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If there was one thing the students of Hogwarts School of Academy agreed on, it was that Professor Sallow was, without a doubt, the quintessential “fun” professor. He didn’t look much older than the students themselves — though he was probably somewhere in his thirties; it was that boyish grin of his that made him seem younger. He was the type to show up five minutes late to his own lecture, coffee from Starbucks in hand and a PowerPoint presentation he’d clearly thrown together the night before. The one who’d put on a film during Friday lectures and pass around a bag of crisps to the class. The one who rolled his eyes when you were late with an assignment but let it slide, on the condition that you showed him plenty of pictures of your cat.
Professor Sallow was easygoing, loud, and casual, with the top button of his shirt undone, with his tie, if he even wore one, askew and half-knotted, slacks slightly wrinkled, and his hair perpetually tousled. The students adored Professor Sallow.
And then there was Professor Gaunt.
Professor Gaunt was probably around the same age as Professor Sallow, though you’d never guess it. He dressed like a gentleman from the 1800s: tailored shirts, impeccable waistcoats, and sleek trousers. He was blind, but the students quickly learned that it made him neither less perceptive nor any weaker. His extraordinary hearing meant he could pick up every tiny murmur in the classroom, the faint click of someone switching on their phone. That was always followed by a stern punishment, either detention or an extra pop quiz to take home.
Professor Gaunt wasn’t exactly hated, but he was... respected. Feared, even. He was never late, and always shut the classroom door precisely on the hour. If students were late, they had to sit in the corridor and try to listen through the door. His assignments and exams were demanding; not unfair, not designed to make you fail, but genuinely challenging. They required proper research, study, and nuanced, complex reasoning. High marks were rare, and deadlines were sacrosanct. His pale blond hair was always neatly slicked back, and his tie, clearly made of some expensive imported Italian fabric, was always perfectly knotted.
Professor Sallow spoke freely and often about his personal interests, his friends (the students had heard plenty about a certain Garreth Weasley, who apparently freelanced as some sort of… experimental researcher?), his cat, and his noisy neighbour who banged on the walls. A wedding ring gleamed teasingly on his left hand, but he had never mentioned his spouse. The students had asked a few times, yet Sallow would only wink and steer the topic elsewhere. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but he was sparing with details about his love life.
So, naturally, the students filled in the blanks themselves. His wife, they imagined, must be just as eccentric and fun as Professor Sallow himself. They were sort of couple who cooked dinner together in the evenings, ended up in playful food fights, and laughed when one of them accidentally tossed a red sock into the laundry. Mrs Sallow was surely a warm, down-to-earth woman with laugh lines and a relaxed sense of style, who greeted Professor Sallow at the door with a kiss on the cheek and the smell of freshly baked buns.
Then, one day during a lecture, Professor Sallow happened to refer to his spouse as a he. The class froze for a heartbeat — and then the rumour mill started up again, this time with a husband in mind instead. Mr and Mr Sallow… their professor’s husband was, surely, that kind of easy-going, good-natured man, the sort with a deep laugh and a belly that bounced when he chuckled. He probably wore spotty ties and couldn’t cook to save his life, which meant he and Professor Sallow often ordered takeaway and ate in front of the telly.
Yes, one could say that Professor Sallow’s private life wasn’t particularly private.
Professor Gaunt, on the other hand, revealed nothing about himself. The students sometimes suspected he might be some sort of automaton: activated precisely at 7:50 in the morning and deactivated again at five in the afternoon, when the university was empty. The few curious, teasing questions he’d received early in the term had been swiftly silenced by a cold, unseeing stare and a curt remark that they were there to analyse historical elements, not his romantic life. Since then, no one had dared to ask. Instead, they tried to catch any accidental hint he might let slip. He never did. The man stuck rigidly to his lectures’ content and never once mentioned anything as personal as a houseplant.
