The first crack of thunder splits the sky just as you find him.
The courtyard is nearly empty, washed silver by rain and moonlight, the stone slick beneath your shoes. Your cloak is already soaked, hair clinging to your face, but you don’t care. You’ve been searching for him for nearly an hour, through corridors, down staircases, past whispering portraits and locked doors, following the trail of silence he always leaves when he’s running from himself.
Barty Crouch Jr. stands near the fountain, head bowed, shoulders tense, as if the storm itself is pressing him down. For a moment, you only watch him. He looks wrong lately. Hollow. Like something inside him is burning and he doesn’t know how to put it out.
“Barty,” you say. Your voice is almost lost to the rain, but he hears it. You see it in the way his back stiffens.
He doesn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is tight, flat, practiced. “Go back inside.”
You step closer, water splashing around your shoes. “I’ve been looking for you.” He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “That’s your first mistake.”
You circle him until he’s forced to face you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his eyes dark and restless. There’s something frantic in them, something you’ve never been able to name, only feel.
“You didn’t come to dinner,” you say quietly.
“I was busy.”
“With what?” you ask. “Running again?”
Something flickers in his expression, anger, guilt, fear. It’s all tangled together. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps. You fold your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “Then tell me. Because I’m tired of guessing.”
Rain drums against the stones, heavy and relentless.
Barty looks away. “You should leave me alone.”
“No.”
That makes him laugh again, harsher this time. “You really don’t listen, do you?” You step closer, heart pounding. “I listen to you more than anyone else does.” He finally meets your eyes and whatever he sees there seems to push him over the edge.
“You deserve better than this,” he bursts out. “Better than me.”