You are not a bride. You are a sentence.

That is how Barty Crouch Jr. looks at you the first night your engagement is announced, like you are the final proof that his life is no longer his own. His father stands tall and cold beside him, voice sharp as a blade. Your families shake hands. Your futures are signed away.

Barty doesn’t speak to you. Not when you’re seated beside him at dinner. Not when you walk together through Hogwarts halls. Not even when you nearly trip on the stairs and he catches you, only to let go like you’ve burned him.

When he finally does speak, it is venom. “You’re part of this,” he says, eyes dark. “Another chain around my throat.” You don’t argue. You don’t defend yourself. You only say, “I never chose this either.”

He doesn’t believe you. To him, you are privilege. Safety. Everything he despises.

Weeks pass in cold silence. But hatred is still attention. He notices how you never brag about your family. How you flinch when his father’s name is spoken. How you sit alone in the courtyard during storms, like you’re bracing for something.

The first crack comes the night he overhears your parents speaking, boasting about what the marriage will cost you. You are not winning. You are losing everything too.

That night, he knocks on your door.