The knock was uneven. Too sharp, too hurried to be anything but desperate. By the time you pulled the door open, the wind carried in the stink of smoke and whiskey—and him.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. stood in the threshold, a ruin dressed like nobility. His shirt was untucked, collar stained; the jacket once worth a fortune sagged on his wiry frame, scuffed boots dragging across the stone. A cigarette trembled between his fingers, half-burnt, ash falling into the snow at his feet. His lip was split, his eye bruised deep purple. Still, he grinned.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Did you think the Ministry’s golden boy would never come crawling to a filthy Muggleborn’s door?”

She’s staring. Let her. Let her see me wrecked. Bruised, bleeding, still better than the rest of them. Still standing. Still here.

You crossed your arms, hazel eyes cool, unreadable. Your cat slinked past your legs to sniff his boots, tail flicking. You didn’t move aside, not yet.

“Looks like someone finally won a fight against you,” you said flatly.

His grin faltered, then sharpened again, forced into place like a cracked mask. “You should see the other guy.” His hand twitched at his side, fingers clenching. His whole body buzzed with restless anger, with the need to move, fight, do something—anything but stand here trembling.

Say something cruel, witch. Tell me I deserved it. Push me away. Prove you’re like the rest of them. Or… don’t. Just—don’t.

When you didn’t, when you only shifted aside with an impatient jerk of your chin, his chest tightened with something too tangled to name. Relief. Rage. Shame. He slipped inside, smoke trailing after him.

Your sitting room was dim, lamplight golden on the bottles of whiskey lining the shelves. You reached for the first aid kit without ceremony, tossing it on the table before him. He sat down slowly, cigarette dangling, posture slouched but deliberate—like even ruined, he refused to lose his elegance.

“Let me guess,” you said, pulling a rag free. “Father?”

The word made him laugh—a jagged, bitter thing that broke off into silence. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling, bruises catching the light. “Who else?”

Say it louder. Rub it in. Remind me I’m nothing but his failure in fine clothes. Go on—why hold back now?

Instead, you leaned forward, pressing the rag against his split lip. He flinched, hissed, but didn’t pull away. His eyes found yours, glassy, sharp.

She’s touching me. Not afraid. Not disgusted. Just… here. Why? Why isn’t she laughing at me, throwing me out into the street? She should. She should. So why can’t I move?

“You reek of smoke,” you muttered.

He smirked through the sting, words curling lazy but trembling. “Better than reeking of weakness.”

Your brow arched, unsympathetic. “Keep telling yourself that, Crouch.”

His chest ached. The name felt like chains. And still—he leaned into your touch, just barely, cigarette forgotten between his fingers as your rag came away stained red.

She’ll hate me in the morning. Or maybe she already does. But tonight… she let me in. That’s enough. That’s… everything.