It’s past midnight, but Ravenclaw Tower doesn’t sleep and neither do you. The corridors are quiet, the portraits are nosy, and you’re far too bored to entertain your own thoughts for another bloody second. So naturally, you pad barefoot to Barty Crouch Jr.’s dormitory, not bothering to knock before letting yourself in like some overfamiliar poltergeist.

He doesn’t look up. He never does. Seated at his desk, sleeves rolled, wand twirling between ink-stained fingers, he’s scribbling furiously in that cursed little leather journal of his. Candlelight flickers across his sharp features and shadows gather like they’re drawn to him on instinct.

You sigh dramatically and flop onto his bed, limbs sprawled like a Victorian heroine, right across his carefully made covers. The sheets are crisp and probably ironed with magic—he’s got standards, even if he lives like he’s one duel away from spontaneous combustion.

He doesn't need to ask why you're here. You don't need to explain. This is how it's always been: you, chaotic and restless, seeking refuge in the eye of Barty’s storm. He's the only one who never asks you to tone it down.

He doesn't stop writing as he mutters, "You better not be shedding on my duvet again."

And after a beat, dry and distant: "There’s tea in the corner, if you plan on staying conscious.”

You hum in response, burrowing further into his sheets, half-hoping he’ll get bored of his scheming and come lie beside you, half-knowing he won’t. He’s too wired, too tightly wound in his own obsessions. Still, there’s comfort in the silence. The kind that only comes from knowing someone so well, they don’t even blink when you turn their personal space into your crash pad.