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ombeodblack · 2 months ago

Note

hi hi i hope you’ve been well! i’m part of the itty-bitty titty committee and i’d love a fanfic abt seb comforting mc about it? i apologize if it’s a bit similar to your other request you recently fulfilled, but it’s been on my mind and your writing never fails to make me feel something. feel free to ignore this, but if you would be down then thank you so much in advance!

As You Are | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Hi anon! thank you so much for your message. I am so sorry it took so long for me to finish this for you, but I really hope you enjoy! This is my first fic in what feels like forever ;.; excited to be back to writing. Thank you everyone once again for your patience while I took time away.

<3<3<3

Words: ~6,800

Tags: Mentions of Smut, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Fluff, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Love Confessions

The locker room reeks of sweat, grass, and wet wool. It's a thick, clinging fog of damp socks, muddy cleats, and overworked gear. The air is humid with steam from the showers hissing at the far end, and the stone bench beneath you is cold against the backs of your thighs. You peel your jersey over your head, grimacing as it sticks to your skin.

You’d taken a bludger to the ribs somewhere around the half hour mark on your left side, just under the padding. It’s already blooming into a dull ache, a reminder of how seriously your Beater takes practice. Still, it had been a good session.

Around you, laughter echoes off the tiled walls, bouncing down from the other end of the changing room. You don’t pay it much mind until you hear your name.

“Well, I’m just saying,” comes a teasing voice. A voice you'd recognize anywhere: Araminta Lawson, Seventh year, Slytherin, and a total bitch. “Being Hogwarts’ little golden girl doesn't exactly get you a golden rack, does it?”

Peals of laughter erupt from the Slytherin girls, sharp, bright, a little too loud to be casual.

“I mean, really,” Araminta continues, louder now. “You save the school, you beat Ranrok, you’re everyone’s favorite little do-gooder, but Merlin help her, she's flat as a board."

You keep your head down, jaw tight as you continue undressing. Socks off. Shin guards unclipped. Jersey folded.

You’ve been on Araminta’s bad side since day one. Maybe it was your spellwork. Maybe it was the way you handled the goblin rebellion. Or maybe it was because people liked you more than her, and you didn’t have to try so hard to get them to. Whatever the reason, her and her friends always find a reason to mock, whether it's your upbringing, your House, the way you braid your hair, or the even the way you grip your wand.

Normally, it’s annoying. Occasionally, it’s cruel. But it’s always manageable. You've gotten good at brushing it off. At rolling your eyes. At winning.

But this time... this time it hurts.

Because it’s true.

You know you're not the most... well endowed girl in your year. You’ve had the thought a hundred times in front of your dorm mirror. You know the shape of your own body better than anyone.

You cast a glance to the side before you can stop yourself.

Araminta is lounging across the bench like she’s in a catalogue for Witch Weekly: flawless skin, hair cascading in bouncy curls, her cleavage practically engineered for envy. She’s not even bothering to get dressed, as if she's daring you to look at her in her matching lace underwear.

Your stomach twists. You curse her perfect figure. Her perfect everything.

You turn sharply, towel clenched tight around you, and start toward the showers. The tile is cold beneath your feet, the hiss of water a welcome white noise. You think maybe it'll drown them out, muffle them, and you can just get through the next ten minutes without looking like a complete fool in front of people who would love to see it.

But the Slytherin girls aren't done with you yet.

“Oh, come off it,” Araminta says, loud enough to carry over the steam. “She thinks if she acts mysterious and noble for long enough, Sebastian’ll just fall into her lap.”

A few of the girls snicker. One of them sighs, dreamy and theatrical. “Oh Sebastian,” she coos. “Please overlook my tragically underwhelming bosom."

Laughter explodes.

“She’s been following him around like a lovesick Crup since fifth year,” says qnother. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Everyone knows she’s in love with him,” Araminta drawls. “But have you ever seen him flirt with her?”

Another girl laughs. “He probably wants someone he can actually get a handful of, not someone who disappears when she turns sideways.”

