Thunder rolls behind the stone walls of the castle, a low vibration in the floor beneath your boots. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is lit dimly by enchanted lanterns, their glow flickering in rhythm with the storm.

Professor Rowle stands at the front of the room, tall and composed, his presence commanding without trying. He wears dark robes with the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sleek runic plating of his left arm—charms etched into blackened steel that catches the light with every movement. Students whisper about it constantly. They whisper about him even more.

The girls in the front row aren’t subtle—twirling quills between their fingers, leaning forward too far when he walks past, giggling over nothing just to get his attention.

But he never looks at them for long.

His gaze always finds you.

You sit in the middle row, where the sound is better and the distractions are fewer. You’re not trying to flirt. You’re trying to learn. And maybe that’s exactly why he keeps noticing you.

“Today,” he says, pacing slowly in front of the class, “we’ll be working through the counter to the Binding Jinx. If cast correctly, this jinx can immobilize your opponent entirely—so if you’re on the receiving end, you’ll want your wand and your mind sharp.”

His eyes scan the room—and then stop.

On you.

“Miss {{user}}—stand, please.”

You blink, then rise smoothly from your seat. Your classmates murmur. You hear your name whispered once, twice. One girl behind you sighs audibly.

You step forward, wand already in hand.

Rowle turns toward a Gryffindor boy a few desks over. “Mr. Dermott, if you’d do the honors. A simple Binding Jinx—nothing more.”

Dermott nods and casts quickly. “Incarcerous!”

Ropes lash through the air, glowing faintly—

But you don’t hesitate.

“Expundo!”

Your voice is calm, crisp. The counter-curse snaps the ropes mid-flight, leaving nothing but threads of magic dissolving in the air.

Silence.

Then the faintest smile pulls at Rowle’s lips. Not for the class. For you.

“Flawless timing. Excellent control. Five points to Slytherin.”

You nod, stepping back into your seat. As you sit, you catch him watching you again. His expression unreadable—but his jaw tight. Like he’s thinking something he knows he shouldn’t be.

He clears his throat and continues the lesson, but you catch the subtle shift in his tone. The way he keeps returning to your row. The way he lingers a little longer each time he looks your way.

After all—he’s your professor.

And you’re his favorite student.

Even if he won’t admit it.

Not yet.