Set in a back-alley magical speakeasy hidden behind a cursed mirror in Knockturn Alley. You didn’t come here for him—but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hoping. You’re both older now. Rougher. Smarter. But the hate between you still simmers. When he sees you across the room, he doesn’t smile. He stares. And you realize: the most dangerous thing about Barty Crouch Jr. is not that he hurt you. It’s that part of you liked it.

The mirror didn’t let just anyone through. You whispered the right curse, stepped sideways, and felt the air shift—the way it always did when magic remembered your name.

The bar was dim and pulsing with forbidden spells. A violin played itself in the corner. Someone was crying in a glass.

And then you felt it.

That crawling chill under your skin. That presence.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

But you did anyway.

He was at the far end of the room, cloaked in shadow, fingers curled around a glass like it owed him a favor. His hair was longer now. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Scar still visible at his throat.

He didn’t wave.

Didn’t smile.

Just looked.

You hated that you still knew his body language. That one twitch of his fingers meant boredom, that tilt of his head meant calculation.

And when he stood?

Your stomach twisted.

He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until the distance between you was two words wide.

“I heard you died,” he murmured, voice so low it was almost gentle. “Pity that wasn’t true.”