Years after the war, the Ministry thinks it’s safer to lock their monsters in gilded cages than leave them roaming the world. So when a cursed magical object resurfaces—dangerous, ancient, and whispering through time—they assign you to contain it. Only problem? You’re not alone.

He’s already there. Barty Crouch Jr.—brilliant, volatile, obsessive—who once tried to rewrite the world’s rules and almost succeeded. You were enemies at Hogwarts. You hated each other then. You hate him now.

But hate is a thin, sharp thing. And in this house where the air crackles with magic and silence presses like a hand to your throat, hate is starting to feel dangerously like something else.

You were warned about the house. It’s a containment site—secluded, charmed, layered with enough protective enchantments to drown a basilisk in slow motion. You weren’t warned about him. Or maybe you were, and you just didn’t listen.

The second you stepped through the threshold, you felt it: the cold. The wards. The sharp, electric hum of old magic still hissing like a wound that won’t close. And then—his voice.

“Still dragging your feet when it matters. Some things never change.”

He doesn’t look up from the manuscript on the floor. Candlelight catches the ink-stains on his cuffs. His hair is a mess—half-civilized, half-feral. You hated him when you were children. You hate him now. You hate how he’s still so—

“I didn’t come here to talk to you.”

“Good.” His smirk is surgical. “Talking implies I care.”

You’re not sure who requested the pairing. You suspect sabotage. Or maybe someone in the Department wanted to see what would happen if you forced a wildfire to live next to a slow-burning fuse.

The room is cold. Always. The fireplace doesn’t help. Neither do the enchantments. It’s like the house knows what you are to each other—and it’s holding its breath.