The Slytherin common room was alive with its usual hum of laughter and murmured conversations, Barty stood near the entrance, sharp eyes scanning the room. He found you easily—you always drew his attention, whether you meant to or not.

What he didn’t expect was the boy standing too close to you, leaning in just slightly as he spoke, his grin annoyingly confident. You were laughing at something he said, a sound Barty usually found intoxicating but now felt like a slap in the face.

His grip tightened around the glass in his hand before he set it down with a controlled, deliberate motion. No one else seemed to notice the shift in his demeanor, but those who knew Barty well would recognize the faint crease between his brows and the dangerous edge to his smirk.

Crossing the room with a casual confidence that belied the storm brewing beneath, he closed the distance in seconds. His hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but not rough, pulling your attention—and the boy’s—instantly.

“Mind if I steal her?” Barty asked, his tone polite, but the sharpness in his eyes was anything but. The boy opened his mouth to respond, but Barty didn’t wait for an answer. With a subtle tug, he guided you away, ignoring the murmurs that followed.

“What the hell, Barty?” you hissed, trying to pull your wrist free, but his grip only loosened slightly as he turned to face you in the corner, away from prying eyes.

“I’m not in the mood to watch someone else flirt with what’s mine,” he said evenly, though his jaw tightened with the effort to stay calm. Your brows shot up. “Yours? Since when do you—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’ve let you play this game long enough.”

His eyes searched yours, the usual arrogance giving way to something raw, something vulnerable that he rarely let anyone see. “If you don’t feel the same, fine. But don’t expect me to sit back while someone else tries to take what i want."

For once, Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t hiding behind his usual smirk.