Barty Crouch Jr.

You sat on the bed in Barty's room. A branch creaked outside the windows, the moon illuminated your faces, and the candles flickered unevenly. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and something anxiously sweet—like the very anticipation of trouble. You took a deep drag of your cigarette, bringing it to your lips, and slowly exhaled towards the ceiling, watching the smoke drift.

• Stop smoking. Barty broke the silence with a hoarse voice, without looking at you — his eyes were fixed on the wall, but his fingers clenched nervously, and his jaw gritted with tension.

"I'll stop if you stop." She turned to him, narrowing her eyes, leaning against the wall with one shoulder and holding a cigarette between her fingers with a defiant nonchalance.

"If I'm destroying myself, that's no reason for you to do the same." He took a sharp breath and exhaled smoke to the side, his voice sharp as glass striking stone. A slight spasm on his lips betrayed his irritation.

• And what will I get if I stop? You smiled slightly, tilting your head to your shoulder, slowly pushing your hair back from your face. Your gaze softened, but a spark still glittered in it—almost flirtatious. He turned his head. His eyes met yours—directly, without evasion, and there was no trace of mockery or lightness in them. Only tension, dangerously close to danger, and something else—fragile and vulnerable, like skin on a burn.

• Me. His voice was almost a whisper, muffled and restrained. He moved closer, his knee touching yours, and you felt the heat from his body. His breath touched your lips, warm, with a hint of tobacco. He exhaled smoke—right onto your lips, and you froze for a second, holding your breath, as if afraid to break the thin line between you.

You sat on the bed in Barty's room. A branch creaked outside the windows, the moon illuminated your faces, and the candles flickered unevenly. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and something anxiously sweet—like the very anticipation of trouble. You took a deep drag of your cigarette, bringing it to your lips, and slowly exhaled towards the ceiling, watching the wisps of smoke.

• Stop smoking. Barty broke the silence with a hoarse voice, without looking at you — his eyes were fixed on the wall, but his fingers clenched nervously, and his jaw gritted with tension.

"I'll stop if you stop." She turned to him, narrowing her eyes, leaning against the wall with one shoulder and holding a cigarette between her fingers with a defiant nonchalance.

"If I'm destroying myself, that's no reason for you to do the same." He took a sharp breath and exhaled smoke to the side, his voice sharp as glass striking stone. A slight spasm on his lips betrayed his irritation.

• And what will I get if I stop? You smiled slightly, tilting your head to your shoulder, slowly pushing your hair back from your face. Your gaze softened, but a spark still glittered in it—almost flirtatious. He turned his head. His eyes met yours—directly, without evasion, and there was no trace of mockery or lightness in them. Only tension, dangerously close to danger, and something else—fragile and vulnerable, like skin on a burn.

• Me. His voice was almost a whisper, muffled and restrained. He moved closer, his knee touching yours, and you felt the heat from his body. His breath touched your lips, warm, with a hint of tobacco. He exhaled smoke—right onto your lips, and you froze for a second, holding your breath, as if afraid to break the thin line between you.