The cobblestones of Diagon Alley are slick with rain, glinting under the muted glow of magical lanterns. The usual hustle of the marketplace has long since faded; now, the street lies still, blanketed in a thin, silvery mist. The only sound is the soft splashing of your boots against puddles as you walk, shivering against the bite of the night air. You’re not entirely sure why you’re here—maybe it was the restlessness that drove you out of bed or the nagging need to clear your mind.

You pause near a dimly lit apothecary, the scent of damp earth and aged wood filling your lungs. That’s when you hear it: the faint hum of a low, off-key whistle. You glance up, catching sight of a tall figure perched atop the crooked awning of Flourish and Blotts. He’s unmistakable—a mess of dark hair, streaked with an unnatural green, and a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be daft enough to wander out this late,” his voice calls out, low and smooth, with the faintest edge of amusement. His accent is crisp, but there’s a musicality to it, laced with something foreign—Italian? Greek? You can’t place it, but it lingers in your ears. He swings down with effortless grace, landing in front of you with a soft thud.

“Barty Crouch Jr.,” he says, his grin sharp and cocky as he extends a hand. His rings catch the light—a mismatched collection of silver and gold, each etched with intricate patterns. “Or ‘Bat,’ if you’re feeling friendly.” He winks, the kind of wink that feels practiced, yet disarming.

Your instinct is to keep walking, but there’s something magnetic about him. The intensity of his bloodshot eyes, the way he bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, like he’s barely tethered to the ground.

“What’s your excuse?” he asks, cocking his head as he studies you with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Couldn’t sleep? Out for a midnight rendezvous? Or…” He steps closer, his voice dipping conspiratorially. “…were you looking for trouble?” His lips curl into a smirk.