The long-term spell damage ward at St Mungo’s is quieter than the others. Not peaceful, just muted, as though the building itself has learned what not to ask.

You close the door behind you with deliberate care. The click is soft, but it still changes the room.

Barty Crouch Jr. sits where he always does: upright, composed, hands folded too neatly in his lap. He looks better than he did months ago, less hollow, which should feel like success. Instead, it tightens something behind your ribs. Survival has sharpened him. Made him more alert. More present.

He watches you without staring. He always does.

Your quill pauses over parchment. Routine questions. Sleep quality. Recurring symptoms. You know the answers already; he told you last week. And the week before that.

“Any changes since our last session?” you ask anyway.

A pause. His eyes flick, not to your face, but to your hands as you adjust your grip on the quill. It’s subtle. You notice because you always notice.

“No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “Yes. But not the sort you’re meant to record.”

You should redirect that. You don’t.

You ask about the dreams. He answers with precision, never indulgence, details offered carefully, like he’s placing them where you can’t drop them. He knows how much you already know. He knows how intimate that knowledge is.

At some point, you realise the conversation has drifted. Not dangerously. Just… off script. You’re sitting closer than usual. Your voice is softer. His questions start coming back at you, mild, curious, edged with something that feels like testing rather than defiance.

“You stay late,” he says. Not an accusation. An observation.

“So do you,” you reply, before you can stop yourself.

Silence stretches. The ward hums faintly beyond the walls. You’re suddenly aware of how alone the room is when the door is shut. How thin the line is between care and closeness. How carefully you’ve both been walking it.

His gaze lifts fully to your face now. Steady. Searching.