Still, there was a wedding ring glinting on his finger too. And, as students do, they speculated. Who on earth could be married to Professor Gaunt? He was fairly handsome, most would admit, if one liked that sharp, angular look and the polished style of dress. His features were finely sculpted, and someone swore they’d once seen him without his waistcoat and claimed he looked much younger when he wasn’t dressed as if heading to a ball in eighteenth-century France. But even so… that cold, impersonal air of his gave people pause.
They imagined Professor Gaunt’s wife as something similar to him: a thin, bony woman with pursed lips and short hair. Instead of greeting her husband with a kiss, she’d wave a wooden spoon at him and complain that the chicken wasn’t thawed. Their evenings were probably spent in silence before the television, a full metre of sofa between them, Gaunt immersed in his students’ essays or a book in Braille. The only words exchanged would be about whether they were out of milk or if they’d be eating together that night.
Everything changed one Friday, halfway through the spring term.
As per tradition, Professor Sallow had put on a film; one the students were half-watching, half-dozing through. A bag of pretzels was being passed around the classroom. One of the windows was open to let in a bit of fresh spring air and a sliver of sunshine. Professor Sallow had told them to take notes, since there would be a quiz on the film later, but the students had long learned that meant absolutely nothing. Instead, they rested their chins in their hands and stared absently at the screen.
Professor Sallow himself sat at his desk, feet up, phone in hand. It looked suspiciously like he was Snapchatting someone.
The classroom door burst open. The students, who had been on the verge of falling asleep, jumped in their seats. Professor Sallow raised an eyebrow at the intruder.
Professor Gaunt stood in the doorway. Dressed, in honour of Friday, in a grey waistcoat with a matching green-and-grey tie and dark, crisply pressed trousers. His cane was tucked neatly under one arm, and he balanced a few books in the other.
“Professor Sallow,” he said coolly, and his mere voice was enough to make the students, by sheer instinct, sit up straight and hastily put away their phones.
“Professor Gaunt!” said Professor Sallow cheerfully, entirely unfazed by the icy air practically radiating from the man. “Welcome! We’re in the middle of watching an utterly thrilling, Oscar-worthy film in here! Do join us — but alas, I’m afraid it doesn’t come with audio description.”
The students’ eyes bounced between the two professors, wide and unblinking.
“Thank you for the generous offer, Professor Sallow,” said Professor Gaunt in a voice that could make paint dry faster, “but I prefer to use my time — and my students’ time — in a more valuable and rewarding manner.”
“My students do learn valuable and rewarding things!” protested Professor Sallow. He paused the film, swung his feet down from the desk, and abruptly pointed at a student. “Hobhouse! What year was the European Union founded?”
Hobhouse, who had been completely absorbed in the verbal tennis match between the two professors, nearly jumped out of his skin. “1776!” he blurted.
Professor Sallow nodded gravely and turned back to Gaunt. “See? My students do learn things.”
“I’m afraid you’ve confused the American Declaration of Independence with the founding of the EU,” replied Professor Gaunt. Hobhouse sank into his seat. It wasn’t even Gaunt’s class, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if he ended up with an extra homework assignment anyway.
“But that doesn’t surprise me, Professor Sallow,” Gaunt continued smoothly. “You seem to have some difficulty distinguishing between what’s yours, what’s mine, and what belongs in the present or the past.”
Professor Sallow rolled his eyes. “I said I was sorry about the lasagne! I didn’t realise our fridge was divided into ‘mine and yours.’”
The students blinked. Our fridge? Did he mean the shared staffroom fridge?
Professor Gaunt looked for a moment as though he might throw either his cane or one of the books he was holding in the direction of Sallow’s voice.
“No, Professor Sallow,” he said through gritted teeth. “You were lecturing in Room 394 earlier, weren’t you?”
Professor Sallow threw up a mock salute. One Professor Gaunt obviously couldn’t see, though judging by the grimace that crossed his lips, he could somehow sense it anyway. “Sir yes sir!”
