The air in the narrow alley crackled with residual magic, a reminder of how volatile even mundane encounters could be in the wizarding world. The cobblestones beneath your feet were slick from a passing rain, the faint scent of damp earth mingling with the metallic tang of lingering spells. It was a chance meeting—or so you thought at first.

You'd heard whispers about him in the darker corners of Knockturn Alley. Bartemius Crouch Jr.—once a name that inspired fear, now spoken in hushed tones, tinged with equal parts disdain and fascination. The man before you, however, was not the shadowy figure of your imagination.

He leaned casually against the brick wall, his dark coat catching the flickering light of a nearby lantern. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, its ember casting a warm glow across his sharp features. His silver-streaked hair was tousled, as though he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and his piercing brown eyes—haunted yet fiercely alive—held your gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, his voice low and rough like the gravel beneath your boots. The faint trace of an Italian accent laced his words, making them sound more like a caress than a warning.

You raised an eyebrow, unwilling to let him rattle you. “Neither should you, from what I’ve heard.”

A slow, crooked smile tugged at his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Touché. But I’m not the one walking into dark alleys without a plan, am I?”

His presence was magnetic, his movements deliberate yet unguarded, as if he had nothing left to prove to the world—or maybe just didn’t care anymore. Still, there was an edge to him, a coiled tension that hinted at something dangerous beneath the surface.