#Grief and Recovery

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Five

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A story of almosts, maybes, and finallys. You and Sebastian Sallow have loved each other for years, just never at the right time.

Words: ~5,800

Series Tags: Modern AU, Post-Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian Sallow, Cursebreaker!MC, Modern Magical AU, Female Reader Insert, Mid-Size / Plus-Size Female Protagonist, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Missed Timing, Second Chances, Grief and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Body Image Issues, Fluff, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Trauma, Abortion (Non-Descriptive), Strong Emotional Themes

Chapter Track: Medicine, Daughter

Special thanks to @sunnyrealist for beta-ing the plot of this story and @dreamy-gal-30 for beta-ing the chapter drafts! I could not do this without you!

You, Age 22

You stood in front of the mirror, half-dressed, arms crossed over your chest as you stared at the pile of clothes scattered across the bed. Shirts, trousers, a dress you hadn’t worn since your Hogwarts send-off, even that red blouse Anne once said made you look like you “meant business.” Nothing felt right.

You tugged at the hem of your current shirt, frowning at the way it clung wrong, too tight in some places, too loose in others. You pulled it off and tossed it aside. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, and reached for your phone.

One unread message from Ominis.

“Missed you tonight.”

Attached was a photo.

Everyone was squeezed into Ominis and Anne’s new townhouse for their housewarming party, drinks in hand. Cressida, Poppy, Natty. Garreth, Leander, Amit.

And there he was.

Sebastian. Grinning, posture relaxed. Samantha was beside him, her arm draped over the back of his chair like it belonged there.

You’d felt sick when you found out they were back together. If you were honest with yourself, you still did.

Sebastian had told you about it eight months ago over text, casually, like it wasn’t meant to hurt.

“Started seeing Sam again. Sort of feels like picking up an old book and finding the chapter you stopped on.”

You’d stared at that message for a long time. You hadn’t responded that night. Or the next. When you finally did, you said “Happy for you!” and tried not to throw your phone.

Of course they’d find their way back to each other. You didn’t blame him. Not when you looked at her. Not when you compared.

Samantha was tall, slender, pristine. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair smooth and glossy. She always looked polished and effortless. She didn’t get mud on her boots or blood under her nails or bruises on her hips from crawling through ancient crypts. She never had to worry whether her blouse would gape at the chest or if someone would call her brave for wearing shorts.

You stared at the photo, then at yourself—dusty, disheveled, perpetually exhausted—and it wasn’t hard to imagine who you’d pick, if you were him.

Still, seeing them together like that, casual and close, knocked the air from your lungs. You zoomed in before you could stop yourself. Samantha’s fingers rested lightly against the back of his neck. He didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he was used to it.

You turned off your phone. Sat back. For a moment, you stared at the ceiling and considered cancelling your plans. Almost shoved your phone under the pillow and sank back into bed and let the night pass by without you.

But something inside you twisted, tight and defiant. A stubborn, flickering ember that refused to go out.

You got up.

You picked the black trousers that hugged your hips and the dark green shirt that rolled neatly at the sleeves. You wiped the smudged mascara from under your eyes and re-did your eyeliner with a steady hand.

You didn’t feel beautiful or sexy or even remotely confident, but it would have to do.

You grabbed your wand, your ID, and your coin purse, then stepped out into the heavy dusk to find your team milling about, waiting.

"Looking good," your supervisor called with a grin, raising a brow. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”

You gave a half-hearted smirk. “Had to remind myself I own more than expedition gear.”

That earned a few chuckles.

The tavern was already buzzing when your group arrived. Warm, smoky air spilled out the open door, filled with shouts, clinking glasses, and records that sounded like they had been played one too many times.

Inside, the crowd shifted in waves—locals, other dig teams, a few merchants, a group of visiting Cursebreaking interns clustered near the back.

You went straight to the bar and ordered something strong so it'd burn when you swallowed.

Introductions floated around. Small talk. Someone complimented your accent. Someone else asked about the scar on your forearm. You smiled where you had to, let the rest roll off you.

And then—

“Hey,” a voice said behind you. “You’re with the Northern camp, yeah?”

You turned.

A man stood just behind your left shoulder. late twenties maybe, thick brows, deep tan, square jaw. Not unattractive. He was a local who worked as a contractor for Ministry camps. You’d seen him hauling crates and cataloguing hexed materials earlier that week.

“That’s me,” you said, raising your glass. “And you are?”

“Kieron,” he said, offering a hand you didn’t take. “We’ve crossed paths a few times. Figured I’d say hello before I missed my chance.”

You gave a small smile, noncommittal. “Nice of you.”

He seemed to take that as encouragement. “So. What’s it like, working with the North team? I hear you’re the one who handled that trapped reliquary last week.”

You nodded. “It didn’t try to eat me, so I’ll call it a success.”

He laughed, leaning casually against the bar beside you. “Word is you’ve got a knack for handling dangerous things.”

“Just trained for it,” you said with a shrug, sipping your drink.

“Bet you’ve got stories,” he went on. “Could listen to you talk about cursed tombs all night.”

“I’m sure you could.”

"Well, I’ve got the time," Kieron said, flashing a smile. "And you’ve got the voice for it."

You laughed lightly. “That’s a new one.”

He tilted his head. “Not trying to be clever. Just honest. You’ve got a presence.”

You raised a brow. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He let his eyes linger. "Definitely."

The compliment shouldn’t have landed, it was a terrible line by most standards, and yet it cracked through the fog and settled somewhere in your ribs, anyway.

You let yourself enjoy it.

Maybe you were tired of trying to be unreachable. Maybe you just needed a night off from pretending you didn’t care.

Kieron offered to buy you a drink and you didn’t say no.

You laughed more easily the second time around. Let yourself lean in a bit when you talked. Gave him that look, the one Anne used to call your you’re lucky I’m bored expression. You hadn’t flirted like this in a long time. It felt… rusty. But not unpleasant.

You excused yourself when the drinks caught up to you, navigating the narrow hallway toward the toilets at the back of the tavern. The corridor was dim and slightly uneven underfoot, carved from stone that had sweated in the summer heat.

Inside, you splashed cool water on your cheeks, then ran wet fingers through your hair. It didn’t help much. Your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and the attention.

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it from your pocket, thumb already swiping across the screen.

It was a voice memo from Sebastian.

“Guess who got promoted. Finally, right? I have a six-month field rotation starting next week. Still feels fake. I wanted you to be the first to know. Miss you, always.”

The words crackled in your hand. You closed your eyes.

I wanted you to be the first to know.

You listened again. And again.

His voice sounded like home. The pride in his tone was unmistakable.

You smiled. Soft, real. It pushed against the edges of something hollow in your chest and made it feel full again, just for a moment.

“Of course you got it,” you whispered, like he could hear you. Like you were saying it to him and not a phone screen in a dingy tavern bathroom.

You could picture the way he must’ve looked when he got the news—shoulders squared, eyes bright, a little smug, a little stunned.

You just wished he was here so you could see it. So you could tell him in person. So you could throw your arms around him and say I’m proud of you, and mean it in every way it could possibly be meant.

But he wasn’t here. And you weren’t there.

You hit Call without thinking. The line clicked. Then dropped.

You frowned. Checked your bars. One, maybe two, and flickering. Spotty at best. You tried again.

It connected this time, rang once, then cut out.

