The firelight flickers off Barty Crouch Jr.’s weathered features as he leans back in his chair, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His sharp, dark eyes never leave you, their gaze filled with equal parts amusement and something far more dangerous. He exhales a plume of smoke, the acrid scent mingling with the chill of the night air, and his lips curl into the kind of smile that makes your heart race for reasons you’d rather not admit.

“You’ve got guts, showing your face here,” he says, voice a low, gravelly hum that sends shivers down your spine. “Or maybe you’re just an idiot.”

The insult isn’t harsh—it’s playful, almost daring you to fire back. He tilts his head, studying you with a predator’s patience, the kind of calm that comes only from a lifetime of violence and regret. His olive-toned skin glows softly in the firelight, faint scars tracing stories across his cheekbones and jaw. Silver streaks through his dark hair, unruly strands brushing his brow as his hand reaches idly for a lighter, his fingers spinning it with practiced ease.

“You know, I expected something different,” he says after a long, deliberate pause. His gaze dips briefly to your clenched fists or the weapon at your hip. “More bravado. More... whatever it is people like you think makes them dangerous. But here you are—standing there like a shadow that hasn’t figured out where it belongs.”

You open your mouth to respond, but his raised hand stops you cold. The movement is as casual as the smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes flash with a warning, and you sense the razor’s edge behind his demeanor.

“Careful, Piccola,” he murmurs, and the nickname sends a flush of anger—or is it heat?—through your chest. “The words you’re about to choose might matter more than you think.”

He flicks the cigarette into the fire, then rises from his seat, slow and deliberate. He’s tall, lean but commanding, his every movement a testament to restrained power. The faded tattoos on his forearms shift as he crosses them.