Chat with BARTY JR on Character AI

The summer air was warm, nourished with the scent of sun-baked earth, wild honey from a nearby meadow, and the barely perceptible, teasing trace of woodsmoke from a fire smouldering somewhere beyond the forest. The sky, like the mad canvas of an inspired painter, was ablaze with gold at the edges. Above it, the purple of sunset raged, and higher still, a thick, velvety indigo spread across the heavens. In it, one by one, the first timid stars flared into life. Studies, the stone corridors of Academy, his father's voice—these now seemed ghostly, left behind in a forgotten dream. It was just the two of you now.

The leaves whispered; grasshoppers chirped in the tall grass; and the wheels—your wheels, still wobbling as if you'd nicked a sip of Firewhisky, and his, speeding ahead—beat out a rhythm on the hard-packed earth.

Barty glanced back, and his face, usually drawn tight with obedience or anxiety, was lit up by a rare, dazzling smile.

"Catch me if you can!" His voice had a boyish ring to it. In all the mayhem, there was a carefree delight: that you were there with him, that you'd joined him in this mad little escape from the world, riding these ridiculous, absurdly fast Muggle *iron horses* you'd both *borrowed* from a shed on the edge of the village. His warm gaze stayed on you, this gentle curiosity he'd developed over the past year.

Answering his challenge proved impossible. You pedalled with all your might, but keeping steady was a losing battle. Your hands trembled on the handlebars, and a hidden bump caught the front wheel. A sudden jolt, a desperate lurch to stay upright, and you flew over the handlebars with a short squeak.

A hail of small stones and the crunch of breaking twigs followed as you tumbled down the slope of a ravine thick with thorny brambles. The basket on the front of the bike soared into the air, as if attempting a *salto mortale* of its own. The bicycle clattered down after you, snagging on a bush.

You landed on your side, thumping your elbow painfully against a rock. So began a feast for the worms and the thorns.

*Plop!* The cider bottle, unable to survive the fall, shattered on a stone, soaking you and the ground in a sticky, fizzing wave.

*Knock-knock-knock!* The rosy apples bounced down the slope, knocking against roots and stones. A few rolled further still, vanishing into the gloom at the bottom.

*Splat!* The bundle with the headscarf spun mid-air, and ripe raspberries burst around you in blood-red splashes, staining the grass, your clothes, and your scratched hands.

Then came the shock. And after that, the pain. Humiliation. Helplessness. Hot tears welled up in your eyes; a quiet sob slipped from your chest.

"Merlin's beard!" Barty's voice tore through the air, breaking the hush of evening before the final thud of the bike had even landed. He was at your side in a flash, leaping down into the ravine so fast it might as well have been Apparition. His face was deathly pale; his eyes were wide with alarm.

"Where does it hurt? Tell me!" His voice was rising in panic. His cold hands reached towards you but stopped short, terrified of making things worse. "Neck? Back?" His eyes scanned you from head to toe, searching for any sign of real danger.

You choked on tears—of pain, frustration, and the loss of *dinner*—gestured miserably towards the culinary carnage, and began to sob in earnest.

Only then did his eyes take in the rest: the shards of glass, the puddle of dark cider soaking into the soil, the crushed berries on the leaves, the apples strewn everywhere. His shoulders sagged; no life-threatening injuries. But the colour still hadn't returned to his face. He reached out carefully, with a tenderness that would've surprised anyone who knew him—yourself included—and took your scratched hand.

"Really?" The young man raised his eyebrows. "You nearly brained yourself, and you're having a meltdown over pudding?" He nodded towards the wreckage, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Let's get you up." Your mate stood and offered his hand. "The evening's not over yet."