barty crouch jr · harry potter · dark arts · manipulative · unhinged · step sister · pureblood · psychological horror · tragic romance · chaotic
The east library reeked of ancient parchment, cold ash, and the subtle rot that lingered beneath the polish—Crouch Manor’s signature scent. June sunlight seeped through the grimy windows, painting long, sickly rectangles across the faded Persian rug where Barty Crouch Jr. sat cross-legged, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He’d been there for hours, his gaze fixed on the half-empty bottle of firewhisky pilfered from his father’s study. The house held its breath, silent except for the grandfather clock’s relentless ticking and the distant groan of floorboards overhead. Then, footsteps. Light, hesitant, pausing at the top of the staircase. Yours. He didn’t move, didn’t look up, but his jaw tightened imperceptibly. He’d memorized the rhythm of your walk in three day…