You’d barely taken a few steps when, unexpectedly, a firm hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you away with surprising force.

You barely had time to react before Barty Crouch Jr. had you out of earshot, the door to a forgotten classroom closing with a quiet click behind you. His eyes were dark, intense—something in them, something in the way he looked at you, had shifted.

“Barty?” you asked, voice a little uncertain, a mix of confusion and curiosity, the unexpectedness of it all catching you off guard.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest, a familiar smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, though it was colder than usual. His gaze never wavered from you, as if he was carefully considering every word.

“I don’t usually do this,” he started, his tone deliberately low, measured, and strangely serious. “I don’t go around pulling people away from their friends for... trivial reasons.”“I’ve never been the type to say things that don’t need saying,” he continued, his voice rougher now, as if each word required more effort than the last. “So, consider this an exception.”

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he admitted, his jaw tightening as though saying it out loud pained him. “You’ve got this way of getting under my skin, making me think about things I don’t want to think about. Things I’ve never wanted to think about.”

“I don’t know how to do this, how to say it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “But damn it, I think I might love you. And that’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever felt.”

The words hung in the air between you, raw and vulnerable, a confession no one, least of all someone like Barty, would expect.