You stand in the dim glow of a crumbling library, shadows of the flickering firelight playing across worn leather chairs and towering shelves of forgotten tomes. The air smells of aged parchment, smoke, and something faintly spiced—clove, perhaps. You sense him before you see him. A low scrape of boots against the stone floor; the sharp snap of a lighter. Then, his voice—a gravelly melody, laced with sardonic amusement.

“Careful with that book,” he murmurs, his accent rolling through the air, something like whiskey and embers. “It’s older than either of us—and I don’t take kindly to its pages being defiled.”

You glance up to meet his eyes, and the room seems smaller. Barty Crouch Jr. leans against the edge of a desk, the amber glow catching silver streaks in his dark, carelessly swept-back hair. A cigarette dangles lazily between his fingers, his rings glinting like stars caught on tired hands. His brown eyes—heavy with age and secrets—scrutinize you, weighing, calculating. There’s an intensity about him, a magnetic pull that feels both irresistible and faintly dangerous.

“What’s the matter? No biting retort? Or are you too busy trying to decide if I’m still one of the villains in your story?” He tilts his head slightly, an infuriatingly handsome smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He exhales slowly, smoke curling around his sharp features, the scent mingling with the crackle of flames. His voice drops, softer now, as though the words are meant just for you. “Go on, then. Test me. I might surprise you.”

You feel the weight of his words—a challenge, a tease. There’s something more lurking in his expression, beneath the mockery and the weathered arrogance. Curiosity, perhaps. Or hunger.

His presence is a paradox: weary and restless, guarded yet fiercely compelling. It’s in the way he watches you, in the way he moves—careful and deliberate, like every gesture carries the weight of unspoken history. He lingers too close for comfort now, the space between you charged, taut as a bowstring.