You step into the shower stall and yank the curtain shut, the thick plastic rings clattering against the metal bar. You twist the knob until scalding water crashes over your shoulders.

It’s too hot. It stings.

Good.

You tip your head back and let it soak through your hair, over your face, down your neck. You’re not crying. The sting in your eyes could be the heat.

Beyond the hiss of water, their voices continue, though now they’re not the only ones speaking.

“Oi, lay off it, Lawson,” snaps Dahlia Moon, your team's top Chaser. She’s never liked Araminta, and subtlety has never been her strong suit. “She’s a better flier than all of you combined. Maybe worry less about her bra size and more about how she scored twice today while you were still tying your boots.”

“Oh, someone’s got her knickers in a twist,” Araminta drawls, but there’s an edge to her voice now. "Relax, Moon. We’re only having a bit of fun.”

“Right, because tearing someone down behind their back is such a laugh,” Dahlia fires back.

“We all know why Araminta's such a bitch,” June, your backup Beater, snorts. “She’s still sore Sebastian doesn’t give her the time of day.”

Araminta scoffs. “Please. As if I care. I just think it’s weird how everyone pretends it’s normal, her following him around all the time. He’s obviously not interested.”

“That’s rich,” June cuts in, tone now fully scathing. “You tried to slip your number into his Defense textbook last year and you’ve been hovering around him since he hit his growth spurt year before last.”

Another round of halfsuppressed laughter rises, this time from your side of the room. You can almost hear Araminta bristle from behind the curtain.

“Oh, fuck off,” one of Araminta’s friends snaps. “You lot are just pissed because your little golden girl can’t handle a bit of honesty.”

“Honesty?” June echoes, incredulous. “You mean jealousy. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

There’s a sharp sound, maybe a locker slamming shut, maybe someone’s foot hitting the bench, and then silence. A thick, crackling silence. One you could slice open with a knife if you wanted to.

By now, your skin is burning. Bright red from the heat. You haven’t moved since stepping into the shower, haven’t adjusted the tap, haven’t washed your hair. You’ve just stood there, letting it pour over you.

Araminta finally snorts. “Whatever. Keep defending her if it makes you feel better,” she says, loud and flippant. “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

Silence.

Total.

No retort. No comeback. Not from Dahlia. Not from June. Not from anyone.

Because there isn’t one. Because it’s what you’ve thought, too.

A hundred times. A thousand. Every time Sebastian laughed with someone else. Every time his hand brushed yours and he didn’t hold on. Every time he looked at you and then looked away.

He's never treated you the way he does other girls. Like that Ravenclaw prefect. Or that Beauxbatons girl who’d practically climbed into his lap during the Triwizard exhibition last winter.

Araminta might be cruel, but what if she's right?

You think of Sebastian—his crooked grin, the way his brow furrows when he’s pretending not to worry about you, the rare softness in his voice when it’s just the two of you. The way he always insists on standing on the outside edge of the corridor, between you and the cold drafty stone. The way his shoulder brushes yours when you sit beside him, and he never moves away. Of the way your heart stumbles every time he says your name.

But if there was something there, anything real, wouldn’t he have acted on it by now?

You stand there under the water until the last voices fade and the water runs cold and the ache in your ribs has dulled into something distant.

You shut off the tap and wring out your hair with numb fingers. You dry off and dress in silence, pulling your clothes on in automatic motions. Undergarments. Uniform. Boots. Wand clipped at your hip.

You avoid the mirror.

When you step out into the corridor, you see him right away.

Sebastian Sallow. Leaning against the stone just a few feet away from the door, arms crossed, one knee bent and boot resting against the wall behind. His shirt is still a little wrinkled. Hair still damp. His eyes lift the moment he hears the door, and they light up when they land on you.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm. Familiar. “I was starting to think you'd drowned in there,” he adds with a crooked grin.

You manage a small smile, more habit than emotion. “Just taking my time.”

He uncrosses his arms, stepping toward you. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to read something in it.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” you say too quickly. “Long practice.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little.

“You sure? You’re being weird. Quiet weird. Not, you know, charming weird.”