“Then perhaps,” said Gaunt icily, “you’d be so kind as to erase whatever nonsense you scrawl across the board when you’ve finished your lecture. It takes rather a long time, you see, to wipe away two hours of drivel about European power structures and incorrect dates.” His grey, unseeing eyes flicked briefly in Hobhouse’s direction.
Professor Sallow looked like a child on Christmas morning.
“Afraid of a little challenge, Professor Gaunt?” he teased. “Wiping a board clean takes, what, a minute at most? And one generally does it before one’s own lecture begins.” He grabbed the bag of pretzels, popped one into his mouth, and chewed loudly.
Professor Gaunt looked as though he regretted every career choice he had ever made.
“Yes, Professor Sallow,” he said, every word sounding physically painful. “That works fine when one has sight and can actually see such things before the lecture begins — and when one has more than five minutes between classes to prepare. As it happens, I had to hurry straight from a lecture on the French Revolution to one on English colonialism, and I was halfway through explaining the Boston Tea Party when a student asked whether the European Coal and Steel Community was relevant. Trying to guess, as a blind man, where on the board something’s written takes rather longer, you understand.”
The class followed the exchange like spectators watching a tennis match on the Wii, their gazes bouncing between the two professors like ping-pong balls. This was far better than the film Sallow had put on.
“Terribly sorry, professor,” said Sallow cheerfully, popping another pretzel into his mouth. “I’ll absolutely keep that in mind next time.”
Professor Gaunt looked as though he wanted to say more, but refrained. Instead, he wrinkled his nose and said, “You’re an insufferable nuisance, you know that?”
The students’ eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. It was an insult, but the tone Gaunt used… it almost sounded… fond?
Sallow just grinned, propped his feet back up on the desk, and said, “And yet you still put a ring on it,” brushing his hands off on his trousers.
If the students had been shocked before, they were on the verge of fainting now. Did Sallow mean…?
Professor Gaunt’s nostrils flared. “I’m beginning to regret it,” he said shortly. “I can’t seem to escape your antics either at home or at school — which reminds me far too much of my childhood.”
Sallow shrugged, all smiles. “You were the one who asked me out first,” he said brightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got thirty minutes left of my lecture, and I happen to know the big fight scene in this film doesn’t start until an hour in, sooo…”
Somewhere near the back of the classroom, someone fell off their chair. The rest managed to stay upright, but only barely. Did he just say that the loud, carefree, easygoing Professor Sallow was married to Professor Gaunt? The cold-hearted, emotionless, stoic Professor Gaunt?
They were like night and day. No, worse. Night and day at least followed each other, complemented each other. These two were like opposite ends of a magnet, like an ice cube and a flame.
Professor Gaunt slid his cane from under his arm into his hand, and for a moment it looked as though he might actually swing it at Sallow. Instead, he turned on his heel and said curtly, “If you haven’t brought your house keys, I’ll be locking you out.”
“Thanks, love!” Sallow called after him. “Oh, and could you take the chicken out of the freezer? I forgot this morning.”
Professor Gaunt, already halfway out the door, froze for a second before drawing a long, visible breath to compose himself. Without turning around, he said, “You’ll be eating frozen chicken in your tacos tonight.”
“As long as I get to pick the film, that’s fine by me!”
Gaunt slammed the door behind him so hard that one of the magnets on the whiteboard clattered to the floor along with the papers it had been holding.
“So,” said Professor Sallow brightly, entirely unfazed by the fact that his students were still sitting there, mouths open like baby birds, “where were we in the film?”
Even though the students — and the rest of the school, since news travelled faster than a high-speed bullet train once Professor Sallow’s lecture had ended — were in a state of shock worse than when they’d found out their former headmaster had got a student pregnant, the hysteria soon died down. As in any school environment, people adjusted, got used to it, and moved on. The rumour mill simply shifted focus, now revolving around their golden-retriever professor and their German-shepherd professor instead.
“Professor Gaunt’s definitely the type who’s all cold and emotionless in public,” someone said, “but I swear Professor Sallow’s the big spoon all night.”
