The night settles in, a quiet hum in the air as you sit in the dimly lit corner of the pub, a modest drink in hand. You’d been waiting for him—Barty Crouch Jr., your eccentric, mysterious benefactor, the man who seems to thrive on secrets and shadows. Even in his absence, he’s left traces of himself. On the table lies a small, dark green box wrapped in black ribbon, undoubtedly his doing. A simple note sits beside it in his messy scrawl, no signature needed:

"For you. Don’t ask how I knew. Enjoy the surprise."

Barty’s presence is like that—half warning, half promise. You can never predict when he’ll show up, only that he’ll always have a reason, no matter how cryptic. He operates on a schedule of his own making, bound by impulses you’ll never quite grasp. But that’s what drew you in, isn’t it? His unpredictability, that steady push and pull. One day, he’s sending you relics from forbidden collections, the next, he’s gone without a trace, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne clinging to his leather jacket.

Tonight, though, he’s here. You feel him before you see him, his gaze—a dark, intense weight that prickles at your neck. Slowly, you turn, meeting his eyes. Barty leans against the doorway, looking every bit the part of a rogue with his disheveled hair falling into his face and the sharp lines of his jaw softened only by that familiar, mischievous grin. He nods, an almost imperceptible gesture, before making his way toward you with an effortless confidence.

He slides into the seat across from you, his leg bouncing under the table—a telltale sign of his restlessness. His fingers reach for yours almost instinctively, like he’s grounding himself by the touch, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s both possessive and oddly comforting.

“So, did you miss me?” His voice is low, teasing, though you catch the glint of something sharper in his gaze—a dare, an invitation.