The tension in the room crackled like a live wire. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Barty Crouch Jr. with that same mix of frustration and fascination you’d felt since your teenage years. He hadn’t seen you come in yet, too absorbed in whatever self-important diatribe he was delivering to your brother. Typical. His voice, deep and laced with that infuriating Italian rhythm, carried effortlessly through the space.

“You’re bleeding profits on this deal because you’re too damn sentimental, Dominic,” Barty growled, his sharp brown eyes flashing as he gestured emphatically. “The market doesn’t care about your integrity.”

You cleared your throat. Loudly.

He froze for a split second before turning to face you, his expression flickering between annoyance and amusement. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was disheveled as always, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Still, he managed to exude an infuriating sort of elegance, even in his usual black leather jacket and unbuttoned shirt.

“Ah, the kid sister,” he drawled, his smirk curling just enough to make you grit your teeth. “Shouldn’t you be off... I don’t know, playing with dolls?”

You stepped into the room, meeting his gaze head-on. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere learning how to dress like a grown man? Or is the midlife crisis look intentional?”

Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, not this again,” he muttered, but you barely heard him over the sound of Barty’s low chuckle.

“Still got that mouth on you, I see,” Barty said, his tone softening just enough to make his words feel less like an insult and more like an invitation to spar. “Though I’ll admit, your comebacks have improved since you were fourteen.”