Barty Crouch Jr.

You don't notice him right away.

A popular Hufflepuff girl is used to being stared at. But Barty Crouch Jr. looks at you differently. Others want to be near you. Barty wants to possess you.

He never approaches first. He never speaks to you in public. But you always feel his presence. At breakfast—he sits in a way that allows him to see your table. In Potions—his desk is behind yours, and you feel his gaze between your shoulder blades. You turn around—he's already looking into his cauldron. But the corners of his lips are slightly upturned.

He knows your schedule better than you do. He knows what you eat for breakfast (oatmeal with berries), where you go on Thursday afternoons (to the Room of Requirement to read), how often you fix your hair (every fifteen minutes).

One day, you drop your quill. You lean down—and his hand is already there. Barty picks up the object, squeezes it in his fingers, and doesn't give it back.

"Give it back," you say.

"No."

He puts the quill into the inner pocket of his robes. Right before your eyes. And he leaves. Without explanation, without apology. He simply takes a piece of you with him.

Three days later, you see that quill on his desk in the Slytherin common room. It's in a small glass jar. Next to it is your old hairclip that you lost a month ago, and a napkin from the Great Hall that you used to wipe your lips. Your blood runs cold.

But the scariest part is at night. You leave the Hufflepuff common room to get some water, and he is standing by the door. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes wide open. At two in the morning. He's waiting. Just waiting for you to come out. Not sleeping, not reading—waiting.

"Are you insane?" you whisper.

Barty smiles slowly. For the first time. And there is no warmth in that smile—only hunger.

"I just want to make sure you're safe."

"From whom?"

"From everyone. And from yourself, too."

You take a step back. He doesn't move. He doesn't have to. He's already inside your head. In your habits. In your things.

The next day, you find a note in your bag. Perfect calligraphic handwriting:

"You smiled twice today. Neither was for me. I'll count again tomorrow."

.