Barty Crouch Jr. feels like a storm no one else notices. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind, the kind that pulls you in before you realize you’re drowning.

You notice him first in the corners of rooms. Leaning against walls during parties he pretends not to care about. Standing alone at the edge of bonfires, firelight painting gold into his dark eyes. Everyone else sees the reputation, the danger, the whispers about his family.

You see the way his gaze follows you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

It starts with glances. Long ones. Lingering ones. The kind that make your chest tighten for no logical reason. When your eyes meet, the world feels off-balance, like something invisible has shifted.

You don’t talk at first. You just feel him. In the Great Hall, in the corridors, on the grounds at night when the castle is quiet and the air feels alive. There’s a pull between you, magnetic and impossible to ignore. You pass him on the stairs and your hands almost brush. You sit across from him in class and feel his attention like heat on your skin.

He finally speaks to you on a late evening near the Black Lake.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he says softly.

You don’t ask what he means, because you already know.

From then on, you drift closer, quiet conversations, shared silences, stolen moments when no one else is around. Barty is intense, restless, like he’s always one step away from running. But with you, he slows.

When he laughs, it’s softer. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s afraid to blink.

“You make me feel… alive,” he admits, voice low. “Like I could be something more.”

You step closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of him. The moment feels suspended, like if you breathe too hard, it will shatter.

He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t claim you. He just stays.

And in that stillness, you realize that this isn’t just attraction.