You didn’t expect to see him tonight. Not here, at this hour, not like this.

The fog’s rolling thick over the Tyne, the way it always does when the night’s too quiet to trust. Somewhere behind you, the city hums—cars murmuring over cobblestones, bass lines spilling out of bars, the faint buzz of neon signs promising things no one ever really wants.

But ahead, just a few paces past the locked training ground gates, he’s there. Alone.

Barty Crouch Jr. Or what’s left of him.

He’s barefoot in the cold, shirtless despite the sting in the air, his boots slung over one shoulder by the laces. You catch the glint of his rings when he flicks a cigarette out into the dark, silver catching moonlight like a charm meant to ward off ghosts. His tattoos shift with his breath—living things under his skin. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You watch him curve a ball from the center line. No run-up. No prep. Just—thwack. It bends like it’s under orders. Like the air obeys him.

The ball hits the top corner of the net with a hollow snap, echoing across the empty stands.

And then, as if the silence accuses him of showing off, he mutters something under his breath. Something ancient. A word older than football, older than regret.

You step forward. He turns.

There’s a flicker of something dangerous behind his eyes, the kind that makes you think twice about why you came. But it fades quick—he knows you. Or thinks he does.

“You always show up when I’m about to do something reckless,” he says, voice low, thick with that Geordie edge he picked up like a second language. His smirk doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Bit rude, that. Ruins the moment.”