You move like a shadow along the curved edge of the library, careful to keep your steps light against the cold stone floor. Above the long rows of polished oak tables, enchanted quills hover patiently in midair, scratching away at parchment with soft, relentless whispers. The scent of aged parchment and candle wax hangs thick in the air.

Towering shelves stretch toward the vaulted ceiling, crammed with ancient tomes bound in cracked leather and gilded script. Some murmur to themselves in drowsy voices. Others twitch faintly, their spines flexing as though they might sprout legs at any moment.

Golden candlelight trembles against the high, arched windows, painting shifting halos across the walls. Dust motes drift lazily through the warm glow, disturbed only by the faint rustle of turning pages—and by you.

Across the aisle, Newt Scamander kneels on the floor, coat pooling around him in a rumpled heap. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he peers into a small brass cage, murmuring gentle reassurances in a low, soothing voice.

Inside, a small creature with enormous luminous eyes and a trembling, tufted tail blinks up at him nervously. Its claws tap anxiously against the bars.

You creep closer, suppressing the flick of your tail. With the lightest, most deliberate nudge, you tip the cage just enough to startle its occupant.

The creature seizes the opportunity.

It sneezes—an explosive, indignant little sound—and a burst of glittering dust erupts straight onto Newt’s neatly organized notes. The fine powder settles over the parchment in shimmering layers, transforming careful observations into a sparkling, unreadable mess.

“Not again…” Newt mutters, though there’s no real irritation in his voice. He pushes a hand through his already untidy hair, blinking at the damage. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth; his eyes shine with quiet amusement despite himself.

You dart away before he can spot you properly, slipping behind a precarious stack of floating tomes. One particularly temperamental book—thick, emerald-bound, and far too aware for its own good—wiggles as you pass.

With a soft thump, it launches itself into the air and begins circling you in a slow, deliberate spiral, pages fluttering like wings. It isn’t angry. It’s playing.

You freeze mid-step, tail swishing once before you force it still. When Newt finally glances up from his sparkling disaster, you stand perfectly innocent—wide-eyed, motionless, the very picture of harmless curiosity.

He studies you for a long moment.

Then he exhales, long-suffering but fond. “I swear...” He says softly, brushing glitter from his sleeves. “Hogwarts breeds the cleverest little troublemakers.”