long fanfic #enemies to lovers lite #crush to lovers
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The library at 5:46 p.m. always had a certain glow to it.
Maybe it was the way the setting sun filtered through the arched glass, spilling over the long tables and catching dust in the air like glitter. Maybe it was the quiet—not sterile, but alive with turning pages, fingers tapping softly against laptop keys.
Or maybe it was just this season. Autumn. The golden hours always feel like they mean more when the air is colder, like the light is trying harder not to fade.
You were here for a reason.
Political Science 230: Comparative Democratic Systems. The midterm was next week.
You hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t eaten properly either. Your planner had three different pen colors bleeding into the margins, all screaming for time you didn’t have. You were three chapters behind, one existential crisis deep, and dangerously close to losing your scholarship if you didn’t keep your GPA steady.
You hated that it came to this.
Cramming at golden hour, when you should’ve been walking through campus wrapped in a scarf, sipping shitty vending machine hot cocoa, talking to someone about nothing.
Instead—highlighted text and underlined section headers.
Fun.
You were deep into your second page of notes when someone sat down across from you.
No sound. No chair scraping. No hey, is this seat taken?
You looked up, pen still in hand, half-prepared to glare—
—and froze.
He was looking down, flipping through a thick mechanical engineering textbook. Tall. Blonde. Tousled hair, the kind that looked like it had volume without product (and you hated that you noticed that).
Sharp nose. High cheekbones.
Button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows.
You blinked.
He didn’t even look up.
No eye contact. No apology for invading your table.
Rude, you thought.
But then—His eyes lifted. Just briefly. Blue, light, startling.
You met them.
Just for a second.
He smiled.
Not flirtatious. Not smug.
Just… surprised. Like he didn’t expect you to be real.
And then he looked back down at his book.
You stared for longer than you should have.
Who the hell was this guy?
You’d been in this library every other afternoon this semester and never seen him. And it wasn’t like you didn’t notice people. Your brain had a little filing system:
Architecture bro with the headphones
Girl with pink Crocs and seventeen highlighters
Couple that always makes out in the reading room like it’s not 2 PM on a Tuesday
But him?
New.
Unfiled.
Unfamiliar.
And yet—
Why did he feel like a memory?
You went back to your notes. Or tried.
But every few minutes, you’d feel it.
That tiny prickle on your skin.
You’d glance up and—there it was.
He was watching you.
Not in a weird way. Not lingering.
Just these fleeting glances, like he was confirming something.
As if you were a question he didn’t know he’d been asking.
After maybe twenty minutes, he leaned over.
“Sorry,” he said. His voice was low. Warm. Just a little hoarse like he didn’t speak often.
You looked up, startled. “Yeah?”
“I don’t mean to be weird. I just—” he gestured vaguely, eyes flicking to your open notebook. “You have really clean notes.”
You blinked. “…what?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know that’s random.”
You stared at him. “You were watching me because of my notes?”
He had the audacity to look embarrassed. Rubbing his jaw, glancing down.
“Well. That and, uh… you looked really focused.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You know you sat at my table, right?”
“Technically,” he countered, “these are all public-use spaces.”
“Wow.” You laughed. “That’s the nerdiest flex I’ve ever heard.”
That made him grin—bright and real. A little crooked. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at too long.
“I’m Minato,” he said, holding out a hand. “Minato Namikaze.”
You took it before you could think. His grip was warm, calloused.
“Y/N,” you said. “Poly Sci major. Possibly dying.”
“Engineering,” he replied. “Possibly already dead.”
