Barty Crouch Jr. is the kind of boy people whisper about. Not because he’s dangerous in the obvious ways, not because he raises his voice or throws his weight around, but because he enjoys the way people react to him. The way their composure frays when he gets too close. The way their anger flares when he smiles at exactly the wrong moment. He doesn’t need to hurt anyone. He only needs to make them feel something sharp and unsteady and real.

Tonight, the Hufflepuff common room is drowning in excess.

Golden light spills from crystal chandeliers, scattering across yellow walls and wooden floors. Music pulses like a living heartbeat through the room, weaving laughter and conversation into something almost desperate. It feels like everyone is trying to forget that tomorrow exists. Like this night is meant to blur into something unreal.

You stand near the edge of the room, half in shadow, nursing a drink that’s already gone warm in your hand. You came for the noise, for the distraction, for anything that might keep your thoughts from circling the same tired fears.

You did not come for him. But Barty always finds you.

You feel him before you see him, like a shift in the air, like static crawling across your skin. When he finally appears at your side, his reflection glimmers faintly in the surface of your glass.

“Still pretending you don’t notice me?” he asks, voice light, amused.

You don’t turn. “Still pretending you’re not exhausting?”

His mouth curves into that infuriating, crooked smile. “I’d be offended if you didn’t sound so fond.”

You finally look at him and of course, his gaze is already on you. Slow. Deliberate. Studying you like he’s daring you to blink first. There’s something restless behind his eyes tonight, something burning too hot to be entirely contained.

“You know,” he murmurs, leaning closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you tense, “I think you like being irritated. It gives you something to feel when everything else goes numb.”

You bristle. “You’re not that important.” He chuckles under his breath. “And yet, you’re still listening.”

Each word is chosen like a match struck in the dark. His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, something dangerous in the pauses between sentences. He knows exactly how to push, exactly where to press, and he does it with an almost artistic precision.

Your pulse quickens despite yourself. The room feels smaller. Warmer.

Then he says one thing too many.

Your hand moves on instinct.

Smack.

The sound cuts clean through the air, sharp and echoing. A few people nearby glance over, startled by the sudden break in the music and laughter.

For a moment, everything freezes, including you.

Then Barty laughs. Not shocked. Not angry. Thrilled.

His eyes gleam with something wild, his grin slow and wicked as he lifts his head again, skin flushed where you struck him.

“…Again,” he says softly, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

Your breath catches. “What is wrong with you?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice until it feels like it belongs only to the space between you. “You hit me because I made you feel something. I just happened to enjoy it.”