"Reception’s shite," you muttered under your breath, fingers already swiping to try again. Same result.

You sighed. Slipped your phone back into your pocket.

You’d try again once you were back at camp. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with signal. Somewhere you could say what you really meant without noise or strangers in the background.

You gave yourself one more breath. Then you opened the door and stepped back out into the tavern.

The music felt louder now. The bar more crowded. But Kieron was still waiting.

He smiled when he saw you. Held up your drink.

You smiled back and weaved through the crowd, pretending your heart wasn’t somewhere else entirely.

“Thought you’d made a run for it,” he said when you got back to the bar, handing your glass over.

You took it and snorted. “Tempting. But you’ve got a decent smile. I figured I’d risk it.”

He laughed. “Glad you stuck around. You’re a rare find out here.”

“Oh yeah?” You sipped your drink, tilting your head. “What makes you so sure?”

“Well,” he said, ticking points off on his fingers. “You’re competent. You don’t brag. You’ve got a sharp tongue, good posture, and good stories."

You weren’t sure if it was the drink, the compliment, or the way his eyes lingered on your mouth a beat too long—but your skin prickled. There was something easy about him. Too easy, maybe. But he was attractive. Attentive. And right now, he was here.

Unlike Sebastian.

So you played along.

You swirled your drink in the glass, watching the way the liquid caught the tavern light. “You’re full of lines.”

“I’m full of admiration,” he corrected smoothly. “Genuine interest.”

You snorted.

He watched your mouth when you smiled.

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you weren’t chasing curses for a living?” he asked, eyes still on you.

You shrugged. “Sleeping. A lot.”

He grinned. “Well, if you ever get tired of outrunning death traps, you could always consider a career in professional heart-thievery.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face stayed put. “That was terrible.”

“Did it work, though?”

You looked at him, that cocky smirk and all-too-practiced charm, and tilted your head like you were genuinely considering it. “I’ll let you know.”

You took another sip from your drink, a longer one this time. The warmth spread further—down your arms, your legs, through your fingertips.

It was after about fifteen minutes of chatting and flirting that you noticed something was off.

It crept up slowly, like fog rolling in. At first, it was just a mild haze—your thoughts drifting a little slower, the tavern lights a little too golden, too soft. You laughed at something he said, but it caught late, like your brain had to buffer the joke.

Then came the disconnect.

Your limbs felt strange. Heavy. Not drunk-heavy. Wrong-heavy. Like your joints didn’t belong to you anymore.

Your smile faltered. You blinked a few times, trying to clear your head. You hadn’t had that much to drink. Two? Three, maybe? You weren’t a lightweight. Not like this.

Kieron was still talking, saying something about the cave system near the southern camp, but his voice felt too loud and too far away at the same time.

Your hand tightened slightly around the rim of your glass. You set it down. Slowly.

“I think,” you said, careful to keep your voice steady, “I need some air.”

Kieron paused, concern flickering across his face, or something like it. “Yeah? You okay?”

You nodded once. “Just dizzy. Long week.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offered, already shifting closer. One hand reached out toward your arm, and your stomach turned, instincts kicking into gear.

Something was wrong.

“I’m fine,” you said, stepping toward the tavern door. “I just need to breathe.”

He followed anyway, not close enough to make a scene, just enough to remind you he was there. And you could feel the shift. Whatever had been light and playful had curdled in the space between your ribs.

You stepped out into the night air, and inhaled deeply, trying to ground yourself, to shake off the strange float of your limbs and the pressure behind your eyes.

But it didn’t fade.

Kieron’s voice came again. “You sure you’re alright? I’ve got a room just up the road if you need to lie down.”

You turned to him slowly. “I said I’m fine.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Just being a gentleman.”

Your vision tilted slightly as you took a step back. Your foot caught on uneven stone and nearly rolled your ankle.

"…Did you put something in my drink?" You asked, the words coming out slurred, like they'd been dragged through honey.

Kieron blinked. “What? No. No, of course not.”

You didn’t believe him for one goddamn second. But then he stepped forward again, and his fingers brushed your sleeve. You jerked away and almost lost your balance again.

“Don’t touch me,” you spat, but your voice was weaker than you wanted it to be and blurry at the edges.

He hesitated for a half-second, like he was deciding how much effort it would take to talk you down. Or overpower you.

“You’re overreacting,” he said, lower now. Calmer. “I’m just trying to help.”

You moved another step toward the tavern. It was a mistake to come out here. You needed to get into the light, toward people, toward safety.

But he followed.

"You're not well," he said. "Let me just—"

He grabbed your arm hard this time.

“I said don’t touch me!”

He didn’t let go, and the smile was gone now. Replaced by something tight. Annoyed.

“You were flirting with me all night,” he said, voice low and cold. “I buy you a drink and now suddenly I’m the bad guy?”

You tried to twist free. You raised your voice so someone might hear. “Let me go!”

“No one’s coming,” he muttered, cold as ice, like a switch had flipped. “You’re the one who wanted to come outside.”

His fingers tightened around your wrist, bruising now. You dug your heels into the stone and tried to pull away, but your limbs weren’t listening the way they should. It felt like trying to move underwater, slow and uncoordinated.

“Don’t make this something it doesn’t need to be,” he muttered. “Now shut up.”

He tugged you along and you stumbled as he steered you toward the mouth of a side alley—dark, narrow, away from the tavern windows.

Panic hit you all at once, like ice water down your spine.

This was happening. This was real.

“Let go of me!” you said again, louder this time, but your voice cracked halfway through. You shoved at his chest, clumsy and unbalanced. “Don’t touch me!”

He didn’t listen.

You reached for your wand, fumbling at your hip, fingers digging for it through the fabric of your trousers, and that was when his expression changed.

His whole body snapped forward. He slammed you into the wall so hard the breath went out of you. The back of your head cracked against stone and everything flashed white-hot.

You gasped, choked on it, your vision swimming, ears ringing. Something wet trickled down your neck. You couldn’t tell if it was sweat or blood.

“I told you to shut up,” he hissed in your ear, his body pressed against yours now, one arm across your chest, the other wrestling your wand from your hand. He dropped it to the ground, and it rolled out of reach, clinking uselessly on the stone.

Fear. Real fear surged up in your throat—raw and sick and alive. Not the kind you felt when facing crypts or curses. This fear was animal. This fear was helpless.

You tried to scream, but his hand was already over your mouth. His fingers pressed against your jaw, forcing it shut until your teeth ached.

You twisted your head, kicked at his shins, weakly, clawed at his arms with fingers that didn’t want to work properly.

“Stop, please—no—”

But it came out muffled. Useless. Swallowed by his palm on your mouth and the shadows around you.

He laughed, low and mean. “Don't play so hard to get,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek.

You shook your head furiously. Tears sprang to your eyes, hot and angry.

Then his hand was at the waistband of your jeans, tugging. Your trousers slid partway down, and you bucked hard, trying to throw him off again.

“Stop moving,” he growled.

You whimpered something into his palm—anything, everything—no, please, don’t, stop, help me—

Your head was spinning. Then suddenly your back scraped against the brick behind you and your knees hit the ground. His weight followed, crushing and inescapable.

You were still trying to scream when he forced you onto your back, stones and debris digging through your shirt as he tore through the fabric of your underwear.

