You belong with me ~ Bartylus

3. Enchanting pictures

Barty

Professor Binns floats above the desk at the front of the classroom and is, Barty guesses, probably halfway through his monologue on wizards' conflicts with centaurs in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. His monotonous tone of voice favours inattention, if not outright lethargy.

Barty half-listens as he looks at the passing of clouds through the windows, jutting down some notes from time to time, and trying to not flare up every time some injustice towards the centaurs is mentioned. Which is often.

The unspoken premise underlying the History of Magic study is, of course, that all is in the past and impossible to repeat in the present so-called civilized society. As if a good part of the wizarding world was not ostracizing centaurs to this day, together with werewolves, elfs, merepeople, and many other populations aggregated, definitely improperly, under the category of magical creatures.

He goes to Advanced Arithmancy next. The other course forced upon him, together with Muggle Studies.

It's not that they're not interesting. Well, except for Arithmancy. He couldn't care less about Arithmancy. But History and Muggle Studies are. The thing is, he feels like he's wasting his time studying something he would need to work at the Ministry. Which he doesn't want to do.

Moreover, they are an imposition. Crushing his freedom. Crushing his independence. As if he were a puppet.

The professor keeps explaining, jutting down diagrams on the board. Barty stares at the endless succession of formulas, and he feels stuck.

Every minute, every word, tightens the chains around him. The chains holding him in place, constricting him, strangling him, banning his voice, suffocating him.

He suddenly tosses his bag over his shoulder and leaves without turning as the professor keeps calling him. If it's up to him, he won't come back to that class anyway.

He goes to the pitch and releases the snitch. As soon as he mounts his broom and the fresh air lashes at his face, he snaps out of the haze that fell over him. He darts behind the snitch as fast as he can. The faster he goes, the more he feels he's escaping the chains, leaving them behind. They're sharp against his skin, drawing blood as he's yanking at them. He can endure a few scratches. It's worth it.

He bolts from one side to the other of the pitch, almost touching the top of the stands, the wood of the hoops. He never catches the snitch, but going at breakneck speed behind it makes him feel light again.

When the wind has freed him enough, he goes back to the dorm.

"Where were you?" exclaims Regulus when he sees him. He knows how he must look.

"Are you okay?" says Evan. Pandora and Dorcas are also looking at him concerned, from their spots on Barty's bed.

"I went flying," he says.

He launches himself on Regulus, who was peacefully lying in his bed. Regulus was starting to protest, but Barty hugs him tight, and Regulus immediately hugs him back.

"You have to stop going to those classes," murmurs Regulus.

"How?"

"You could ask to change them. It's still early in the school year," says Evan.

"We can't see you like this anymore, babe," says Dorcas, going to sit beside him.

"I can't. I don't know what my father would be capable of."

"And conflicts are hard to endure for my mum," he adds murmuring.

"She would want what's best for you," says Regulus softly.