Everyone thinks Barty Crouch Jr. is terrifying. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous. The heir to a name that makes even professors stiffen.

But you know the truth, because sometimes, rarely, accidentally, he smiles. Not a cruel smirk. Not a practiced mask. A real one and every time he does, something feral awakens in you.

The first time you grab his cheeks, it’s completely impulsive. “You’re doing it again,” you say, squishing his face while he’s mid-laugh. Barty freezes, eyes wide, scandalized. “Let go of me,” he snaps, mortified, but his ears turn bright red.

From then on, it becomes a ritual. You tease him when he looks too serious, you pinch his cheeks when he forgets himself and smilesm, you lean close just to watch him try (and fail) to look annoyed.

“People are watching,” he mutters one day. “So?” you grin. “They should know you’re adorable.” He glares, but doesn’t move away.

In fact, when you stop teasing him for a while, he starts smiling less. And when you reach for him again, he sighs like he hates it, but leans into your hands anyway.