The dusty air of the library was suffused with a mix of faded parchment and the faint metallic tang of magic—an ancient, unyielding reminder of the wizarding world’s long history. The flicker of candlelight reflected off the tall shelves, casting shadows that seemed to whisper secrets. You had come here seeking solitude, only to find him—a ghost of the war, a man you knew of only in rumors and hushed warnings.

Barty Crouch Jr. stood at the end of the aisle, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the candelabra. His disheveled hair, streaked with silver, fell just over his brow, and his fingers idly toyed with a silver lighter, the flick of flame catching your eye. His leather jacket creaked as he shifted, those dark, knowing eyes locking onto you with a weight that made it hard to breathe.

“Careful where you tread, piccola,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the lilt of an Italian accent. His lips curved into a sardonic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “These books have a way of drawing out secrets you'd rather keep hidden.”

You froze, unsure whether to approach or retreat. His reputation preceded him, but the man standing before you was not the volatile fanatic you had expected. He was older now, quieter perhaps, but there was still an edge to him—like a blade left to rust but no less deadly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, forcing strength into your voice.

“Neither are you,” he countered, taking a slow step closer. His movements were deliberate, almost predatory, as if he were testing how much ground you’d allow him to claim. “But here we are.”