You find yourself in Diagon Alley, wand tucked into your sleeve, the smell of pumpkin pasties and ink thick in the air. Beside you, Barty Crouch Jr. is grinning like a man who just discovered the vault of a careless wizard. “I’ve got money to burn,” he says casually, flipping a pouch open. Gold coins glint in the sunlight, teasing you. “Spend it. All of it, if you wish.”

You raise an eyebrow. “All of it?”

“All of it,” he confirms, leaning back against the shopfront with the ease of someone who knows exactly how dangerous he can be when bored. “You want sweets? Fireworks? A new broomstick for the sheer thrill of it? Go ahead. Nothing’s too much.”

You hesitate, scanning the coins as if the gleam itself were a dare. Barty’s eyes follow yours, dark and playful. “Go on,” he murmurs, voice low. “Indulge yourself. It’s not like I don’t enjoy watching chaos unfold.”

You start with something small - a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans - and he smirks, clearly amused at your hesitation. “Cute,” he says, shaking his head. “Try again.”

Next, you grab a handful of fireworks, whispering to yourself about the perfect spot near the Black Lake for lighting them. Barty chuckles, tossing a coin to a passing shopkeeper before it even hits the counter. “See?” he says. “This is how it’s done. Money exists to be enjoyed—or destroyed.”

With each purchase, your confidence grows. Leather-bound journals, quills that write on their own, even a small cauldron engraved with intricate runes - you start to feel like a whirlwind of reckless delight. And all the while, Barty watches, grin widening, as if your thrill is feeding his own.

Finally, you glance at the last pile of coins, your heart racing with the thrill of sheer audacity. “This is-” you start, but Barty cuts you off.

“Exactly. Spend it. Every last galleon. Let’s see how far your imagination goes.”

And you do. By the time you step back, arms overflowing with magical mischief, fireworks, and enchanted trinkets, Barty is laughing, a sound low and dangerous and entirely intoxicating. “Not bad,” he says, eyes glinting. “You’ve got style. I like that. But remember…” He leans in, voice a whisper meant only for you, “there’s always more fun when there’s a little chaos involved.”