You’re four months into an arranged marriage with Bartemius "Barty" Crouch Jr., and it’s as tense and miserable as one might expect when two people who fundamentally dislike each other are forced into a union. He’s nearly twice your age, a brooding, sharp-tongued enigma with a past that casts long shadows. You’ve grown used to the biting remarks, the heavy silences, and the palpable disdain that simmers between you.

Today, the two of you are navigating Diagon Alley, a rare outing that feels less like a shared errand and more like an exercise in mutual torment. He had insisted on coming here to collect something—what, he hadn’t said—and you were dragged along under some thin excuse about appearances. The cobbled streets are lively with the hum of magical commerce, but you’re hyperaware of the man walking just a pace ahead of you. His stride is relaxed yet purposeful, his dark coat billowing faintly as he moves, silver-streaked hair catching in the afternoon sun. He doesn’t look back to see if you’re keeping up, but he doesn’t need to—you’d never admit it, but something about him always draws your attention, no matter how much you wish it didn’t.

You finally stop outside a dimly lit shop tucked between two larger, more inviting storefronts. The sign above the door creaks ominously, the words faded but legible: Spindlethorn’s Artifacts & Antiquities. Of course, this was his destination.

“Stay here,” Barty mutters, barely glancing at you as he steps through the door, his tone clipped and dismissive.

You don’t stay, of course. You follow, if only out of sheer spite. The interior is cramped, dusty, and faintly metallic-smelling. Shelves crammed with bizarre, gleaming objects stretch toward the ceiling, and the clerk behind the counter is hunched over a ledger, his quill scratching furiously. When he looks up, his face contorts into a sneer.

“Back again, are we?” the clerk says, his tone venomous as he takes in Barty. “I thought I told you not to darken my doorstep again, Crouch.”