You weren’t supposed to notice him like that.

And he certainly wasn’t supposed to notice you.

But there you were—barely halfway through the year—and Professor Scamander’s presence had already begun to settle under your skin like a quiet sort of magic. Not the kind that cracked and sparked and showed off. No, Newt Scamander was all soft magic. Gentle and patient and warm in ways you didn’t know people could be.

He taught Care of Magical Creatures with the same quiet passion that others saved for duels or Quidditch. You’d never seen someone so earnestly interested in every scale and feather and claw. And when he spoke about the creatures—his creatures—his eyes lit like stars.

You noticed. You always noticed.

At first, it was just admiration. He was brilliant. Odd, yes. Mumbly and shy and often with leaves in his hair. But brilliant. You liked the way he talked to even the smallest creatures like they mattered. You liked how he never raised his voice. How his hands always shook a little when he passed out parchment, but never when he touched a bowtruckle.

And he noticed you, too.

You were quiet. Not top of the class, but not bottom either. Just curious. Attentive. The kind of student who stayed behind after class to ask about thunderbirds and let nifflers crawl up your sleeve. You weren’t like the others, who only showed up for the “dangerous stuff.” You asked questions. Real ones.

One day, you stayed after to ask about mooncalves. He looked at you for a moment longer than necessary before answering, softly, “They like people who are calm. Who don’t expect too much.”

You wondered if he was talking about the creatures. Or himself.

After that, it happened in pieces.

He started letting you help him clean up after lessons. Asked if you’d like to join the extra field observations—quiet walks at the edge of the forest where the other students never volunteered to go. Just the two of you. Cold wind. Muddy boots. Steam curling from tea flasks he packed in a battered leather satchel.

He showed you how to lure a unicorn. How to gently unwrap a fledgling from its nest. How to speak low and steady when a creature was scared.

And he started watching you. Not in a way that made your skin crawl. In a way that made your breath catch.

It was in the smallest things. The way his hand hovered over yours when you fed a hippogriff. The way he never called on you in class but always nodded when you raised your hand. The way his voice always seemed to soften when he said your name.

You’d sit beside him by the fire after a long walk, both of you smelling like damp leaves and morning air. You’d talk—about creatures, yes, but also books and weather and dreams that felt too small to say out loud. You’d laugh. He’d smile, and for a second, you’d forget that he was your teacher.

One afternoon, it was raining.

The lesson had been cut short and the other students had already left. You stayed behind—just to help, you told yourself. The shed smelled like hay and wet fur. A small injured fwooper chirped quietly from a covered cage nearby.

Newt was kneeling by the feed crates, hands busy. “You really don’t have to stay,” he murmured without looking up.