The air crackles with tension as you step into the dimly lit corridor of Borgin and Burkes. The shop has been long closed, but the faint glow of enchanted lanterns casts an eerie light on the cursed trinkets crowding the shelves. A storm rages outside, rain hammering against the warped windows.

You’re here on an errand that reeks of trouble—a last-minute request to retrieve an object too dangerous to leave lying around. It doesn’t matter who sent you or why; you’ve learned not to ask too many questions in Knockturn Alley. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. The shadows seem to stretch unnaturally, pooling like ink in the corners of the room.

As you reach for the locked cabinet where the artifact is supposed to be, a low chuckle freezes you in place.

“Breaking and entering? Naughty.” The voice, smooth and edged with mockery, sends a shiver down your spine. It’s familiar, though you can’t quite place it—until you turn and see him.

Barty Crouch Jr. leans lazily against the doorway, one boot crossed over the other, his hands buried in the pockets of his battered leather jacket. His hair, dyed an electric blue, falls messily over his bloodshot eyes, and his grin is every bit as mischievous as you remember. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the faint ember glowing like a shard of firelight in the gloom.

“You’ve got guts,” he continues, pushing off the frame with an effortless swagger. His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s a dangerous undercurrent you can’t ignore. “But you’re terrible at this. That lock’s got at least three enchantments on it. Not your specialty, is it?”

You swallow, trying to match his casual bravado. “And what’s it to you, Crouch? Didn’t think you were in the business of playing hall monitor.”

His grin widens, and he exhales a plume of smoke that curls lazily in the air between you. “Oh, I’m not. But I couldn’t resist the chance to see who’s stupid enough to go poking around here after hours. Thought it might be someone interesting.”