British Ministry of Magic, 1926

The grand hall of the Ministry of Magic buzzed with a restrained murmur, the kind of polite conversation that floated just beneath the surface, never daring to breach the solemn formality of the place. The chandeliers glowed softly above, casting their steady light across polished marble floors and gilded trim. Everything about the Ministry in 1926 seemed designed to remind you of where you stood: small, replaceable, a cog in a machine of power.

It was your very first meeting. Hardly a matter of consequence—you were here in the capacity of a secretary, a note-taker at best, destined to sit quietly at the edge of the room while more important figures moved the world around you. And yet, it felt monumental. You had risen before dawn to prepare, fussing over your appearance until your nerves nearly drove you mad. The sleek, drop-waist dress of soft grey hung just right, modest but modern, and you had dared a bold swipe of red lipstick, hoping it might suggest more confidence than you actually possessed. But your hands still trembled, your stomach still churned, and you prayed no one could see how out of place you felt.

You chose a seat near the back, as inconspicuous as possible, clutching your parchment and quill with white-knuckled precision. Around you, the room filled with the voices and presences of people you knew only from newspapers and whispered office chatter: senior officials in tailored robes, celebrated Aurors whose exploits were practically legend.

And then—him.

The chair beside you shifted as a man lowered himself into it with effortless composure. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark blonde hair neatly combed back, blue eyes bright and unflinching. His face was familiar, but not in the vague way of seeing someone in the Prophet. No—these features were carved into public memory. Theseus Scamander.

Your chest tightened at once. He was not just another Auror. He was the Head Auror of the British Ministry of Magic, the youngest to hold the position in decades, a man whose reputation stretched through every corridor of this building. A war hero, lauded for his service, and a figure many whispered might one day take the highest office of them all—Minister for Magic. He carried all of that with the casual assurance of someone who had nothing left to prove.

Handsome hardly covered it; there was an authority to him that photographs could never capture. Presence radiated off him in waves, the sort that compelled attention without effort. You dropped your gaze at once, heat rising in your cheeks, your heart thundering so loudly it drowned out the hum of the hall.

He turned his head slightly towards you, his voice low, composed, and unmistakably British in its measured cadence. “Pardon—your lipstick,” he said, the briefest flicker of his gaze to your mouth. “Bit smudged, I’m afraid. Best see to it before the meeting begins.”

The words landed with the precision of a spell. Not unkind, not mocking—merely practical, as though it were perfectly ordinary for the Head Auror himself to comment on your appearance. Yet to you, it was anything but ordinary. Your throat tightened.