“Professor Sallow definitely leaves dirty dishes in the sink and says he’ll wash them later, and then Professor Gaunt ends up doing it anyway,” another agreed.
“I saw them sharing a lunchbox yesterday,” claimed a third. “Looked like lasagne. Sallow was laughing like he was going to die over some private joke, and Gaunt looked ready to stab him with his fork.”
“Sallow probably gets home late every night because he’s always staying behind to help students with their coursework. I bet Professor Gaunt greets him with a kiss and a little scolding for being late, but it’s all for show: he’s actually made dinner already, and then they sit there drinking wine together and gossiping about us, like a pair of teenagers.”
“We are gossiping like a pair of teenagers.”
“Yeah, but we actually are younger than them.”
“I don’t think they’re that old. I’m pretty sure I heard Professor Gaunt wish Professor Sallow a happy thirty-third birthday last year.”
“Thirty-three? That’s ancient!”
“No, it isn’t! My boyfriend’s thirty-three.”
“That’s because your boyfriend’s a perv, Susan.”
“You’re just jealous because you’ll never have what me and my boyfriend — or Gaunt and Sallow — have!”
“I am not! I could find someone if I wanted to. I just don’t want to right now.”
“Alright, alright, stop it. I heard a rumour that Professor Sallow’s totally the one on top.”
“Oh my God, that’s disgusting! Why are you even thinking about that?”
“Hmm. I picture Professor Gaunt as the top. He’s got that dominant, confident aura. I can just see him taking control in bed.”
“Yeah, and Sallow, who’s usually so cocky and full of himself, just melts when someone bosses him around!”
“I think it’s the other way round. Gaunt’s so stiff and serious all day, he probably needs to unwind and give up control once he’s home.”
“Do you think either of them’s ever tried on women’s underwear?”
“Oh, come on. Professor Gaunt? The man probably irons his socks.”
“Exactly. So if anyone’s doing it, it’s Sallow. He totally gives crossdresser energy. Like, playfully, not in a weird way.”
“Maybe they roleplay! You know, teacher and student—”
“Ew! They’re both teachers!”
“Well, yeah, but like, metaphorically.”
“You need therapy.”
“You’re just saying that because you’ve never had anyone call you Professor before.”
“Maybe they have a cat together.”
“They do have a cat. Sallow’s always going on about it. I bet it’s one of those chubby orange ones with a bowtie.”
“No way. Gaunt strikes me as a black-cat person. All sleek and judgemental. Probably named it something dramatic like Lucius.”
“They probably argued about the name for a week and ended up with something boring like Mittens.”
“Or Professor Cat.”
“That’s actually adorable.”
“Okay, but imagine their mornings. Sallow blasting pop music while brushing his teeth, and Gaunt just standing there in the kitchen, regretting all his life choices.”
“I think they’re adorable. Like, opposites attract, you know? The chaotic sunshine idiot and the brooding blind intellectual. It’s romantic.”
“It’s also weird. They teach history together. It’s like if my mum married my maths teacher.”
“I think it’s cute. They balance each other out.”
“I think Gaunt’s just tired.”
“Oh, he’s tired, alright.”
“Stop!”
“Stop what?”
“Making it sound like that!”
“I’m just saying! Have you seen how he rubs his temples every time Sallow walks by? Man’s fighting for his life.”
“And losing.”
“Bet Sallow calls him ‘honey’ at home.”
“No way. He’s definitely a ‘love’ or ‘babe’ guy.”
“Gaunt would kill him if he said that in public.”
“Would he, though? He didn’t when Sallow called him ‘darling’ last week in the staffroom.”
“He what?”
“Ahem. My dear students. I may be blind, but I could be deaf as well and still have heard your gossip all the way from my office. Kindly refrain from speculating about my and Professor Sallow’s private life and proceed to your lecture. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to write an extra essay on the French Revolution.”
“Y-yes, Professor Gaunt!”