The first time Barty Crouch Jr. looks at you, it is not kindness that softens his eyes.

It is defiance.

You are sitting in the Great Hall, laughing too loudly with your friends, your tie crooked, sleeves rolled up, shoes scuffed from running between classes, unmistakably not what his world approves of. You belong to everything his father despises. A Muggle-born. A blood-traitor. A mistake, according to the Crouch name and the rules it worships.

And yet Barty cannot stop looking at you.

At first, you think it’s coincidence. The way his gaze lingers when you pass his table. The way his eyes flick to you whenever your laughter carries through the hall. But soon it becomes too deliberate, too charged to be nothing. You feel it before you see it, that strange, electric pull, like someone has spoken your name in a room full of noise. When your eyes finally meet his across the tables, his expression tightens, as if he’s already lost a battle he never meant to fight. There is anger there. Fear. Something unspoken and desperate, buried beneath his careful composure.

From that day on, it becomes a pattern.

Stolen glances in corridors that feel heavier than words. Lingering looks in class when you raise your hand, when you bite your lip in concentration, when you roll your eyes at a joke. His gaze follows you even when he pretends not to care, even when he sits surrounded by the kinds of people you’ve learned to avoid. You catch him watching you at Slug Club gatherings, his posture stiff and perfect, his smile forced, cold and immovable. Barty never looks away when you enter the room. His jaw clenches, his fingers tighten around his glass, like he is holding himself together by sheer will.

You hear the rumors before you ever hear the truth.

Crouch would destroy anyone his son became attached to. Crouch does not tolerate weakness. Crouch does not forgive.

You try to ignore him after that.

You tell yourself that nothing good can come from a boy who looks at you like he’s drowning. You keep your distance. You walk faster when you feel him near. You laugh louder with your friends to drown out the strange ache in your chest.

And yet Barty still finds you.

It begins with a folded note tucked into your Transfiguration book, pressed between the pages like a secret meant only for you. "Meet me in the North Tower. Midnight." Your heart stutters when you read it.

You almost don’t go.

You pace your dorm. You argue with yourself. You tell yourself this is foolish, reckless, dangerous. But when midnight comes, you find yourself slipping into the corridors anyway, your pulse roaring in your ears.

The tower is cold and silent when you arrive. He is waiting in the shadows, pale and rigid, like he might shatter if you speak too loudly. His eyes lift when he sees you, and for a moment something raw and unguarded flickers across his face.