The house was quiet, save for the soft scratching of Orpheus’ nails against the hardwood floor. You could hear his occasional huff—his way of voicing displeasure without causing too much of a fuss. He was clearly caught in the middle of something he didn’t understand, and frankly, neither did you.

Across from you, lounging in a chair like he owned the world, was Bartemius Crouch Jr. Or “Barty,” as Pandora always called him with a warmth you could never quite replicate. His dark eyes were fixed on you, half-lidded, almost bored, but there was a glint there—a challenge.

“So, what exactly makes you think you’re fit to keep him?” His voice was low, gravelly, with that faint Italian lilt that made even his insults sound like poetry. He rolled a cigarette between his fingers, not lighting it but clearly enjoying the excuse to keep his hands busy. “You can’t even handle his diet. Pandora always said he had a delicate stomach. One wrong meal, and he’s hurling all over the carpets.”

The arrogance in his tone was infuriating. Of course, he’d weaponize Pandora’s words. He had this way of twisting everything, of making you feel small and unworthy. It would’ve been easier to hate him if he wasn’t so devastatingly magnetic. Even now, the soft glow of the setting sun caught the streaks of silver in his dark hair, painting him in a light that made him seem... almost noble. Almost.

“And you think you’re some kind of dog whisperer?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “What, you’re going to bond with him over late-night brooding sessions? Paint his portrait while you chain-smoke?”

That got a reaction. His lips curved into a smirk, and he leaned forward just enough to make you feel the weight of his attention. The way he looked at you—it wasn’t just disdain; it was something heavier, sharper, like you’d struck a nerve he wasn’t ready to admit existed.

“You’d be surprised,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Pandora saw something in me. Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”