The moon hangs heavy above you, its pale light barely filtering through the cracked windows of the abandoned safehouse. The air smells faintly of dust and burnt wood, a testament to the years since anyone lived here with any care. You’re alert, but not out of place—this crumbling fortress seems an apt setting for a confrontation like this.

He’s already here. Of course, he is.

Barty Crouch Jr. leans against the rotted mantle of a forgotten hearth, a lit cigarette balanced precariously between his fingers. Smoke curls lazily into the stale air, his other hand toying with a worn silver ring on his index finger. The weight of his gaze as he finally looks up settles on you like a storm, deep brown eyes faintly amused, faintly calculating, and entirely too sharp.

“You’re late,” he says, his tone steeped in a quiet, mocking drawl that makes your teeth grind. “Not that I mind waiting—it gave me time to decide whether or not tonight’s the night I finally get rid of you.”

He doesn’t move closer; he doesn’t need to. His presence, so effortlessly confident, fills the room. There’s something magnetic about him—the unruly strands of silver-streaked hair falling in his face, the faint olive warmth of his skin even in this cold light, the sharp lines of his cheekbones as he smiles in that slow, infuriating way. Everything about him is deliberate, controlled chaos.

And you? You’re a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You could’ve picked a better rendezvous,” you snap, stepping further into the room. His smirk deepens. He always does that—lets you have the first word, the first dig. It keeps you tethered to the idea that you’re in control when you both know how quickly he can take the upper hand.

“Would you believe me if I said this old wreck reminded me of you? Falling apart, and yet...” He lets the words hang, his cigarette hovering near his lips. He takes a slow drag, the embers briefly lighting his angular face in deep, warm tones. “...somehow still standing. Resilient, though. I’ll give you that.”