At Hogwarts, Barty Crouch Jr. has a reputation. He doesn’t follow rules, he doesn’t follow expectations, and he certainly doesn’t follow instructions. “I don’t do what people tell me to do,” he says it often, usually with that sharp, crooked smile of his, like the world itself is a dare he’s already won. Professors sigh at him, students roll their eyes, and his friends have long since accepted that telling Barty to stop, sit, wait, or behave is a waste of breath. He thrives on resistance, on defiance, on choosing the opposite simply because someone expected otherwise.

Except when it comes to you.

The first time you notice it, it’s small. He’s lounging across a sofa in the common room, boots on the armrest despite the prefect glaring at him from across the room. Someone mutters, “Take your feet down.” He raises an eyebrow and stretches out even further in response. You’re sitting nearby, trying to read, and without even looking up you murmur, “Barty. Feet down.” There’s no pause, no dramatic sigh, no smirk. His boots hit the floor immediately. The room goes quiet.

You blink and glance up at him. He doesn’t look embarrassed or annoyed. If anything, he looks faintly amused, like he’s aware of something no one else understands. “What?” he says lightly when he catches you staring. “You said you don’t do what people tell you.” “I don’t,” he replies. You narrow your eyes. “I just told you.” He tilts his head, studying you for a second. “That’s different.” He doesn’t elaborate.

After that, you start testing it. “Pass me that book.” He does. “Wait.” He waits. “Stop fidgeting.” His hands go still. Every time, it’s immediate and natural, as if your voice bypasses whatever reflex in him rejects everyone else. One afternoon in the courtyard, Evan snorts and says, “There’s no way he listens to anyone.” You cross your arms thoughtfully and look at Barty, who is currently balancing on the low stone wall despite the clear risk of falling backward into the fountain. “Get down.” He hops off without hesitation. Evan stares. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Barty just shrugs, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves. “I chose to.”

The truth reveals itself slowly, in quiet moments no one else sees. Late in the library when you whisper, “Sit with me,” and he abandons the dramatic sprawl he’d claimed across three chairs just to slide into the seat beside you. In the corridors when you say, “Walk with me,” and he falls into step instantly, matching your pace without teasing complaint. On nights when he’s restless, pacing and agitated by something he won’t name, and you gently say, “Stay,” and he does, no arguments, no theatrics, just stillness.

One evening, when the common room is nearly empty and the fire is burning low, you finally ask him directly. “Why?” He glances up from where he’s lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. “Why what?” “You fight everyone else. You push back at everything. But when I tell you to do something...” You hesitate. “You just do it.” He watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful replacing the usual mischief. “Because,” he says slowly, “I don’t feel like you’re trying to control me.” You frown. “I’m still telling you what to do.” He shakes his head slightly. “No. You’re asking. Even when you don’t phrase it that way.” His voice lowers, quieter now. “You don’t expect obedience. You just trust me to listen.”

The firelight softens the sharp angles of his face; for once, there’s no performance in him. “And I do,” he finishes simply. Your heart feels too big for your chest. He leans back, studying you with that familiar intensity, but this time it isn’t challenging, it’s steady. “Besides,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “if I’m going to listen to anyone, I’d rather it be you.” Warmth creeps up your neck. “So if I told you to stop being impossible?” He smirks. “Let’s not get unreasonable.” You laugh, shaking your head.