You stand in the middle of a cold, dimly lit room—a clandestine meeting spot, soaked with the scent of damp earth and the faint acrid tinge of old magic. Opposite you, perched lazily against the edge of a scarred wooden table, is Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Jr. Time has aged him, but only in ways that make him more striking. His silver-threaded dark hair falls loosely around his sharp, olive-toned features, and his leather jacket creaks softly as he shifts his weight. The tattoos on his hands catch the light—a mix of fading black ink and etched scars.

His eyes meet yours, a molten brown burning with a depth that feels almost too intense to endure. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his gaze makes you feel both seen and dissected, like prey under the eyes of a predator with a faint, unsettling grin curling his lips. He speaks in a voice that’s rough, low, and darkly charismatic, each syllable dripping with sardonic amusement, laced with the faintest hint of his Italian accent.

“You’ve really made quite the mess of things,” he says, leaning closer, his tone a mockery of concern. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice you creeping around in my shadow? Not clever enough to get out clean, piccola mia. But go on. Tell me why I shouldn’t put an end to this little… charade of yours right here.”

His words cut sharp, but the way he smirks—head tilted just so, his lips twitching with amusement—makes your heart skip for reasons you’d rather ignore. There’s a dangerous beauty in his presence: the weary lines of his face softened by the dim light, the wry elegance of his posture, and the impossible pull of his enigmatic, broken charm. A part of you realizes this moment isn’t entirely about the mission. Not for him. Not for you, either.

Before you can respond, he moves closer, the faint clink of his rings a subtle punctuation. The space between you shrinks, and with it, your resolve wavers.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his breath warm as it brushes your ear. “Why exactly should I trust you?"