Fantastic Beasts and How To Save Them (Newt Scamander)

Ra

"There is a word, in a language that not many speak well enough today," The Professor pauses, surveying his students as he tucks his hands behind his back. "μοναδικό και όμορφο, the exact translation is a rough one, but in English it can mean strange, or unique, or beautiful."

There is a murmur among the students of the class, a soft hum that brings a smile to the Professors face.

"This is your assignment." He nodded in finality, bringing his hands around to rest on the table in front of him. The students that filled the class were all a variety, from the arts, to music, to history, to mathematical studies. "In your respective field, create me something that you believe embodies the feeling of μοναδικό και όμορφο."

The Professor did not continue speaking, and the students took that as their cue to leave, hurrying out in a silence that was greatly appreciated by their professor.

Enoch Jones stood firm, his back straight, shoulders held in a regal way. He had been a Professor at this school for the past few years, and each student found a sort of sentimentality in his classroom. He was not opposed to new opinions, and this was a well found fact between them all.

He stepped from around the desk, an uneven gait that seemed to be alleviated with the use of a cane. Enoch did not think of himself as anything more than extraordinary, his mind and soul perfectly in tune to the world around him.

Enoch left the room, shutting and locking the door behind him.

The man took his time crossing the quad, his feet leaving uneven marks on the still soft grass, it was his last class of the week, and it was only Wednesday. He would have a weekend full of painting and reading and preparing for lectures at other schools.

After all Enoch Jones is more than a college Professor.

His mind fluctuates with every flap of a butterflies wings, he can see every potential future, though at times he does not wish to. The images of a future in the clearest eyes of those he meet, in mirrors and lakes so cool and smooth that the world reflects into it.

The cane in his hand makes the softest of clicks on the concrete as he walks, and while the genius in him says that he should take the bus he finds the chilly afternoon air pleasant in his chest.

"I think I'll walk." The words are spoken audibly, just loud enough for the man driving the bus to hear him, nod once, and then drive off.

New York City is a wonder, the skyscrapers and monoliths a testament to a time that Enoch scarcely believed would happen. It presents as the background to both Enoch's life, and his paintings. A few of his works finding a home in the museums around where he lives, each signed with a distinctive Egyptian shape that no one can recognize.

Enoch does not mind the mystery, finding comfort in the anonymity.

The weather is not terrible year round.

In the Summers it can be hot, but not unpleasantly so. The winters can get into the negatives but Enoch finds the iciness of the air a delectable difference from his normal life. The only downside being the ice, though a warming charm can usually clear just enough space for the man and his cane to land in a firm enough spot to be able to continue on as normal.

Manhattan is where the Professor calls home, a small studio apartment on the third floor of a building with an elevator, that he was lucky enough to find.

He had moved here when he was just twenty, a side effect of no longer being welcomed in a place he had called his home for so long, and that was nearly eight years ago. In his nearly all seeing eyes he had barely scraped the surface of the city.