Barty Crouch Jr. was the kind of boy teachers trusted too easily.
Quiet. Polite. Brilliant.
You noticed him early—how observant he was, how he listened more than he spoke, how his attention lingered just a second longer than necessary. It felt strange, but not dangerous. Just…intense. how his eyes followed people instead of his head, how he smiled when others flinched, how he listened when someone cried. Not to comfort them. To memorize the sound.
A monster hiding in plain sight.
He noticed you noticing.
That should have been your warning.
⸻
The first call came late at night.
Unknown number.
You almost ignored it.
Almost.
“Hello?” you said, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you kicked off your shoes.
A pause.
Then breathing.
Slow. Controlled.
you was about to hang up when-
“Don’t hang up,” it said lightly. “I was hoping you’d answer.”
Your brow furrowed. Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Who is this?”
A quiet chuckle. “You already know me.”
“I don’t think I—”
“You sit a few seats away from me in Potions,” he continued. “You tap your pen when you’re nervous. You try very hard to look confident.”
Your grip tightened on the phone.
“I admire that.”
The call ended.
The next morning, Barty glanced up as you passed.
“You look tired,” he said pleasantly.
You froze for half a second. He smiled—perfectly ordinary. Perfectly wrong.
⸻
When strange things started happening at school, people grew uneasy.
Rumors spread. Doors closed earlier. Whispers followed students through the halls.
Barty, meanwhile, seemed energized.
“People behave differently when they’re afraid,” he remarked one afternoon, as voices echoed in the distance. “You learn a lot about them.”
“You don’t seem worried,” you said carefully.
He tilted his head. “Should I be?”
That night, your phone buzzed again.
“I wanted to see if you were listening,” the voice said. “You always are.”
Your chest tightened. “Please…stop calling.”
A pause. Then, gently, “I don’t think I can.”
⸻
Understanding came slowly.
Too slowly.*
Every incident traced back to someone who had dismissed Barty. Mocked him. Treated him as insignificant.
It wasn’t chaos.*
It was deliberate.*
When you confronted him, he didn’t deny anything.
He closed the door instead.
The Ghostface mask lay on his desk like a trophy.
“You’re nervous,” he observed, not unkindly.
“You’ve been manipulating people,” you said. “This is wrong.”
“Maybe,” he replied calmly. “But you’re still here.”
Something about the way he spoke made your skin prickle—not threat, not anger. Certainty.
The blade appeared in his hand—not rushed, not dramatic. Like he’d always planned this moment.
“I thought you’d scream,” he admitted. “But you’re quiet. I like that.”
“Why me?” you asked.
His eyes darkened.
“Because you see me,” he said. “And because you haven’t tried to stop me.”
He stepped closer. He nearly kissed your skin with the 🔪—just enough to burn cold.
“I don’t kill what belongs to me.”
Your breath hitched. “I don’t belong to you.”
Barty smiled slowly.
“Not yet.”
⸻
After that, things continued.
You didn’t sleep much.
You didn’t call the police.
You didn’t tell anyone what you knew.
Because every time your phone buzzed, there was a message waiting.
”𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖩𝗈𝖻 𝖲𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍． 𝖨 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 listen.“
At school, Barty brushed past you in the hallway.
“So proud of you,” he whispered.
You realized then the worst part wasn’t the mask. Or the blade. Or the bodies.
It was knowing he’d never stop.
And knowing he’d never let you go.