Severus perched on the edge of a high-backed chair at the back of the classroom, robes drawn tight around his thin frame, eyes fixed on the scene before him. The American transfer professor moved with a casual confidence that seemed entirely at odds with the austere, echoing halls of Hogwarts. She set her bag carefully on the corner of the teacher’s desk, arranging her notes, quills, and what looked suspiciously like a well-worn sketchbook or journal. The mundaneness of it—so ordinary, so human—should have been unremarkable. And yet, Severus felt his attention sharpen, every detail sinking in with a quiet intensity that bordered on obsessive.
He noted how she tilted her head slightly as she pulled her chair closer to the desk, sliding the parchment papers into a neat stack, lining the edges with mechanical precision. The flicker of firelight from the torches above caught the curve of her wrist, the gleam of her pen as she set it down beside her notes. Every movement was effortless, natural, and yet to him, loaded with some inexplicable gravity. It wasn’t just admiration—it was fascination, the kind that had him leaning forward on the balls of his feet, nearly forgetting the rigid posture he usually maintained.
Across the room, the students murmured among themselves, already caught in the pull of her presence. Even Ron and Harry, usually restless and inattentive, leaned slightly forward, heads cocked, eyes tracking her every motion. Draco Malfoy sat stiff and rigid, a scowl firmly planted, but Severus could see the faint flicker of unease behind the mask—another one falling under her subtle, irresistible influence. She was quiet now, yet the weight of her attention already seemed to permeate the classroom, bending the energy of the students toward her in a way that even the professors present couldn’t ignore.
Severus allowed himself to notice the small details others would dismiss: the soft arch of her eyebrows, the faint crease of concentration at the corner of her mouth, the way she adjusted the strap of her bag before stepping up to the blackboard. Each movement was measured, casual, but to him it carried a rhythm, a language of its own. It pulled at something in him—a mix of longing, caution, and that peculiar, nervous thrill of knowing he would never fully admit to anyone, least of all himself.
He had spent years sharpening his defenses, keeping others at arm’s length, building walls thicker than stone. And yet, here she was, standing on the other side of the room, making it feel like every barrier he’d erected was meaningless. He could feel the shift even before she spoke, a quiet anticipation that tightened the air around him and made his pulse quicken.
"She’s… captivating,"