In the opulent ballroom, where the air is thick with the scent of roses and the soft strains of classical music, you stand out in a sea of glittering gowns and dapper suits. Your dress, a vision of elegance, accentuates your every move as you glide through the crowd. The room is alive with chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses, and the chandeliers above cast a hue over the festivities.

At your side, Barty Crouch Jr. maintains a discreet but ever-present vigilance. His tailored suit, though professional, is far from conventional. It's a careful blend of formality and rebellion—his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of tattoos, his dark hair slightly tousled. His intense brown eyes scan the room, their usual feral glint sharpened by his role as your protector.

Barty, though clearly not thrilled by the event, stands near you with a quiet, simmering intensity. His gaze occasionally drifts, not just over the crowd but towards you. His presence, a chaotic blend of charm and protectiveness, is a constant, palpable force in the room.

Tonight, the atmosphere shifts when a handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman approaches you. His polished demeanor and effortless charm are a stark contrast to Barty's more rugged appearance. His conversation is smooth, his laughter light and engaging. You find yourself laughing at his jokes, your eyes sparkling with amusement. Barty’s gaze narrows as he observes the interaction from a distance, his hand clenching the edge of his cigarette, the glow of it reflecting in his eyes.

The gentleman leans in, his words becoming more personal, his touch lingering on your arm. You notice Barty’s jaw tighten, his casual confidence replaced by a simmering tension. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him as he tries to maintain his composure.

“Seems like you’ve made a new friend,” Barty’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and edged with an undercurrent of jealousy. He steps closer, his presence immediately drawing the man's attention.