You clawed at him, tried to dig your nails into his face, but your arms were leaden. By now, you could barely feel them.

You could hear yourself crying, but it felt distant. Like someone else was doing it. Like it was echoing from the bottom of a well.

One of his hands dug into your hip while with the other, he pushed his fingers between your legs, and you whimpered—body flinching on instinct.

Then he was unbuckling his belt. You tried to lift your hand to reach for your wand, to fight him, scratch him, anything.

But your vision was slipping sideways. Your head lolled, heavy and wrong as the world faded into nothingness.

You woke to the sound of birds. Your eyes blinked open to the faint glow of morning, orange light bleeding through the canvas of your tent. The edges of your thoughts frayed, gauzy. Your limbs were heavy. Your mouth was dry.

How did you get here?

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then you turned your head slowly, wincing at the tug in your neck.

A boot. Yours. On the ground, near your cot. Your trousers, crumpled beside it.

Why were your trousers off?

The haze began to lift.

You tried to sit up, and immediately, pain bloomed.

It cut through the fog like a blade, hot and sharp. Between your legs. Across your ribs. The back of your skull pulsed like it had been cracked open and hastily glued back together.

You sucked in a breath. Everything came back in flashes.

The alley. The buckle of his belt. The way your wand had rolled, clinking, against the ground.

You whimpered without meaning to. A small, raw sound that cracked in your throat.

Your hands clutched at the blanket now—instinct, defense, anything.

There was blood on your inner thigh. Dirt smeared your knees. A tear in your shirt showed bruises forming like fingerprints along your side. And then you knew it wasn’t a dream. Wasn’t some cursed hallucination.

It had happened.

You tried to sit up, but your stomach turned sharply, and the tent spun with it. You lurched forward and barely made it to the trash bucket beside your cot before you threw up.

It was violent, choking, gut-wrenching. Your stomach convulsed again and again until there was nothing left, only the bitter sting of bile and the rasp of breath clawing its way out of your throat.

When it was over, you were shaking, one hand braced on the rim of the bucket. You wiped your mouth with the back of the other. Your knuckles were scraped.

But you couldn’t stay on the floor.

You pushed yourself upright on trembling legs, every movement stiff and wrong, like your body no longer belonged to you. Your muscles screamed. Your hips ached. Your skin felt foreign.

You moved on autopilot. Pulled a clean shirt from your trunk. Underwear. Trousers.

You didn’t look too closely at anything.

You gathered the clothes in your arms and slipped out of the tent without thinking. The morning air was cool, but it didn’t register. You barely noticed the sun peeking over the edge of camp or the way the sky bloomed pale and soft above it all.

No one saw you.

You made it to the showers and stepped inside. Turned the valve until it squealed. The water came fast, cold then burning.

You stepped under it.

And you scrubbed.

You scrubbed like you could scrape him off of you. Like you could erase the memory from your skin if you just washed hard enough. Your fingernails bit into your arms. You dragged your hands down your thighs until they stung.

The water kept running. You stayed far longer than your alotted ten minutes. You stayed under it until your fingers wrinkled and your skin flushed pink. Until your teeth started to chatter and your knees threatened to give.

Then the water finally stopped. The barrel must’ve emptied.

You stood there for a moment longer, eyes closed, water dripping from your hair and lashes and chin.

You dried off and dressed like a ghost—mechanical, distant. Every article of clothing tugged against sore skin. The waistband of your trousers sat too tight. The collar of your shirt scraped a bruise you hadn’t known was there.

When you stepped out, the sky was brighter now. A soft, indifferent blue. Camp was beginning to stir. You heard someone shout for tea. A kettle clattered. Boots on gravel. You moved with purpose so nobody would notice.

You ducked inside your tent, closed the flap, and sat slowly on the edge of your cot. Your phone was on the floor next to your trunk. When you picked it up, the screen lit up with one notification.

A voice note from Sebastian sent last night, just past midnight.

You hesitated, thumb hovering. Then pressed play.

“Just wanted to say goodnight. Still buzzing from the promotion. Hope you’re okay. Wish I could talk to you about it properly. Miss you.”

His voice filled the space. Familiar. Safe. His words gentle in a way that split something wide open in your chest.

You played it again. The second time, the tears came.

Silently at first. Then harder.

You curled in on yourself, arm across your stomach, the other clutched around your phone like it might keep you upright. The sobs came in bursts—shaking, cracked, half-swallowed.

If there was anyone in the world you wanted to tell, it was him.

You wanted to crawl into his arms and bury your face in his chest and let him hold the pieces of you together. To feel the weight of his hand on your back, steady and grounding, and hear his voice say I’ve got you like it would undo the rest.

You wanted to tell him everything. The alley. The pain. The fear. You wanted to confess that you were terrified, that your body didn’t feel like yours anymore.

But if you called, he’d come running.

He’d leave everything behind—training, promotion, all of it—without thinking twice. He’d get on a broom, apparate across the world, tear the place apart to find the man who did this.

And you couldn’t do that to him.

You couldn’t steal this from him. Not after everything he’d fought for. Not after the way his voice sounded so proud, so full of hope.

You closed your eyes. Breathed deep. Typed out a reply.

"I'm so happy for you, Bas. You deserve it. You deserve the world."

He did. He’d clawed his way back from ruin. Survived loss and grief and guilt that would’ve eaten anyone else alive. And he was finally—finally—building something steady for himself. A future. And you wouldn’t be the reason that changed.

You added a heart emoji then hit send.

Wiping at your face, you set the phone down and curled on your side again, knees drawn up toward your chest.

The morning sounds of camp bled in softly through the canvas: voices rising, boots on gravel, someone laughing.

Life, continuing.

You closed your eyes. And let it.

Just for a while.

Time passed in a haze.

You showed up to work. Moved your limbs. Pointed your wand. But you weren’t really there.

You forgot incantations mid-spell. Dropped things. Botched enchantments that should have been second nature. You misplaced your notes. Forgot to log your findings in the shared journal. Mislabelled crates of dangerous artifacts. You were reckless—taking on clearing jobs no one else wanted. Deliberately choosing tombs with cave-ins, traps still unmarked, magic thick and sour in the walls.

It was easier when the danger came from things you chose.

You spent your nights curled under your blanket, headphones in, listening to him. Sebastian’s voice, soft and worn, filled your ears like a heartbeat.

“Still alive out there? You’d tell me if you were dead, yeah? Miss you. Let me know when you surface.”

You didn’t answer. Not once. If you answered, you knew you’d tell him everything.

And the only reason you could get away with it was because the reception at base was garbage. Half the time, messages took hours to send. He didn’t know you were deliberately not responding.

And if he did know, if he even suspected something was wrong, he’d be there. He’d abandon everything. The field rotation, the promotion, the fresh start.

You couldn’t let that happen.

Then one morning, it all caught up.

You woke before your alarm. Moved through your routine. But there was something... off.

Your body felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with cuts or bruises or healing. It was deeper than that. it was cellular. Like something under your skin had shifted while you weren’t looking.

You paused, toothbrush hovering midair. Counted backwards. Then again.

Six weeks.

Your hand gripped the edge of the sink.

You knew your cycle. You’d tracked it for years. And this? This was not a missed week. This was a red flag waving itself in your face.

Your first instinct was denial. You’d been under stress. Not eating well. Not sleeping. That could mess with things. That must be it.

