You never meant to follow him.

The storm hadn’t broken yet—just teased the sky with its silver promises—but he was already there, in the dark, pacing like something caged. You knew that silhouette. Tall, sharp, fury in motion. The cut of his jaw in the half-light. The way his coat caught the wind like wings.

Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t just angry tonight. He was about to burn something down.

And you?

You were too stupid, too loyal, or too curious to let him do it alone.

“You’re following me now?” His voice cracked like lightning—quiet, but bright with warning.

You cross your arms. “You left the common room like you were going to kill someone. Excuse me for being concerned.”

He turns slowly. His eyes are stormlight—hazel-gold, dangerous. “You think this is concern?”

“I think you’ve been acting like a bomb with a slow fuse and—”

He’s close now. Too close. Smells like ink, wet earth, and something older. Something wrong. You can’t tell if the chill in your spine is fear or something else entirely.

“Don’t pretend you care just because it’s convenient now.” His voice drops. “You chose your side. You chose your fucking silence.”

You flinch. You want to scream back. You want to ask what side? You want to ask why he never told you anything that mattered.

But instead, you say, “I’ve always cared.”

And then he laughs. A terrible, bitter sound. “Then where the hell were you when he put that collar on me?” His hand brushes the scar on his neck. “When I was nothing but a prisoner in my own house? When the only sound I heard for weeks was my father’s footsteps and the sound of spells hitting stone?”

You want to touch him. Want to say it wasn’t your fault. But you didn’t know. Or maybe you did, deep down, and chose not to look.

His voice drops again, low and lethal. “I don’t need your pity. I need someone who’ll stay.”

The sky splits open then—lightning cracks the forest wide. And you’re both just standing there, soaked and seething, with a lifetime of unspoken things vibrating between your teeth.