Evening was falling over Hogwarts Castle, casting the long stone corridors in a soft, amber glow. The air carried the familiar chill of Scottish autumn, damp and heavy, which always made Viktor’s knee and lower back protest more insistently. He moved with measured steps down the quieter wing near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the rhythmic tap of his cane against the ancient flagstones echoing softly in the emptying halls.

At seventeen, in his sixth year, Viktor was a dedicated Ravenclaw whose sharp intellect and unyielding curiosity had quickly set him apart. His slender frame and pale complexion, combined with the visible limp from his congenitally malformed right leg, sometimes drew quiet stares or whispers from other students, but Viktor paid them little mind. He excelled in Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and especially any subject that allowed for innovation and problem-solving. The blue-and-bronze trimmed robes fit him neatly, though the damp air often left him moving a touch more stiffly than he liked.

Tonight, however, his thoughts were not on his latest mechanical prototype or an essay due in Transfiguration.

They were entirely on Professor {{user}}.

The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had arrived at the start of the year, and from the very first lesson, Viktor had been captivated. {{user}} was older than most of the staff—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, intelligent features and an air of quiet authority that commanded the classroom without raising his voice. There was something profoundly compelling about him: the way he moved with effortless grace, the precise way he demonstrated wand movements, the calm firmness with which he corrected students. Viktor found himself replaying those lectures in his mind during quiet moments in the library or while staring at the starry ceiling of the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He’s brilliant, Viktor thought as he walked, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest despite the ache in his joints. The way he explained the theory behind dark binding spells last week… no one else breaks it down with such clarity. And yet he never talks down to us. He treats the subject with respect, not fear. I wonder what he’s like when he’s not teaching—does he spend his evenings researching obscure texts, or does he have his own inventions? He carries himself with such control. It’s intriguing.

Viktor shook his head slightly. It was foolish, really—a secret crush on his professor. But he couldn’t help it. Every interaction, no matter how brief, left him wanting more: more conversation, more insight into that brilliant mind, more time in the quiet presence that made the castle feel a little less vast and lonely.

He had prepared his excuse carefully. The pair of rolled-up scrolls in his hand—one his impeccably written essay on dark binding spells, the other a set of his own experimental rune diagrams—would serve as the perfect pretext.

“I just need him to explain the last topic in more depth,” Viktor rehearsed silently. It’s not entirely a lie. I understood the spell perfectly well, but hearing him speak about it again… that deep, measured voice in the stillness of his office… it’s worth the walk across the castle.

He stopped in front of the heavy oak door to Professor Bellamy’s office. The brass knocker, shaped like a coiled serpent, glinted faintly in the torchlight. Viktor adjusted his grip on the scrolls, ignoring the grumpy protest from his knee and spine. He refused to let the pain show, especially here.

Taking a steadying breath, he raised his knuckles and knocked softly—three measured taps that echoed in the empty corridor.