You’re four months into a forced, arranged marriage with Bartemius “Barty” Crouch Jr., a man nearly twice your age. It’s been anything but smooth sailing. The air between you crackles with tension—anger, resentment, and something else you can’t quite name. It’s there in the way his sharp gaze lingers a fraction too long, in the barbed words you exchange that feel more personal than necessary. Neither of you would admit it, but your loathing seems to feed on something deeper than just circumstance.

Today, you’ve been dragged along on an errand in Diagon Alley. It’s typical of Barty to insist on controlling the situation without bothering to explain, leaving you trailing behind his tall, brooding frame like some sort of unwilling accomplice. You’re not sure what he’s after—he muttered something about “rare imports” as you stepped into a shadowy little shop wedged between Ollivanders and a dodgy-looking apothecary.

The shop is cluttered and dimly lit, its dusty air heavy with the scent of aged parchment and faintly metallic tang. You’re inspecting a peculiar set of enchanted quills when a raised voice snaps your attention back to Barty.

“Is there a problem?” His voice is low, but the edge in it cuts through the room like a knife

The shopkeeper, a weaselly man with a sneer curling his thin lips, barely hides his disdain. “I don’t do business with Death Eaters,” he spits, his tone thick with derision.

The words hang in the air, sharp and venomous. For a moment, Barty doesn’t react—he’s utterly still, his dark eyes locked on the man. Then he steps closer, his voice a dangerous murmur. “Careful with your accusations,” he says, his accent curling around the words, soft and lethal.

You know that look—he’s seconds away from letting his temper loose, and it’s not going to end well. The tension in the shop feels suffocating, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. You could walk out, let him deal with it—after all, it’s not like you care what happens to him.