Fantastic Breasts & Where To Find Them

Cass

Inextinguishable oil-lamps were burning low in the attic meeting room. A small crowd of my compatriot witches and wizards were awaiting the visiting scholar from the Ministry of Magic, here to stay at the Bronxvitch School of Witchcraft for a four month residency.

When he entered through the painting of the founder's daughter, my heart sped up. He was only about twenty-five years old, at most four years older than me, and dashing from his messy hair down to his black leather boots. I had expected the rising Magizoologist to be bookish and professorial, but he instead cast the aura of a classic English adventurer, the consummate charming gentleman. Grover was shaking his hand and grinning broadly to welcome him to Bronxvitch. But I noticed that I caught the corner of Newt's glance.

I never thought that I would end up at an all-girls school in America. I had given up hope of going to any magic school at all. Unable to attend Hogwarts, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Isla had taught me all that they could. They encouraged me to read everything they gave me, which was indeed an impressive home library of books on spells, potions and magical history. There was no restriction on Aunt Isla's Dark Arts section, either. How I had gone from that introverted teenager to where I was now - pursuing a Masters in Magic at an upstart college in New York - I was still figuring out. 

Newt had the charismatic good-looks of a moving picture star. His neatly trimmed moustache accentuated the resemblance to a hero from the silent movies. I regretted dressing in casual school robes, as our guest had arrived in stylishly dapper dress robes. He seemed the pinnacle of 1920's English wizard style, with his cloak hemmed high around the waist, and he wore his robes as if he had just sauntered onto the Tenditch court. I longed for him to come and talk to me, but Grover was keeping him busy, navigating him through the various other Hogwarts alums who had landed on this side of the pond.

Finally, Dean Grover Ruthephus led Newton Scamander over to the cluster of graduate students that I was hiding amongst. He introduced Gabby, Croila, and me, but Newt never averted his eyes from my face during the entire conversation. It would have been easy enough to duck behind Croila, as she had accidentally invented an Engorgement Cream for which she had never developed an antidote, but I stood there in plain sight stammering idiotically. I proceeded to make no impression on him whatsoever.

The dating scene is limited for witches in Chester County, New York. The nearest all-wizard school is in New Jersey, and our mixer balls are only twice a year. So when a handsome young bachelor unexpectedly arrives on campus, a lot of heads are turned. Shy girls like me are naturally last in line. We might get one chance to meet him, and we might screw it up. Before long, he'll probably be hopping into open-top automobiles and driving off to large parties on Long Island with girls from Bluenose House. He'll show up to our seminar on Monday with dark rings under his eyes and regretful memories of Butterchampagne and skinny witches in high-hemmed flapper dresses.

Still, despite my pessimism - earned pessimism, for sure - my heart did its thing again when I saw him scanning the room for something (me, I hoped). He made his polite goodnights, explaining that he was shiplagged. It was unmistakable: he lingered on me and then exited through the oil painting.