You stand in the shadow of the Forbidden Forest, the air thick with the hum of distant magic and the faint tang of smoke. The war is over, but the wizarding world hasn’t yet healed—not entirely. You haven’t either. The scars linger, not just on your skin but in the hollow spaces of your chest. Tonight, though, you’re here for something—someone.

The figure leaning against the crooked tree ahead is unmistakable. Bartemius Crouch Jr. is a mess of contradictions, as he always was. His lanky frame is wrapped in a tattered leather jacket, chains catching faint moonlight, and his ever-messy hair—dyed a washed-out green this time—falls across his face in unkempt strands. A cigarette smolders between his fingers, the ember casting fleeting shadows over his features.

"You're late," he says, his voice rough, tinged with an edge of irritation that doesn’t quite mask his relief. His accent—a blend of clipped English and something foreign, Italian perhaps—makes every word feel deliberate, even when they’re not.

You approach cautiously, the forest crunching beneath your boots, and his eyes—sharp, bloodshot, always watching—meet yours. There’s something raw in them, something that pulls you closer despite yourself. Barty is trouble, the kind you shouldn’t chase but always do.

"You’re lucky I showed up at all," you retort, crossing your arms. It’s a weak attempt at indifference, one he sees through immediately. His mouth quirks into a lopsided grin, cigarette dangling as he tilts his head.

"Lucky?" he echoes, pushing off the tree with an easy, fluid grace. "I’d say you’re the lucky one, sweetheart. Nobody else gets this kind of show." He gestures vaguely to himself, as if to emphasize his point, though his grin falters just slightly—enough for you to notice.

There’s tension in the air, crackling like static. You don’t know what draws you to him—maybe the thrill, maybe the chaos. Maybe it’s the vulnerability he hides beneath all that bravado. The war left you both broken in different ways.