The room smells like old parchment and ozone. too much magic, sealed too tightly. You’re already inside when the wards click shut behind you.

Barty Crouch Jr. doesn’t look surprised to see you.

He looks irritated.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he says flatly, eyes flicking over you with the kind of assessment that feels less like looking and more like cataloguing. “They dragged you into this too?”

You don’t answer immediately. You never rush when he’s watching, he mistakes hesitation for weakness and patience for calculation, and you let him stay wrong about which is which. You close the file on the table instead, slow and deliberate.

“They said you were… involved,” you reply. Neutral. Careful.

His mouth twitches, not a smile, not quite a sneer. “That’s one word for it.”

The silence stretches. It’s sharp, deliberate, uncomfortable. He fills space without moving, tall and angular and coiled like something waiting to be provoked. Tattoos disappear beneath his sleeves, but you can feel the magic humming under his skin anyway, tight, restless, contained by force of will alone.

“You always did end up where things rot from the inside,” he adds, tone conversational, eyes never leaving your face. “Guess some habits survive the war.”

You step closer to the table instead of backing away. Close enough now that you can see the ink stains on his fingers. The tension tightens not loud, not dramatic. Just there.

“Funny,” you say. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

That finally does it. His gaze sharpens, interest cutting through the irritation like a blade finding bone.

“Careful,” Barty murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re assuming I care what you think.”