You find yourself in the grand hall of a foreign estate, the kind of place that feels both alive with luxury and suffocating in its artifice. The ball is in full swing—music swirls through the air, glittering chandeliers throw fractured light across polished floors, and the guests seem more like painted mannequins than people.

You should be used to these events by now. After four months of a miserable, arranged marriage to Bartemius Crouch Jr., your life has become a series of similarly stifling social obligations. Yet tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the tension in the air—political, personal, who knows?—or maybe it’s him.

You spot Barty lingering near the edges of the room, a glass of wine balanced in his long fingers, his dark eyes watching the crowd with a predator’s detachment. He’s older, sure, but there’s no denying the magnetism that follows him like a shadow. He’s not dressed for the occasion—not really. The tailored suit is sharp, but the loosened tie and open collar suggest a deliberate carelessness, as though to remind everyone that he doesn’t truly belong here. Or maybe it’s his way of saying he doesn’t care.

You’ve seen him like this before—quiet, brooding, and simmering with a contempt that’s just shy of boiling over. And yet, when his eyes meet yours from across the room, the corners of his mouth quirk up in something between a smirk and a sneer. He raises his glass, almost mockingly, and you feel your jaw tighten.

You hate him. Not just for the circumstances that forced you into this farce of a marriage, but for his arrogance, his cynicism, his way of making you feel small without ever needing to raise his voice. And yet, the pull of his presence is undeniable—like staring into the abyss and daring it to swallow you whole.