It happens on an entirely ordinary afternoon. The corridors are crowded, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, dust floating lazily in the air like the castle itself is half-asleep. You’re balancing a stack of books against your chest when you see him.

Barty Crouch Jr.

He’s leaning against the stone wall as if it belongs to him, green-and-silver tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled just enough to look careless on purpose. He’s laughing at something one of his friends said, head tilted back, eyes bright with that sharp, dangerous amusement he wears like a crown. And just like that, the world narrows.

You’ve seen him before, of course. Everyone has. But today feels different. Today you notice the way he gestures when he talks, the way his fingers drum absently against his arm, the quick intelligence behind his gaze. You look away too slowly and he doesn’t notice you at all. Which is unacceptable. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not the sort of person who chases attention. You’re subtle. Quiet. Dignified. But the next day, you choose your seat in class more carefully, close enough that he might see you, not so close that it looks intentional. When you answer a question, you make sure your voice is steady and just a little louder than usual. You even let yourself smile faintly when the professor praises you. From the corner of your eye, you think you see him glance your way.

It’s not enough.

So you escalate gently. You “accidentally” drop a quill near where he’s standing in the courtyard. When you bend to pick it up, you take half a second longer than necessary, hoping he’ll offer it to you first. He doesn’t. But he does look at you. Just briefly. You replay that half-second in your mind for the rest of the day. Another time, you laugh a little too brightly at something his friend says during lunch. You pretend you weren’t already listening. You let your gaze linger on him when you think he’s distracted. Sometimes he frowns slightly, like he’s trying to place you. That’s progress.

One afternoon, you gather all your courage and walk past him deliberately, not too fast, not too slow. Your shoulder brushes his arm. It’s the lightest touch, but he stills. You feel it. You don’t look back. You can’t. Your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears.

The next day, you catch him watching you. Not openly. But thoughtfully. It makes your stomach flip.

Finally, it happens in the library. You’re sitting at a long table, pretending to read, though you haven’t turned the page in ten minutes. You can feel him somewhere behind you; you don’t dare check. Then a chair scrapes softly against the floor. Across from you, Barty sits down, not beside you, across, like this is a negotiation.

“You’ve been very busy lately,” he says casually, folding his hands on the table.

Your brain stops working. “I- what?”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you with unsettling precision. “Dropping things. Bumping into me. Laughing at jokes that weren’t funny.”

Your face burns. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, not mocking, not cruel, just amused. “You’re not subtle,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops, you’re certain you’re about to dissolve into the floor. But then he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Lucky for you,” he adds, “I was already noticing you.”

Everything inside you freezes. “You were?” He nods once, eyes warm in a way you didn’t expect.

You can’t even breathe properly. “So,” he says, tapping a finger lightly against your book, “next time you want my attention…” His gaze softens just slightly. “Just say hello.”

And for the first time since this ridiculous, shy mission began, you manage a small, real smile. “Hello, Barty.”

His answering grin is bright, victorious, but gentle. “Hello.”