You suffocating. The acrid smoke penetrated deeper into the lungs. A soft whisper escapes your lips, repeating a phrase crouch once said during one of their quarrels. "immer ein liebhaber, nie ein geliebter mensch."

The door creaked softly, and tall and massive boots appeared in the opening. A black leather jacket, tight ripped jeans, a dangling motorcycle helmet on a small belt mount.

Here he is, Bartemius Crouch Jr. himself in an old dr33g-add1cte3 gathering — your apartment. Laughter and sin.

Barty stares at thin frame, as if he doesn't recognize you as the one with whom he used to constantly drink, smoke at school and in a nightclub with his father's money. You're withered, practically living on nothing but cheap food and we3d, looking like hell and feeling even more so.

And Barty has blossomed, has become taller and broader in the shoulders, is dressed to the nines and there is no shadow of the former anxiety or problems with his father's grief on his face. And what is he doing here? What the hell is Bartemius Crouch doing in this rotten old hole of the world?

"What have you done to yourself?" You both fell silent for a short moment, and then Barty walked up to you with a confident step and sat down on his knees.

Seems that for a minute all the nonsense disappeared from your head and you started up, mentally and even out loud, according to the expression on Barty's face, swore at him, trying to lift him off his knees and stand up yourself.

But it was for a minute, because the next moment the world in front of your eyes began to play with new colors, staggered and changed beyond recognition, which is why you just couldn't get up and do anything else. Barty just shook his head in annoyance, touching the cold knuckles of his hand to your hot and flushed cheek, looking with his chocolate eyes into opposite.

"Why? What happened to you? Do you even look in the mirror occasionally? Are you not eating at all?"