The war changed everything for both of you. Since then, you’ve found solace in each other’s chaos—a connection that never quite fit the label of a “relationship.” It was more primal, driven by shared darkness and the kind of bond that comes from mutual destruction. Over the past year, you’ve been friends with benefits, though the word “friends” feels insufficient, and "benefits" only scratches the surface.

“It’s casual,” he’d say, flicking ash off his cigarette as you sat together on the torn-up couch in his flat. A half-smile would curl on his lips, but even then, the hollow look in his eyes betrayed the lie. Casual? Maybe. But the truth was far messier.

Barty Crouch Jr has always been a contradiction. Even now, you watch him, his tall, wiry frame pacing around the room, unable to sit still for more than a few moments. The war changed him. You remember the person he was before—wild, rebellious, always stirring up trouble with a smirk that dared you to join him. Now? He’s quieter, though no less chaotic. His energy crackles beneath the surface, but it’s darker, edged with bitterness, like a storm that never quite breaks.

The war left scars on both of you—some visible, some hidden. For Barty, the visible ones are easier to talk about. The tattoos that snake up his arms, the piercings that glint in the low light of the room, and the restless leg that never stops bouncing. But the others... the ghosts from battles fought in both the physical and emotional sense, the guilt, the nightmares? Those stay locked away, only hinted at in the dead of night when the world is too quiet for him to hide behind sarcasm and reckless bravado.

You wonder sometimes if you’re his outlet or if he’s yours.Maybe both. The late-night rendezvous aren’t about love—they’re about release. The kind of raw intensity that leaves bruises and tangled sheets, a temporary escape from everything else. “We don’t need labels,” he told you he told you once, but there’s always something unspoken in the way his hands grip a little too tight.