You huff a laugh through your nose and shake your head, already turning away, already putting distance between his familiar gaze and the ache in your chest.

“I'm fine, Sebastian.”

He falls into step beside you like always, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulder brushing yours lightly like usual. But this time, you shift half a step away, just enough that the contact doesn’t linger.

He notices, because of course he does.

"Was it that Bludger?" He asks, voice gentler now. "You took a pretty nasty hit out there."

You glance over at him briefly. His brow is knit with that familiar line of worry.

Your ribs do still ache, a slow pulse beneath your uniform, but that isn’t what’s hurting most.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Just a bruise.”

The corridor winds ahead of you, long and dim, and the muffled sounds of the Great Hall are growing louder with every step—plates clinking, laughter rising, the low thrum of hundreds of conversations blending into a warm, golden haze.

You’re grateful for the noise. It’s a welcome kind of chaos, one you can disappear into.

You move quickly, weaving through the crowd with purpose, ducking toward your table before Sebastian can say anything else. Before he can interrogate you any further.

Your usual seat is open and you slide into it like it’s second nature, already reaching for the bread basket and pretending you didn’t just leave half your soul behind in the showers.

Ominis glances up from his plate, tilting his head toward the sound of your arrival. “You’re late,” he says, wry as always. “I was beginning to suspect Sebastian had finally convinced you to elope.”

Ominis is always like this. Dry, unbothered, maddeningly perceptive. Normally, you’d roll your eyes and volley something back, but tonight, the words hit differently. They land like a stone in your gut.

You manage a half hearted snort.

“Sorry. Took longer than I thought to clean up.”

Sebastian settles beside you, close enough that his knee nudges yours under the table. He spoons mashed potatoes onto your plate without asking.

"I think the castle is probably all out of hot water after the shower she took," he says, and that crooked grin is back in his voice, the same one that usually makes your chest flutter.

You hum in response—neither agreeing nor disagreeing—as you pull apart a roll with too much focus.

Ominis, not missing a beat, arches a brow. “If she’s been hiding a secret lover in the girls' locker room, I’ll be terribly disappointed not to have known.”

Garreth lets out a loud laugh. “What if she is the secret lover?"

The conversation spins on without you, quick and easy and full of friendly jabs. Natty makes some joke about Quidditch scandals and changing room hookups. Garreth chimes in with something ridiculous about charming the snitch to read love letters. Ominis murmurs that if anyone’s writing poetry in your honor, he hopes for the good of the school that it stays unpublished.

But all you can focus on is Sebastian’s thigh, warm and solid against yours, his knee brushing your leg each time he shifts. The way his arm bumps yours now and then as he leans forward to pass something. The smell of him—fresh soap, warm spices, woodfire and cedar—wraps around you like a second cloak. Familiar. Comfortable. Crushing.

It’s all too much. And yet not enough.

You pick at your food. Push peas across your plate. Nod along with half the jokes and forget them the second they pass. You don’t look up once, even though you can feel Sebastian glancing at you again and again.

He’s trying to be subtle. He’s never been good at subtle.

Eventually, the meal winds down. Someone complains about homework. Natty starts organizing the group for a study session later. Ominis mentions needing to speak with Professor Sharp. People shift, stand, collect their things.

You stand too.

“Gonna head out for a bit,” you say, trying for casual.

“To the common room?” Natty asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. Just… need a walk.”

Sebastian straightens beside you, instinctively ready to follow. “Want company?”

You pause jst long enough to be noticeable. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t stop you.

You leave the hall quickly, the chatter fading behind you as your footsteps echo down the corridor. You don’t know where you’re going until your feet take you there.

The Room of Requirement opens for you without hesitation.

Inside, it’s quiet. Dimly lit. Calming. Filled with warm ambient light and shelves lined with books you haven’t touched in weeks.

You cross to the center of the room and sit down heavily on the edge of the rug, tugging your knees up to your chest. The silence wraps around you like a blanket too thin to keep out the cold.

Your breath shakes. Not quite a sob, not quite steady. You close your eyes and press your palms into them, like maybe you can push Araminta’s voice out of your head if you try hard enough.

