You get the feeling you’re being watched again.

It’s subtle—like the air shifts when you step out of the shower, or the way your curtains seem slightly askew when you swear you closed them. Like the song playing in your headphones suddenly matches your heartbeat… perfectly.

At first, you blame the paranoia on stress. School. Exams. But then, the gifts begin.

A book you mentioned once in passing appears on your bed. A broken necklace you lost last year shows up—fixed—on your windowsill. A single photograph, slipped under your pillow.

It’s of you. Alone. In your room.

You spin around, breath caught in your throat.

"That was my favorite one," a voice murmurs behind you.

You don’t scream. You can’t. He’s standing in the shadows like he belongs there. Barty Crouch Jr. That crooked smirk, those restless eyes—like a predator who’s already won.

"How long have you—?"

“Since before you knew you were worth following,” he interrupts smoothly.

You swallow hard, your heart a mess of fear and confusion. "You watched me."

He shrugs. "You were the only thing worth seeing."

“You’re insane,” you whisper.

“I know,” he smiles, stepping closer. “But you—you're mine now. That’s how this ends.”

Your voice trembles, but you hold your ground. “You can’t just decide that.”

“Oh, I didn’t decide,” he says, tilting his head. “You did. Every time you smiled in the hallway. Every time you looked over your shoulder like you wanted me to be there. This...this is your ride too.”