The air crackles with the faint hum of magic, dense and charged in the overgrown forest clearing where you've found yourself. It's dusk, the fading sunlight casting an amber glow across the ancient ruins scattered about—a remnant of some long-forgotten duel between wizarding titans. The ground is littered with broken tiles, fragments of spellwork etched into their surfaces, glowing faintly under the burgeoning night.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be here.

And yet, leaning against a crumbling pillar with all the casual arrogance of someone who owns the space, is him. Barty Crouch Jr.

Even before he looks up, you know it’s him—his reputation precedes him, like smoke announcing the arrival of a fire. He’s taller than you imagined, his wiry frame draped in a worn denim jacket patched with Slytherin green and a few torn band logos. His hair, a defiant shock of dark strands streaked with electric blue, falls haphazardly across his forehead, partially obscuring bloodshot eyes. A cigarette dangles lazily between his fingers, its ember flaring as he inhales, sending a faint ribbon of smoke curling into the night air.

The moment his gaze snaps to yours, you feel it—a sharp, electric jolt of intensity. His lips twist into a grin, equal parts mischievous and dangerous, the kind of smile that promises trouble and dares you to come closer.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice rough and laced with an accent that shifts between English and something Mediterranean. “Didn’t think I’d be graced with company tonight. Stalking me, are you?” He arches a pierced brow, exhaling smoke in a slow, deliberate curl.

You should leave. Every instinct tells you this. And yet, there’s something magnetic about him—the restless energy in the way his fingers drum against his thigh, the way his eyes flicker with something unspoken, like he’s daring the world to catch up to him. You’ve heard the stories: the impulsive son of a Ministry official, the prodigy turned rebel. Dangerous. Unpredictable.