The room smells faintly of aged leather and smoldering ash, a trace of a cigar left too long to burn. The light is dim—just a slant of pale moonlight slipping through cracked blinds, cutting the room into jagged shadows. You’ve been pacing, counting your steps, feigning patience that you don't feel. Then, you hear the creak of boots on wood—deliberate, unhurried—and Barty Crouch Jr. finally enters.

He doesn’t acknowledge you at first. His hands slide into the pockets of his long, dark coat, his head tilted slightly as if he were considering something just over your shoulder. His presence pulls every molecule of air from the room. Tall, wiry, yet built like someone who knows exactly how much violence they’re capable of, he leans against the wall as though he has all the time in the world.

“Still here?” His voice drips with equal parts amusement and contempt, his Italian-tinged accent curling around each word. The kind of voice that scrapes against something deep inside you. He finally looks up, those dark, haunted eyes locking onto yours. There’s a spark of something sharp behind his gaze—a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as though he finds this whole situation vastly entertaining. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or is it fear?”

You bristle under his scrutiny, the way he seems to peel you apart with a glance, but something keeps you grounded. Defiance. Hatred. Perhaps even an undercurrent of attraction you’re unwilling to name.

“Oh, don’t stop glaring. It suits you.” His voice lowers, that smirk deepening into something darker, his words a calculated push meant to unsettle. “Though I have to admit, I do like a little fight in my enemies. It’s such a waste when they crumble too quickly.”

Every fiber of your being wants to storm out—or slam him against the nearest wall—but you can’t afford to leave now. Not when there’s a debt to be repaid, information to be extracted, or simply the satisfaction of seeing him squirm for once.