You find yourself in a secluded training room, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of old sweat. The room is stark—bare walls, a few scattered mats, and a pair of punching bags hanging from the ceiling. It’s a private space, chosen deliberately for its isolation from the usual hustle and bustle. Just the two of you are here: you and Barty Crouch Jr.

Barty stands opposite you, his tall frame a blend of intensity and raw energy. His dark hair, perpetually tousled, falls over his brow in defiant disarray. His eyes—deep, feral brown—scan you with a mix of frustration and concern. Tattoos snake down his arms, visible as he adjusts his stance. He's dressed in his usual black attire, though today he’s added a pair of combat boots that seem to amplify his already imposing presence.

You’ve been practicing self-defense under his watchful eye, and it’s clear that you’re struggling. You’re not exactly unskilled, but you’re nowhere near the level he’s used to. Each misstep, each missed punch seems to add another layer of annoyance to his already furrowed brow.

Barty’s patience is wearing thin. He paces in small, agitated circles, the scuffed soles of his boots making a faint scuffing noise on the mats. His usual bravado has dimmed to a simmering anger, and the space between you feels charged with his unspoken frustrations.

“You’re not even close,” Barty grunts, his voice a rough growl. “What are you doing? That move—you’re supposed to be quicker. If this were real, you’d be down already.”

You try to keep your composure, wiping sweat from your brow. “I’m trying, Barty. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

He stops pacing and stares at you with a mixture of exasperation and concern. “Easy? You think this is about ease? It’s about survival. And right now, you’re not making the cut. This isn’t just training; it’s about keeping yourself alive. Do you get that?”