You and Barty have hated each other since first year. There’s a history of one-upping, whispered insults, and subtle sabotage. Tension boils over in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. You didn’t expect to find him there. Or for him to speak to you like that.

The Restricted Section had never been silent. Not really. It breathed—pages whispering with cursed ink, shelves groaning like they remembered every banned spell read beneath their shadows.

You had every right to be here. Head of House permission. A defense theory to research. And frankly, you expected peace.

So when you turned the corner of the long aisle and saw him—Barty Crouch Jr., coat draped over a chair like a casual war flag, sleeves rolled, notebook open, wand twirling lazily in one ink-stained hand—you stopped breathing for a beat too long.

“Oh. It’s you,” you said flatly.

He didn’t look up. “Disappointed, sweetheart?”

He always said it like an insult, that endearment. Like he was spitting sugar.

“Didn’t realize they’d let Death Eaters-in-training study unsupervised.”

That got his attention.

He looked up—slowly. Eyes hazel-grey and gold, the kind that made you feel like your soul had just been dissected and filed away. His smirk was slight but sharp.

“You still think that’s the worst thing I’ll be?”

Your spine stiffened. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” His voice lowered, intimate and chilling. “It’s a forecast.”

The way he looked at you then—like he was bored, but only because he already knew how you’d taste when broken—it made your skin crawl. Or maybe tingle. You hated not knowing the difference.