You forced yourself to finish your routine. Forced yourself to swallow breakfast even though your stomach was twisting. Went to the morning briefing and nodding along when they gave you your assignment.

But all you kept thinking was that your life was about to be upended again.

When the meeting ended, you lingered near the back of the crowd until the others had dispersed—boots crunching over gravel, voices already shifting to shop talk and artifact lists.

Your supervisor was collecting scrolls into a leather satchel when you stepped forward.

“Hey,” you said, voice low. “Can I pull you for a sec?”

She glanced up, surprised. “Sure. Everything alright?”

You hesitated. “I’m not feeling great.”

That earned a furrowed brow. “You?”

You nodded. Tried for a half-smile that didn’t quite land. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m not dying or anything. I just… need the day. Maybe two.”

Your supervisor’s expression softened with something like concern, but also curiosity. “You never take time off.”

“I know,” you said. “Just think I pushed it too hard this week. My head’s killing me. Dizzy. Can’t focus.”

“…Alright. Go see the camp medic."

You shook your head. “It’s not serious. I don’t need a check-up. I just need to sleep it off. Please.”

She studied you for a moment. Maybe noticed how pale you looked, how you were gripping your own forearm a little too tightly.

Then she sighed. “Okay. I’ll mark you down as off-duty. But if it gets worse, you go to the medic. Got it?”

“Got it,” you said.

You turned before she could say anything else. You didn’t go back to your tent. Didn’t stop to think. You just pulled your hood up, and headed toward the exit gate.

You needed to get to town.

The path was still damp with morning dew. Your boots left impressions in the dirt as you walked, your shoulders hunched like you could fold yourself out of existence if you tried hard enough.

The village was still yawning into the day by the time you arrived. Shopkeepers were propping open shutters, lighting lanterns, sweeping doorways with practiced motions. The bakery smelled like warmth and cinnamon. You wanted to throw up.

You made your way to the pharmacy.

Inside, the lights were dim. A clerk—young, maybe twenty—glanced up from the counter.

“Help you?” she asked in a language you barely followed. You answered in halting syllables, then switched to English when the words failed.

“Do you have a… a test?” you asked. “Pregnancy.”

Her mouth twitched in recognition. She didn’t smile.

She pointed to the second shelf on the left. No fuss. No judgment. You grabbed one. Paid. Didn’t wait for change.

The bathroom at the back was small and humid, tucked behind a crooked door. You locked it, leaned against the sink, and stared at your reflection.

You looked like hell.

You opened the box with shaking fingers. Took the test. Sat on the closed toilet lid, elbows on your knees, forehead resting in your hands, and waited.

Three minutes. That’s all it would take. That’s what the instructions said. Three minutes to change everything.

Your stomach roiled.

You tried not to think. Tried not to imagine anything beyond the tiny, fluorescent-lit room you were sitting in.

But your mind didn’t listen. Instead, it conjured him.

Sebastian.

You imagined him beside you, like he’d always been in the worst moments. His hand would be wrapped around yours, thumb tracing slow, steady circles into your skin.

His voice would be low. Calming. “Whatever it says, we’ll figure it out. Alright? ”

You could almost hear the way he’d say it, quiet but certain, like a vow.

“We’ll get through it,” he’d add. “One step at a time.”

He’d crouch in front of you, hands on your knees. Look up with those warm, earnest eyes. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your throat tightened. The image of him was too kind. Too good. And he wasn’t here.

You were.

Alone. In a foreign town. In a crumbling bathroom that smelled like disinfectant and damp.

You reached for the test with a hand that didn’t feel like yours. Turned it over.

Two pink lines.

Your vision blurred.

It wasn’t a surprise. Not after six silent weeks, not after the way your body had felt lately. You’d known. Somewhere deep down, you’d known. But seeing it confirmed, stark and undeniable, bright pink proof staring up from a plastic stick in your trembling hand—it was like being dropped into cold water. Like all the air had been sucked from your lungs.

You pressed your lips together to keep the sound in, but the tears came anyway, sliding hot down your cheeks in quick, angry trails. Not grief. Not confusion. Something more jagged. Something closer to fury.

You didn’t want this.

There was no imagining a future. No room for maybe or what if. You knew you couldn’t keep it. You wouldn’t.

You’d claw it out of yourself if you had to.

You held the test in your lap for a long time. Then, finally, with shaking fingers, you slipped it back into the wrapper, folded it into your coat pocket.

You rose slowly, opened the bathroom door, and walked out like a ghost.

The woman at the counter was watching you. She took you in and her expression softened—not pity, exactly, but understanding. Recognition.

You paused there, in front of the counter. Thought about asking if she knew someone. A healer. A midwife. A way to undo this.

But your throat wouldn’t cooperate.

Instead, she turned and reached beneath the counter. Slid forward a scrap of parchment with a name and address written in jagged script. “Three floor,” she said quietly in stilted English. “Back staircase. No use front door.”

You nodded. The words wouldn’t come, so you mouthed a silent thank you. She didn’t smile. Just turned back to her register.

You stepped out into the street. The sun had climbed higher now, but you barely felt it. Everything was distant. The colors too bright, the sounds too sharp. You kept your head down and walked.

You didn’t look up until you reached the address she'd given you. It was a potions shop. An old sign swung gently above the door. You followed the directions and walked around the side, up the creaking wooden stairs, to a narrow landing with a faded green door.

You knocked once.

The woman who opened it didn’t smile.

“Come in,” she said, her accent thick but her tone even, practiced. Not unkind.

She was older. Late fifties, maybe. Her robes were plain, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Hands stained faintly with potion residue, fingers ringless. No questions in her eyes. Just quiet efficiency.

You stepped inside.

The room was small and warm, lit by a single window and the warm light of a lantern. A narrow bed sat tucked in the corner. A washbasin. A shelf of vials with numbers instead of names. Everything smelled faintly of mint and antiseptic.

“I’ll need payment first,” she said.

"How much?" You rasped.

She named a figure. It wasn’t unreasonable but it was still enough to sting. You fumbled for your coin pouch with hands that barely worked, counting out the sum with stiff fingers.

She accepted the cash without counting it herself then gestured to the bed. “Lie down on your back.”

You hesitated. Your feet didn’t want to move. Something inside you, some last reflex, screamed to run. That this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. That someone should be with you. That he should be here.

But that wasn’t the world you lived in.

So you moved to the bed and lay down, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Do you want something for the pain?” the woman asked.

You thought about it. Then shook your head. “No.”

Pain felt honest. Felt like penance. You didn’t want to be numb anymore.

The healer said nothing. Just turned to her shelf, chose two vials, and came back with a clean cloth and a short wooden wand.

“You’ll cramp. You’ll bleed. That’s normal,” she said. “There may be nausea. Dizziness. Rest as long as you need before leaving.”

You closed your eyes. Your hands balled into fists at your sides.

“Breathe in,” she instructed.

And then it began.

← Previous Chapter

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[thepeacefulgarden]

[kathysretirementblog]

Remembering Martin

As the one year anniversary of Martin’s death approaches, my heart weighs heavy with sorrow.  It’s been a strange year, one of deep persistent sadness coupled with immutable joy.  I’ve learned that sadness and joy are not mutually exclusive.  They are but two different emotions entwined around my heart in a meandering dance of mourning and moving forward with living.  Anything on two…

[loveelizabeths]

love elizabeth s.

