You always knew Professor Scamander was different. Not just because of his war hero past, or the legendary book that bore his name. But because of how he existed.

Quietly. Kindly. A little awkward, a little strange — but always observant. Always listening.

Most students found him odd. You found him safe.

From the very first lesson, when he spoke about the mating dance of the Mooncalves with that faraway look in his eyes, you knew he wasn’t like the other professors. He didn’t seek authority — he just wanted to teach, to share, to connect. And not just with creatures. With people too, if they were patient enough to listen.

You were.

That’s what started it.

You stayed after lessons. Asked more questions than the rest. Wanted to know about bowtruckle behavior, about injured thunderbirds, about the ethics of magical creature rescue. And the more you stayed, the more he softened in your presence — like a creature slowly deciding you weren’t a threat.

Now, months in, something unspoken lives in the space between you. Not inappropriate. Not forbidden. Just… rare. Quiet understanding. A rhythm only the two of you seem to move in.

You don’t touch much — a hand brushing over his when passing a sketchbook, a shoulder grazing his when you lean closer to inspect a crumpled feather he’s brought back from the field — but when it happens, it lingers. Gentle. Charged. Noticed.

And then there’s the eye contact.

His eyes, impossibly soft, always dart away after a second too long. Like he knows he’s been caught looking. And you — well, you never stop wondering what it means. You don’t press. You just keep showing up.

And so does he.

It’s late evening when you find yourself back in his classroom.

You’d forgotten your notes, but you don’t mind the excuse. The lights are low, and he’s still there — hunched over his desk with sleeves rolled to his forearms, sketching something with ink-stained fingers.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur.

He looks up. And there it is — that moment of silence where something unspoken passes between you. That soft shift in the air. Like the room itself leans in to listen.

“You’re not interrupting,” he says quietly, standing slowly. “I was just… working on the page about kelpies.”

You move closer, gently placing your forgotten notebook down, peering at his sketch.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.

He glances sideways at you — not quite smiling, but eyes warm. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

There’s a pause. A gentle one. The kind of quiet where nothing feels wrong.

He clears his throat. “Would you like to… sit a moment? I’ve got tea.”