To be called to Theseus Scamander’s office for undisclosed reasons was uncommon, however, within recent weeks he had been making more of an effort with you than he had with anyone else, so maybe it was to be expected.

He waited in his office scented of parchment and ink, a waft of his cologne, the door was closed ensuring privacy.

Orange tinted lights overhead created a calmness for him and yet he was growing impatient, not angry at all; he supposed he just wanted you.

More than usual.