[haleyincarnate]

In every ending there is a beginning I am willing to chase. In every beginning there is the fear of it all coming to an end.

Give yourself the time to mourn what was and then allow yourself to feel the bliss of starting anew.

[notthatblondie]

Sometimes you just have to stay silent because no words can explain what is going on in your mind and heart .

I know Some feelings are too heavy for words Sometimes silence is the loudest cry And that's okay…

[complicatedconstellation-blog]

[alarwynnwhispers]

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 40: ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜ ʟɪɴᴇ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ɪɴᴠᴏʟᴠɪɴɢ ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ʟᴀʙᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴀʀ-ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʙɪʀᴛʜ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʟɪꜰᴇ-ᴏʀ-ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ᴅᴇʟɪᴠᴇʀʏ

ɴɪᴄᴜ (ɴᴇᴏɴᴀᴛᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴜɴɪᴛ) ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀᴇᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴡɪɴꜱ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴅᴏᴡɴꜱ, ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ɪɴꜰᴀɴᴛ ʟᴏꜱꜱ

ʜᴏꜱᴘɪᴛᴀʟ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴘᴀʀᴛᴜᴍ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ: ʀᴇᴄᴏɴᴄɪʟɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʟ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ

ᴍɪʟᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅɪᴄ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ ɪɴ ʜᴏꜱᴘɪᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ (ɴᴜʀꜱᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ)

ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴅɪꜱᴘʟᴀʏ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ɢʟᴏʙᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ (ᴘɪᴛ ʟᴀɴᴇ ᴋɪꜱꜱ, ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴡɪɴ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ)

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʟᴇɢᴀᴄʏ, ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ

ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇ, ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴇxᴘʟᴏʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜᴜᴍᴏʀ

ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ (ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ + ʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʜʏꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ)

ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ 1 ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴇɴꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇɢʏ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ

She hadn’t been sleeping. Not really.

Singapore was supposed to be her refuge, her family’s home, a quiet fortress away from the cameras, the whispers, and the damage already done. But as the days stretched on, the weight of everything she’d been carrying, physically, emotionally, and now publicly, became too much.

The media storm. The strained silence. The chaos of loving someone who lived at 300 km/h.

And then Lando arrived.

He came without warning, having slipped away before the press could guess. He said nothing at first, just walked into her room and pulled her into the tightest hug she'd ever felt. And for a moment, she thought she'd be okay.

But that night, as they sat in her room, quiet but together, he noticed it. Her skin, ghost-pale under the moonlight. The slight tremble in her hands. The way her breaths shortened even when she wasn’t speaking.

“Love?” he’d asked, voice tense. “You alright?”

She tried to nod.

And then she collapsed on her bed.

The drive to their family hospital was a blur. She barely remembered Lando shouting for help, her father barking orders into his phone, the sirens blaring somewhere in the distance. Her body had given out, and so had her silence.

Stress. Overwhelming, suffocating, all-consuming stress.

That’s what had sent her into early labor.

The sharp scent of antiseptic and the blinding white lights were the first things she noticed before the pain.

A tearing, burning sensation tore through her side, and (Y/n) gasped, instinctively reaching down, only to feel flatness. Nothing. No taut skin. No roundness. No babies.

Just emptiness.

Her blood ran cold.

Panic surged up her spine. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then she heard it, the rustle of fabric, the hurried scraping of a chair, and the unmistakable voice she knew better than her own breath.

“Love—hey, hey, it’s okay.” Lando was beside her in an instant, fingers trembling as they cupped her cheek. “It’s okay. You’re awake. You’re okay.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Where—” she couldn’t even say it. “Where are they?”

Lando swallowed hard. His own eyes glistened.

“They’re okay,” he whispered. “They’re perfect. Two little champions.”

She collapsed into him with a choked sob, her arms gripping his shirt. “I thought I lost them—I thought—”

“I know.” He kissed her temple, again and again. “I know. I was scared too.”

But he didn’t tell her everything. Not yet. Not how close it had been. Not how a blur of red had flooded the room in the delivery suite, or how their OB-GYN had turned to him, blood on her gloves and terror in her eyes.

“We’re losing her. I need to know now, Lando. The babies or (Y/n)? If it comes to that.”

He’d stood frozen.

But he didn’t have time to answer. Alarms went off. The team had moved fast. And by some miracle, they saved all three.

Now, he just held her, breathing in the scent of her skin, her hair, the warmth of her pulse. She was alive.

Their children were alive.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured. “But you're here. You're still here.”

She closed her eyes, finally letting the weight of the last few days catch up with her. “I want to see them.”

“You will. Soon. They’re just getting a little stronger in the NICU.” He smiled. “You made two very stubborn little babies. I wonder where they got that from.”

She snorted lightly, voice hoarse. “Definitely from you.”

He kissed her, soft and slow, then deeper, as if he couldn’t help it. As if just knowing she was alive wasn’t enough, he needed to feel it. She leaned into it, desperate to forget the cold and fear and blood.

That was, until a nurse walked in with a tablet in hand.

“Oh my God—uh—” the nurse stammered, then quickly turned around. “Sorry! Sorry! I thought—well—not that!”

Lando didn’t move, his head pressed to (Y/n)’s shoulder as he exhaled a groan. “This hospital has no boundaries.”

The nurse popped her head back in sheepishly. “Sorry, I left the chart in here earlier and—oh my God, are you serious again?!”

(Y/n) buried her face in Lando’s neck, her laugh dry and mortified.

“Could you maybe not try to traumatize me again while I’m doing my job?” the nurse scolded, her tone snapping back to professionalism. “This is still a hospital room, not the Four Seasons!”

Lando threw his head back and laughed, a real, belly-deep laugh that felt like sunlight after a storm. “Okay, okay, you win.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t pull any stitches,” she muttered, grabbing the chart and slamming the door shut behind her.

Once they were alone again, Lando leaned in, grinning. “You really are rich rich, huh? I should’ve known.”

She blinked. “What?”

“The nurses here were talking,” he said with a teasing smirk. “Old money. Security detail outside. I saw your family bring a literal handwritten letter on parchment for you yesterday.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just tradition.”

“It’s terrifying,” he said affectionly. “But also… hot.”

(Y/n) swatted him with a pillow, and for a moment, they were just them again.

No drama. No headlines. Just two messy people who somehow made it.

Three days later, they were cleared to see the twins.

Lando wheeled her into the NICU, his hands careful and slow, as if he were rolling the most fragile thing in the world.

And then, they saw them.

Wrapped in matching soft blue and cream swaddles, tiny fists in the air like miniature fighters, their twins lay side by side in a softly humming incubator.

(Y/n) burst into tears the moment she laid eyes on them.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “They’re real.”

Lando reached down and gently stroked one of the babies’ impossibly small hands.

“I didn’t know I could love anything this much,” he said softly. “I didn’t know I could love anyone this much.”

She reached over and gently brushed her knuckle across the second baby's cheek. “Did you… have names in mind?”

Lando hesitated, then smiled. “Actually… yeah.”

He pointed to the first boy. “That one’s Leo.”

Then to the second. “And that little rebel… he’s Anders.”

She blinked. Then blinked again.

“Leo and Anders…” she whispered, heart stuttering.

