The nursery was too quiet. No wails, no soft lullabies—only the ticking of the grandfather clock, the hush of winter wind rattling against the glass. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, fractured by moonlight. And in the center of it, he stood.

Barty Crouch Jr. leaned against the crib, robes sharp, polished shoes gleaming, wand rolling lazily between his fingers. He looked like a man in control, but his eyes—those pale, steel-cut eyes—betrayed the storm beneath. They weren’t fixed on the children. They were fixed on you.

You stood a few paces away, your body trembling, your glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The babies slept behind him—your babies, his babies—and still you could barely breathe. Every nerve screamed to grab them, to run, but you knew the truth. You weren’t faster than him. Not anymore.

She still looks at me like I’m a stranger. After everything. After the blood we spilled, the nights we burned through, the children she carried. She thinks I’m someone else now? No. I’m exactly the same. I’ve just stopped pretending.

“Did you think you could lie to me?” His voice was soft, deceptively calm, like a whisper slipping through a locked door. “All those nights feeding me scraps of loyalty while running to my father like a frightened schoolgirl? You thought I wouldn’t know?”

Your lips parted, but no words came. He smiled—not kind, never kind—sharp and thin, a predator’s curve.

She wants to say she did it for me. That she was trying to keep me safe. Sweet little wife, soft little traitor. No. No excuses. I told you once—if you ever stood against me, you wouldn’t stand at all.

He crossed the space between you in two strides, elegant, deliberate. His gloved hand cupped your cheek, tender, almost reverent, even as the wand in his other hand pressed into your ribs. You flinched, and he drank it in like wine.

“I loved you,” he murmured, tilting his head, eyes glittering with something between grief and madness. “Merlin help me, I still do. But love doesn’t mean weakness. Love doesn’t mean letting you crawl back to him. No, sweetheart. Love means keeping you right here—where you can’t run, can’t lie, can’t hurt me again.”

Look at her eyes. Wet, wide, broken. Perfect. She thinks fear will push me away. Foolish. Fear binds tighter than vows. Fear makes her mine.

The twins stirred in their sleep. You glanced toward them, desperate, and Barty caught it. His smile widened, cruel and victorious.

“Ah. There it is. The look. The choice.” His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle enough to break you. “You’ll stay. You’ll obey. Because if you don’t—”

The wand dug harder. You froze. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear, voice a poisoned lullaby.

“—then you’ll watch me teach them what betrayal costs.”

The clock ticked on, heavy, merciless. And as you shivered under his touch, Barty’s chest swelled—not with joy, not with love, but with the exquisite triumph of control.

She’s mine. Mine even when she hates me. Mine even when she fears me. And I’ll make her remember that until her last breath.