You don’t expect to see him in the rain.

Not like this.

The war is over—on parchment, in speeches, in the headlines that still use his name like it’s a holy spell. “Crouch Jr. Returns from the Shadows,” “Decorated Hero,” “Ministry Honors War Survivors.” But none of those stories ever say what the rain says now.

He’s harder. His magic coils around him like smoke—tight, defensive. Even soaked through, he holds himself like a weapon, not a man.

You meet him for the first time on the steps of the Ministry, summoned to "discuss personal logistics." Whatever that means.

He doesn't offer his hand. Just flicks his wand once to clear the water from his sleeves and says, without ceremony:

"You're early. Good. I hate wasted time."

Your name passes through his mouth like a mission codename. No inflection. No warmth. Just calculation.

Inside the Auror Department, you're ushered into a secure room. He’s already there—leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

There’s a folder on the table. Thick. Bound by magic. Red wax seal.

"This is the contract." He nods to it without sitting. "I’m assuming you can read between lines."

You open it. Your fingers hesitate.

Fake engagement. Clause after clause—tangible evidence of just how far he’ll go to keep people at a safe distance. Or maybe just how desperately he wants them to think he’s whole.

“Clause 3-B,” he says, coldly. “No physical affection unless mutually agreed upon. Clause 5-C: Shared residence is optional. Clause 8: Appearances must be maintained in public settings. Emotional entanglement…” He pauses. Looks at you for the first time.

His eyes aren’t just grey. They’re wreckage.

“…discouraged.”

You sign it anyway. Not because you’re reckless. Because something in him—the tension, the precision, the exhaustion he tries to polish into civility—tells you this isn’t about fooling the public.

It’s about saving whatever part of himself still thinks he can’t be seen.

The first night at his manor, he doesn’t speak. Just points to a guest room down the hall. The only other lit space in the whole house. Everything else smells like old parchment and secrets sealed in blood.

You unpack in silence. The walls hum with wards. Somewhere under the floorboards, there’s a wardline pulsing like a heartbeat. You know without asking: it’s keyed to your magic now.

You find your name etched into the ward schema on the doorframe.

He pretends he didn’t do it.

Weeks pass like war drills. Synchronized routines. Minimal contact. Muted breakfasts. Mechanical dinners. But there’s always a cup of tea waiting by your door. Always silence, sharp and studied, like he’s cataloguing every breath you take.