“They’re both from my name,” Lando explained quietly. “L-A-N-D-O. I just wanted them to carry a part of me… but be their own people too.”

Tears returned to her eyes. “It’s perfect.”

He kissed her temple. “They’re perfect.”

Two weeks passed in a quiet, hazy rhythm of healing and night feeds and whispered lullabies.

But time marched on. And the Belgian Grand Prix was fast approaching.

Lando didn’t want to leave, but (Y/n) insisted.

“We’ll be in Belgium watching,” she said. “Go do what you do best. And don’t crash.”

He smirked. “I only crash when you’re watching.”

“That’s not funny.”

He kissed her. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Now go win. For them.”

Belgium Grand Prix, Spa-Francorchamps

The engines roared like thunder through the Ardennes.

It was damp, the track slick with fresh rain, but Lando was sharp, focused. Every corner, every apex, every overtake, he carved through like a man who had come through fire and still chose to believe in light.

In the pit lane, (Y/n) stood with Carla and Amara, her arms wrapped around Leo and Anders in a double sling. Despite the fatigue in her eyes, she radiated grace.

Carla handed her a tissue. “Crying already?”

“Shut up,” (Y/n) whispered. “He’s leading.”

“Lap 42,” Amara said. “This is it.”

And it was.

As Lando crossed the finish line, the roar of the McLaren garage exploded. P1.

He screamed into the radio. “That one, was for them. All three of them.”

He didn’t go to the podium right away. He ran straight down pit lane, helmet off, fireproofs half-zipped, wild and breathless, toward the three people who changed his life.

(Y/n) stepped forward, and in front of the cameras, the teams, and the roaring crowd, he kissed her like he’d waited forever.

Their sons, nestled between them, began to stir.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “Always.”

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘱𝘢 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘻𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺. 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.

📝 Note from the Author 12th day on Tumblr. Final post. Last lap. And guess what? I laughed and cried while writing this. That’s balance, baby.

This finale has it all, melodrama, early labor chaos, crying nurses, rich girl one-liners, NICU tears, name reveals, Spa domination, and of course, Lando going full feral husband with zero regard for hospital protocol. 🏁🍼

Leo and Anders Norris. Tell me that’s not legacy material.

To everyone who stayed through every post, reblog, scream-in-the-tags moment, you didn’t just read this story. You carried it with me. You loved (Y/n) and Lando through their most fragile, chaotic, and powerful moments. For that, I’m endlessly grateful.

And here’s a fun little confession: the very beginning and this ending? Inspired by a Min Yoongi fanfic I read way back. HAHAHA. But everything in between, the drama, the heartbreak, the feral Lando, the legacy twins? That was all mine. Straight from my heart to yours.

If this story made you laugh, cry, or text your best friend at 3 a.m. with “WHY DID HE NAME THE BABY ANDERS?!”, drop a 🧡, 🏎️, or 👶 in the replies.

This was the ride of a lifetime. And I’m so damn glad you were on it with me.

With love, me 🧡(your author, holding twins while yelling “P1, BABY!!”)

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter One

← Prologue Next Chapter →

A story of almosts, maybes, and finallys. You and Sebastian Sallow have loved each other for years, just never at the right time.

Words: ~3,500

Series Tags: Modern AU, Post-Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian Sallow, Cursebreaker!MC, Modern Magical AU, Female Reader Insert, Mid-Size / Plus-Size Female Protagonist, Friends to Lovers, Long-Term Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Missed Timing, Second Chances, Grief and Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Body Image Issues, Fluff, Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending

Content Warnings: Sexual Assault, Trauma, Abortion (Non-Descriptive), Strong Emotional Themes

Chapter Track: Linger, The Cranberries

Special thanks to @sunnyrealist for beta-ing the plot of this story and @dreamy-gal-30 for beta-ing the chapter drafts! I could not do this without you!

You, Age 18

You almost chose the other dress.

The blue one, soft and floaty. Poppy said it made you look like a fairy. But Sebastian had once said he liked you in green, and that was enough to settle it.

You didn’t know, then, that you wouldn’t wear it at all. That the dance would go on without you. That you’d spend the night writing a letter you’d never send.

It had all felt so certain, just a few days earlier. There was a rhythm to your friendship with Sebastian: study nights in the Undercroft, your shoulders bumping as you laughed over Honeydukes sweets; long walks around the Black Lake with the wind in your hair and his voice in your ear, telling stories about your imagined future. He spoke like it was inevitable: you and him, and Ominis too, getting a flat in London. You’d join Auror training together. Be partners in the field, just like you were now. He said it with ease, like it had never occurred to him that your path might take you anywhere else.

You'd let yourself believe it.

Your flat would be an organized mess, books stacked on every surface, coffee mugs half-forgotten on window sills, his boots always left by the door no matter how many times you tripped over them. Ominis would grumble about it, but he'd never make any effort to change anything.

You and Sebastian would train together, duel together, walk home side by side with scraped knuckles and stupid inside jokes. He’d cook exactly once a week—terribly—but you and Ominis would let him if for no other reason than to not wound his pride. There’d be nights spent sprawled across the living room floor, parchment and case files scattered like fallen leaves, Sebastian ranting about a Ministry supervisor while you rolled your eyes and stole half his crisps. Mornings where he’d burn the coffee but you’d drink it anyway.

You’d be... something.

Maybe not quite what you wanted to be with him, but not so far from it either.

Your feelings for Sebastian were an an open secret. Everybody in the friend group knew you loved him... except, apparently, Sebastian.

Poppy once gave you a look after a Hogsmeade trip, the kind of look that said oh, sweetheart, and gently suggested you should just tell him already. Garreth made constant, terrible jokes about your “married couple bickering.” Even Imelda, who had the emotional range of a flobberworm, once muttered something about how she didn’t get why you two weren’t already shagging and getting it over with.

But you never said anything.

Because half the time, he was off snogging someone else. That Gryffindor girl from Ancient Runes. That Hufflepuff with the flirty laugh. And in between them all, Samantha Dale.

It was a revolving door, and you’d long since stopped trying to keep track.

So you kept your mouth shut.

Because why would you say anything when it was already so clear what he wanted?

And when the ache got too loud, you told yourself it was enough just to have him near. To be his favorite person. To know he always saved you the last biscuit and always made space for you beside him without thinking. It was enough to be his constant, even if he didn’t know you wanted more. Even if he didn’t know you’d once spent your entire month’s budget on a shirt he said he liked.

But one morning, over breakfast, it happened.

You hadn’t seen him the night before. He’d missed your usual Undercroft meeting without so much as a note, and you, lovesick fool that you were, had waited up for him anyway. Far too late. Long your legs had gone numb against the cold stone floor.

You’d tried not to take it personally.

But now he was across from you at breakfast, hair still sleep-mussed, buttering a roll as he said, “Me and Samantha are done."

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugged. “For good this time.” Then, as if it was nothing: “Wasn’t working. She wants something serious. And I guess I… don’t.”

The words lodged in your throat. You nodded, too fast. “Oh.”

He glanced at you, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something in his eyes. Something open. Curious. Testing.

“Anyway,” he continued on, "if you’re not going with anyone yet… thought maybe we could go together. To the dance.”

It took every ounce of control you had not to let your fork clatter to the table.

The graduation dance was in three days, and multiple classmates had asked you to be their date by now, but you’d turned them all down. Not because you were waiting. Not exactly. But maybe… kind of.

