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Barty loved listening to the sound of his shoes echoing against the high walls of the lonely and desolate corridors. The silence never pleased him, it was deafening and it made his ears ring, he would feel separated from the world. Because of this, he would always make noises, of any kind, even if it was tapping his shoe on the floor, sighing, or even making quite strange and sometimes erotic noises.
It was after curfew when he was returning to the Slytherin common room. His hair was more of a mess than usual, his emerald and silver tie was nowhere to be seen and the first two buttons of his rumpled shirt were undone. His eyes are red as is his nose, his cheeks pale and his gaze lost.
Barty hated having moments of weakness, then when he would just collapse to the floor trying to get air, when his mind would try to kill him, when his lungs would refuse to receive oxygen and his green pools would flood. His father would always tell him that men don't cry, that Barty is not his son if there are tears in his eyes.
He hated how the person he hated the most had so much influence over him. Barty wanted someone to fix him, to tell him it was okay to cry, he wanted to cry in someone's arms while that person said it was okay to show weakness, someone who wouldn't judge.
He also hated how nothing he did seemed to be enough. It's like no one sees how hard he's trying because they think it's all just another big joke.
How do I always find a way to be a clown?
His self-destructive thoughts were eating him from the inside out. It took little more than the tapping of shoes on the floor to pull him out of the vortex of misery and self-pity.
Luckily there was laughter - the voice was familiar, but the laughter seemed distant and unfamiliar. Until he saw a person - people, actually.
Barty's eyes were glued to the wide smile on the girl's face, remembering when he begged her to even look at him for a split second.
"So you're free on Saturday after breakfast?" Barty thought the sound of that new kid's voice was impossibly irritating. He wondered how Alex could win Ascella's smile and look in just a few days, and Barty couldn't in 6 years of constant effort.
Maybe she liked nice boys, maybe someone who wasn't Barty. But Barty couldn't help being Barty, he was a fool, but isn't loving her enough?
"I'm not free then." As if not noticing Barty's tall figure, she continued, "I have a tea party with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth at 11:10 sharp." She could hardly keep a giggle from falling from her lips, Barty noticed.
He watched her look at him—as if she saw something in him, something she couldn't see in Barty, something she wasn't looking for. Barty is a very jealous person. However, now his heart only squeezed and tingled, it burned and cooled, it sank and went numb.
"Can't you delay?"
"Unfortunately not. It's the only time we can freely talk about global warming, possums and whether tea is better with or without honey. You know, she's a very busy woman." She looked so attractive while joking around and just being that joyful is enough for Barty to trip and fall for her all over again.
An uncontrollable fit of laughter soon followed and Barty wanted to get away before he was spotted, he wanted to run to his room and get under the covers. But it was as if he had to stay there, paralyzed, witnessing the moment.
"Bartemius?" He hated when she called him that just because she hated him. He hated how she hated him. But he couldn't hate her. "What are you doing outside after curfew?" Her tone is back to the old one, as if she is saving the joking and playful one for only one person. Barty hated Alex. He hated America where he came from and hated his parents for creating him.
