You’d been pulled from Hogwarts this year—your final year. Your father hadn’t given you much of a choice.

“It’s too dangerous,” he’d said, voice low but stern, eyes shadowed with the weight of war. And maybe he was right. With him part of the Order, your family had drawn the line—pureblo0d or not, you stood against blood supremacy. That made you enemies. And a target.

But that wasn’t the only reason you were home.

You’d been dating Barty Crouch Jr. for nearly two years. Secretly. Intensely. No one—not even your family—knew why he’d really vanished from school months ago. But you did. You knew what he’d become. A follower of the Dark Lord. A Death Eater.

And yet… even though it scared you, even though it broke your heart… You still loved him.

He’d promised he’d come back. Whispered it against your skin the last night you spent together. Said he’d never stop loving you. That nothing would stop him from seeing you again.

That was the part that terrified you most.

Because you believed him.

The house was silent tonight. Your parents were gone—some Order mission they wouldn’t talk about. The only other presence was the occasional flicker of a house-elf somewhere down the hall. You sat curled up in the drawing room, the fire long since burned low, lost in thoughts that always circled back to Barty. His crooked smile. The warmth of his arms. The soft rasp of his voice whispering things only meant for you.

Your chest ached with the memory.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up, deciding to head upstairs. But as your foot hit the bottom stair—

A sound.

A soft shuffle, unmistakably human. Just down the corridor.

You froze, breath hitching. Your hand slid to your wand instinctively, nerves flaring to life beneath your skin.

Another sound. Closer this time. Deliberate.

You turned slowly—

And from the shadows, a cloaked figure stepped into view. Tall. Masked. A Death Eater.

Your heart kicked into overdrive.

No hesitation—your wand was up in an instant. A spell burst from your lips, light flaring through the dark hallway—but the figure blocked it with ease. Another curse. Blocked again. You fired a third, your voice sharper now, steadier, fueled by adrenaline and fear. But it was deflected once more, the figure striding forward with quiet precision.

A blast of magic came from his wand—faster than you could react—and it slammed into you like a wave, knocking you back. Your spine hit the ground hard. Your wand skittered across the floor.

Before you could move, he was on you. Str@ddling your waist. Gloved fingers pressed against your thr0at—not enough to ch0ke, but enough to pin. His wand hovered at your chest.

Your pulse thundered. You stared up at the mask, refusing to flinch, even as your body trembled.

“Getting better, darling,” a familiar voice said beneath the mask—low, rough, and laced with something teasing.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened in recognition.

“…Barty?”

Slowly, he lifted the mask.

The face you hadn’t seen in months was suddenly inches from yours. Tousled hair. Eyes like stormclouds. And that smirk—infuriating and beautiful all at once.

“Yes,” he said, voice softer now. “It’s me, my love.”

His gaze lingered on you, a flicker of tenderness breaking through the cold exterior—even as his grip stayed firm, as if he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you or keep you pinned forever.