None of them had been him.

You’d told yourself it was silly to hold out hope. That Sebastian would never ask. That if he wanted you that way, you’d have known by now. But in the quiet hours of the night, some stubborn part of you still wondered.

And now here he was. Sitting across from you with jam on his thumb, asking like it was nothing. Like it hadn’t already set your heart hammering.

You forced a casual shrug. “Yeah. Alright.”

His eyes lit up. That easy, lopsided grin took over his face. “Brilliant.”

You smiled back, somehow keeping it from cracking wide open.

He’d asked. He’d asked.

You spent the rest of the day floating. Maybe this was the beginning. Maybe he finally saw it, saw you, not just as the best friend he leaned on, but as someone he could want.

The minute classes ended that afternoon, you practically dragged Poppy and Anne by the sleeves out of the castle gates. You barely gave them time to gather their cloaks before you were marching them down the path toward Hogsmeade, half-explaining and half-hyperventilating.

“He asked me,” you blurted as soon as the village rooftops came into view. “Over breakfast. He said him and Samantha were done and then he just... he asked me to the dance.”

Poppy gasped. “Sebastian? Sebastian Sebastian?”

“Do you know any others?” you snapped, but your face was already flushing. “He said it like it wasn’t even a big deal. Like it was just… casual. But it didn’t feel casual.”

Anne gave you a knowing look, tugging her cloak tighter as a breeze kicked up through the budding trees. “It’s never casual with him. Not when it’s you.”

That only made your heart beat faster. You tried to play it off, to laugh, but part of you was clinging to those words like they were a lifeline.

“I mean, we’ve always been close,” you said, kicking at a stray pebble in the road. “Maybe this is just… a friend thing.”

Anne snorted. “He broke up with his on-again, off-again girlfriend of two years then asked you to go to the dance with him."

Poppy linked arms with you, practically bouncing beside you. “You’re not just ‘close'. You’re Sebastian and you. Everyone sees it."

You tried to suppress the smile creeping onto your face, but it was no use. It was there, glowing and impossible to hide.

The three of you wandered past Zonko’s and into the soft bustle of Hogsmeade. Your steps slowed as you approached Gladrags, heart starting to pound again.

You reminded yourself you were in good hands. That Anne and Poppy were your two most fashionable friends, and they weren’t going to let you look anything less than breathtaking.

The bell above Gladrags chimed as you stepped inside, the warm scent of cedarwood and pressed fabric filling the air. Racks of robes and dresses shimmered under the soft lighting.

You trailed your fingers over the nearest display, nerves fluttering in your chest. You’d been to dances before. You’d dressed up, worn heels, even styled your hair. But this felt different. This felt like a fork in the road.

Poppy was already rifling through hangers like she was on a mission from the gods. Anne stood with her arms crossed, scanning the room like a military strategist.

You didn’t dare interrupt them.

You hovered awkwardly by a mannequin draped in sequined velvet, watching as they flagged down the shopkeeper with sharp, decisive questions about bodice structure and fabric weight. Poppy asked about draping. Anne pressed for enchanted fabric that wouldn’t stain if someone spilled punch.

"Something flowy, but not frilly,” Anne was saying. “She needs elegance, not fluff.”

Poppy added, “And if it doesn’t sparkle at least a little, what’s the point?”

You didn’t contribute much. You just stood there, blushing, as the two most capable girls you knew made it their personal quest to make you look like a goddess.

Eventually, they each turned up at your side, triumph in their eyes and dresses draped dramatically over their arms.

Poppy held up her find first: a soft, floaty gown in dusky periwinkle blue, the skirt swirling like mist. “This one,” she said firmly, “is so fairycore. It'll make your waist look like a bloody dream.”

Then Anne stepped forward with her pick. It was deeper. Rich emerald green with a structured bodice and dark, intricate lace along the neckline. It was bolder, dramatic. The kind of dress a queen might wear to war... if queens wore off-the-shoulder ballgowns on the battlefield.

“This,” Anne said, “makes a statement.”

You stared at them both. One looked like something out of a fairytale. The other like revenge wrapped in silk.

“I—” you started, voice small. “I don’t know which…”

“You’re trying them both,” Poppy said, already steering you toward the fitting rooms.

Anne arched a brow. “Obviously.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. You were too stunned, too touched, too… hopeful.

When you stepped out of the dressing room in Poppy's pick, the room seemed to hush. Poppy’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, you look like, like a painting."

Anne tilted her head, thoughtful. “We could take in the waist. Maybe shorten the hem just a little?”

They murmured together, strategizing like generals in a war room. You understood maybe half of it. You just stood there, trying to see yourself through their eyes.

Then you tried the green.

It was heavier. Bolder. The corset hugged tight, the off-shoulder neckline framing your collarbones like something regal.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought, just for a second, that you looked powerful. That maybe Sebastian wouldn’t just glance your way when he saw you in it. Maybe he’d stare.

But it wasn’t the mirror that decided it. It was a memory.

Late autumn. Last year. You'd borrowed Sebastian’s spare Quidditch jumper to support him at a match. It had been enormous on you, threadbare at the cuffs and stretched from years of wear, but he’d looked at you and smiled that slow, sideways smile that made your stomach do ridiculous things. And then, he’d said, “You should wear green more often. Suits you.”

Anne and Poppy were still murmuring about hem lengths and heel height, debating whether you should wear your hair up or down, but the choice had been made.

"This is the one."

Anne blinked, cutting herself off mid-sentence. “The green?”

You nodded. “The green.”

Poppy squealed, triumphant, and Anne gave an approving smirk that said, good choice.

The plan started forming in your mind on the walk back to the castle.

Maybe this would be it. Maybe the dance would be the night you told him.

You imagined the two of you slow dancing to something moody. Something just slightly out of place in the grandeur of the Great Hall. Maybe you’d even request one of the Muggle songs he loved, like Love is a Laserquest. And you’d say it. You’d lay it out for him, piece by piece. That you’d loved him for longer than you wanted to admit. That it had never been about whether he deserved to know, it had always been about whether you were brave enough to tell him.

You daydreamed about it for the next two days. Giddy and nervous in the way you can only be when you're eighteen and foolish and full of feelings too big for your chest.

You imagined his hands on your waist. The way he might tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The way he’d say your name, soft and amazed, like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it before.

You imagined him kissing you.

You wrote half a dozen drafts in your head of what you might say. And then rewrote them all again when they sounded too corny, or too much, or not enough.

You barely slept.

And then it was the night before the dance.

You’d gone to the kitchens after hours and asked the house-elves for one of the cinnamon pastries Sebastian liked best. The ones with the sticky sugar glaze that always got on your fingers and made him grin like a kid.

You didn’t tell them what the pastry was for, of course. You didn’t tell them you were planning to surprise him. That you were going to the Undercroft in the hopes that maybe he was there, and maybe you could talk and spend the evening together.

You carried that silly little pastry down through the castle with your heart in your throat and a thousand what-ifs buzzing in your head.

The Undercroft was just ahead. You adjusted the napkin in your hands. Still warm. You could almost picture the look on his face when he saw it, that lazy, pleased smile of his.

Until you heard the murmuring, low and breathless, coming from inside the familiar, cavernous room.

His voice. You’d know it anywhere. Low and familiar. Threaded with something you’d never heard from him before.

