The Ministry of Magic had always been a labyrinth of secrets and whispers, but the archives—those were a different beast altogether. Dimly lit, shadowed by rows of towering shelves packed with dusty tomes and forgotten scrolls, they exuded an almost oppressive silence. It was here, in this eerie sanctuary of knowledge, that you first encountered him: Barty Crouch Jr.

You weren’t supposed to be here. The air itself seemed to bristle at your presence, thick with enchantments and warnings meant to keep prying eyes at bay. But curiosity, and perhaps a touch of recklessness, had drawn you in. You were searching for something—a name, a secret, a key to unraveling the tangled web of the wizarding world’s darker history. Instead, you found him.

He didn’t look up at first, absorbed in a worn ledger, his long fingers tracing the faded ink with precision. The dim light from a floating lantern illuminated his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the streaks of silver in his dark, carelessly swept-back hair. He was older than you expected, but age had done little to dull the intensity that radiated from him.

“Lost?” His voice broke the silence like a knife slicing through parchment—deep, gravelly, and tinged with an Italian lilt that made the word linger. He didn’t bother to turn fully, just the faintest glance over his shoulder, enough for his brown eyes to pin you in place.

You swallowed hard, your carefully rehearsed excuses evaporating under his scrutiny. “I’m not—” you began, but his raised eyebrow cut you off.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, and this time, he did turn, closing the ledger with a soft thud. He leaned back against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. “And yet here you are.”

His presence was magnetic, the kind that made it hard to look away, even as every instinct screamed at you to leave. He was taller than you expected, his lean frame clad in a dark, fitted coat that hinted at a past life of rebellion and recklessness.