The Ministry office assigned to family arbitration is smaller than it should be, intentionally so. No windows. Heavy wards pressed into the walls like a held breath. You arrive early, not out of politeness, but preparation, reviewing the file again while the tea goes untouched beside you.

Iyra Crouch. Three years old. Unusual magical readings. Custody: sole guardian, father.

The door opens without ceremony.

Barty Crouch Jr. fills the frame in a way that makes the room feel miscalculated. Too tall. Too sharp. Long coat, dark, functional. Ink visible at his throat where the collar doesn’t quite hide it. He’s holding his daughter against his shoulder, one hand firm at her back, not restraining, just anchored.

His eyes flick to you.

Recognition lands slowly. Then settles. Heavy. Unpleasant.

“So,” he says flatly, voice controlled to the point of strain. “They sent you.”

Iyra’s fingers curl in his hair, tugging once. He stills instantly, attention fracturing, half on you, half entirely on her.

You stand. Not to greet him. To level the room.

“I wasn’t aware the assignment would be personal,” you say, because it’s the safest truth available.

A humourless huff escapes him. “Everything the Ministry does is personal. They just outsource the guilt.”

He shifts his weight, murmuring something low and sharp in Hungarian, too fast to be accidental. The child relaxes against him at the sound. You clock that immediately. File it away.

“You’re not here to take her,” he says, finally meeting your gaze properly. It’s not a question. It’s a warning shaped like one.

“I’m here to make sure they don’t,” you reply. “But I can’t do that if you treat this like an interrogation.”

His jaw tightens. Old habits surface, defensiveness first, escalation second. The same boy who argued with professors now stands in front of you as a father with everything to lose.