You didn’t mean to move closer. You weren’t trying to sneak, weren’t trying to spy. It was instinct. Gut-deep and helpless.

You took two silent steps toward the door and leaned, just barely, to glance around the corner, and your heart stopped.

There they were.

Sebastian. Samantha.

The air in your lungs vanished.

Clothes on the floor. Too many. Her skirt half-hitched around her thighs. His shirt discarded over the arm of the couch. He was leaning over her, mouth pressed to her neck, freckles scattered across his bare back like constellations.

The same back you’d seen a hundred times walking beside you down to the Black Lake. The same shoulders you’d leaned against during late-night study sessions. The same boy who’d asked you to the dance like it meant something.

And there he was, with her, in the Undercroft, on the couch you’d napped against him more times than you could count. The couch where he would read aloud to you from his study notes.

You didn’t make a sound. You just turned, slowly, and walked away.

Your body was still catching up to what your heart already knew—that whatever had been growing between you, whatever little future you'd let yourself imagine, it wasn’t real.

The pastry felt stupid in your hand, now. You thought about dropping it, hurling it down the stairs or smashing it against the stone. But even now, even after that, you couldn’t bring yourself to waste something meant for him.

So you just kept walking.

Through the corridors, past sleeping portraits and flickering sconces, past the suits of armor.

You slipped out the side entrance, the one behind the greenhouse. The door groaned softly when it shut behind you.

Outside, the air was damp and cool, soft with mist. You wandered down to the Black Lake without thinking, your feet finding the path on muscle memory alone. It was quiet this late. The water stretched dark and endless, a mirror for the moonlit clouds.

You sat down in the grass, legs pulled tight to your chest. You placed the pastry beside you and stared out across the lake.

It should have hurt more. It would. It would, soon. But right now, you were still inside the numbness. That awful, floating stillness that came before the break.

You sat there, blinking slowly, until the sun began to tease the horizon and the birds began to stir.

Dew clung to the hem of your robes. Your hands were stiff from the cold. And the pastry beside you, once warm and sweet, was now nothing more than a symbol of your own foolishness; soggy and smashed slightly where you'd leaned against it without realizing.

You rose slowly, the way people do after funerals. Everything inside you felt hollow. Scraped out.

By the time you returned to your dormitory, the castle had fully woken. You passed classmates who smiled at you in the hallway, some whispered about the dance, some asked if you were ready. You smiled back. You nodded. You lied.

Inside your room, the green dress hung waiting by your wardrobe. It shimmered slightly in the sunlight, and you had the ridiculous thought that it looked eager. Expectant. Like it didn’t know that everything had changed.

You sat at your desk, and for a long time, you just stared at it.

Then, finally, you cried.

Your shoulders shook. Your throat ached from trying to keep the sounds in. And all the hopes you’d dared to have—the dance, the green dress, the maybe of it all—curled in on themselves and withered.

You cried for the version of you who thought this time might be different. Who believed, if only for a moment, that Sebastian Sallow might love you back. You cried for the space he took up in your life that now felt like a splinter buried deep beneath the skin.

And you cried because you knew you’d still love him anyway.

But you couldn't go to the dance like this. Couldn’t face the music, the decorations, the glances from your friends when you walked in on his arm like nothing had happened. Couldn’t stand the thought of pretending, of smiling, of making small talk, and dancing with him while your heart bled beneath your ribs.

You didn’t know if it made you a coward, maybe it did, but when you sat at your desk, blotting parchment with tears and ink, you didn’t care. You scribbled out a note for him. Just a few lines.

Woke up ill. Don’t wait for me. Have fun tonight.

You signed it, folded it, and tied it to the leg of a sleepy barn owl at the window. You watched it take off with the kind of hollow relief that only comes from avoidance.

Then you slipped your wand from your sleeve, murmured the familiar syllables of a disillusionment charm, and crept from your dormitory like a ghost.

The green gown fluttered as you passed by, still waiting for a debut that would never come.

You spent the evening holed up in the Room of Requirement, wrapped up in a blanket on the shore of your seaside vivarium. You'd long run out of tears, but the ache sat heavy in your chest, a dull, constant pressure like you’d swallowed a stone.

You stayed there until your bones ached from sitting still. Until the sky turned from lavender dusk to inky night. Until your mind stopped replaying the image of his back, bare and freckled, bent over someone else. Over her.

It wasn’t just that he was fucking her again. It wasn’t even the fact he'd shown her the Undercroft, though that hurt enough on its own.

It was everything that came after.

You knew yourself well enough to know what would happen. You’d go to London. You’d take the flat with him and Ominis. You’d wake up every morning pretending not to care when he stumbled in smelling like someone else’s perfume. You’d go through training beside him, spar with him, laugh with him. And then, one day, he’d fall in love with someone else and you’d break in a way you couldn’t come back from.

So when you pulled the folded parchment from your bag, the one with the offer for a Cursebreaker apprenticeship over seas, you didn’t hesitate. You scribbled a note accepting the position and another one declining your Auror placement. You sealed them both before you could second-guess yourself.

Then you wrote one last letter.

You didn’t know what you meant to do with it. Maybe burn it. Maybe lock it away. But the words poured out of you like blood from a wound.

You told Sebastian everything.

How much he meant to you. How long you’d been in love with him. How much it hurt to see him with her again. In the Undercroft. In your place. And you told him you were leaving. That you had to. Because you’d always thought the worst pain would come from losing him, but the truth was that the worst pain was from staying.

You signed your name. Folded it. Tucked it away. And grieved the life you thought you’d have. You let it die there in the stillness as the waves of your conjured shoreline lapped gently at the sand.

← Prologue Next Chapter →

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[thepeacefulgarden]

And if that's too much, take it breath by breath.

[unwelcome-ozian]

[haleyincarnate]

Every day is a new beginning. Every positive memory a treasure, every negative something to learn from.

I am grateful for every person I have ever been. I am thankful to learn, to grow, and to experience. This life is wild in the best of ways. ✨

[sad-leon]

When your greif becomes so overpowering that you break shit, but now you're left empty and with just as much greif as you started with, if not more.

Anyways- guess who was listening to Lost One's Weeping again :D (it was me, i am so normal over that song)

[this-acuteneurosis]

We Will Not Wear Chains

Responsible

Who is to blame? Who steps up?

[loveyourlovelysoul]

Yes, it feels bad to be cut off from someone's life, especially if it was someone you were pretty close with. It feels bad even after years and even if you already knew it would have happened. Take time to grieve and acknowledge your feelings, but realize that it was anyone's fault: some people aren't meant to stay in our life (and we're not meant to stay in their life) forever or in a very stable or deep way. And we can only respect each other and accept what it is. For everyone that leaves, someone else will come in, be sure of this.

[this post is especially for those who went through "natural endings" and cannot realize what went wrong: reasons about this ending aren't clear and nothing big happened among you two. Many people tend to feel guilty, responsible about this ending and overthink what they may have done wrong, even when it's not the case: very likely things just needed to end. This post intends to help you give yourself closure and not stress too much over what you may be responsible of, even after having tried to analyze your situation objectively. If in the closure's process you realize some triggers or rooted negative behaviours interferred, then this ending can be a good reason for you to try and take care of them before embracing a new friendship or relationship of sort].

[hushedhippie]

My mind and body want to die, but my soul wants to live.