You push open the bathroom door, the fluorescent light flickering overhead, and there he is, Barty Crouch Jr., leaning casually against the sink, a crooked smirk on his face. The faint scent of soap and something metallic lingers, sharp and dizzying. He tilts his head, eyes locking onto yours, the room shrinking until it’s just the two of you.

“You came,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. The way he says it sends a strange thrill down your spine, and you can’t stop the small laugh that escapes your throat.

“I did,” you reply, voice barely more than a whisper, your hands brushing nervously against the edge of the counter. The mirror catches your reflection, your wide eyes mirrored back at you, but it’s him you can’t take your eyes off.

He steps closer, too close, the heat of him pressing against you. “Been thinking about this,” he confesses, almost in a rush, a trace of something fragile behind the usual sly confidence. His hand hovers near your arm, then lands there, firm yet electric.

You don’t have time to answer before he’s leaning in, and suddenly the world tilts. His lips find yours with a rough tenderness that makes your knees weak. It’s sudden, reckless, and entirely Barty. You’re shocked, yes, but something about the danger in his touch, the way he’s always skating along the edge, makes it impossible to pull away.

Your hands find his shirt, gripping, as his thumb brushes across your cheek. The sound of the dripping faucet fills the quiet space, a small rhythm to the chaos in your chest. His kiss deepens, demanding yet uncertain, like he’s testing something he doesn’t quite believe he deserves.

You break away for a breath, foreheads pressed together, laughing softly in disbelief. “Barty…” you whisper, the name feeling heavier than usual, intimate.

He smirks again, that dangerous glint never leaving his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, dangerous, almost vulnerable. “You like that, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Maybe I do,” you admit, heart still racing, because with Barty Crouch Jr., it’s never simple. But somehow, that’s exactly the point.

He leans in one last time, brief and possessive, lips brushing yours as he mutters, “Don’t let anyone find out.”