After a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe more, you hear soft footsteps behind you. You lift your head just enough to see Deek approaching, small and quiet as ever. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. He simply places a steaming cup of tea on the floor beside you.

You manage a soft “thank you” and Deek offers a smile before turning away and disappearing into one of the vivariums. The door clicks shut behind him, and the Room is yours again.

You take the mug in both hands and pull it close to your chest, letting the heat seep into your fingers, though it does little to warm the hollow space inside you.

“She’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

You blink hard, willing, in vain, the sting in your eyes to go away.

You’ve always been aware of your chest. Or lack thereof.

Since you were thirteen and the other girls started filling out but you didn’t. When you stood in front of the mirror and tugged at your shirt, trying to convince yourself it would happen eventually. That you were just a late bloomer. That maybe tomorrow, you’d wake up different.

But you never did.

You’ve laughed it off before. Made the jokes first to dull the sting. “President of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee,” you once said to Natty, trying to sound proud of the title, like it didn’t bother you. Like you were above it.

You’re not.

You’ve tried to believe it didn’t matter. That you were more than a body. That anyone who cared about your figure didn’t deserve you anyway. That if someone really liked you—if Sebastian really liked you—it wouldn’t matter.

But maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

It’s stupid. It’s shallow. You know that.

But you still think about it. Every time you see Sebastian laugh with someone else. Every time he leans just a little too close to a girl with long lashes and a low cut top. Every time he’s charming and flirtatious and never quite like that with you.

He’s always been warm. Protective. Devoted, even. But not hungry. Not drawn.

You’ve wondered endlessly if he just doesn’t see you that way because you don’t look the way girls are supposed to. You’ve wondered if maybe something in his brain just registers you as... not woman enough. Not desirable enough.

Not enough to be looked at the way Sebastian looks at other girls.

You lift the tea to your lips, finally, and sip. It’s perfect. Warm, sweet, soothing, and yet your throat still aches.

Then the door creaks open.

You don't turn to look. You don't need to. You’d know the sound of his gait anywhere.

Sebastian closes the door behind him. Then nothing.

For a long moment, he just stands there. You can feel his presence settle into the room like a weight.

Your hands tighten around your mug.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He’s waiting.

So you save him the trouble.

“I don’t want to talk.”

There’s a pause.

“Too bad.”

You glance sideways, finally.

Sebastian’s standing just a few feet away now, arms crossed, brows drawn tight with worry.

“I know something's wrong,” he say. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s gravity. "You're too quiet. You barely ate. You didn’t look at me once at dinner. Whatever's going on, you can tell me, surely you know that, don't you?"

You do know. You’ve always known. Sebastian’s loyalty is a force of nature. When he cares, he does so completely. Fiercely. Sometimes recklessly.

But this isn't the kind of problem you can solve with loyalty.

This isn’t a wound to be mended with spellwork or a curse to unravel or a duel to win. It’s not something he can fight for you, or bleed for, or throw himself in front of like he always does.

This is you.

Your body. Your feelings. Your insecurities. A thousand tiny hurts stitched into the shape of a girl who’s been pretending they don’t matter for years.

You draw a shaky breath. Your fingers curl tighter around your tea.

"Sebastian, seriously, I'm fine," You swallow. "And... honestly, you won't understand anyway."

Sebastian’s jaw tenses. He looks like a boy who’s just been handed a locked door and decided he will find a way in.

“Try me."

You exhale, long and slow. There’s no point in fighting him. You knew the second the door opened and you heard his footsteps that this would happen. That he wouldn’t let it go.

He never does.

You shift, drawing your knees up tighter and setting your tea on the floor beside you. He watches, waiting, and when you say nothing, he lowers himself to sit on the rug across from you, legs folded, hands loosely clasped in front of him like he’s settling in for something important.

You run a hand down your face. “It’s not that big a deal,” you mutter, already bracing yourself. “It was just the Slytherin girls. Again.”

Sebastian snorts immediately. “Merlin, again?”

You don’t respond.

He narrows his eyes a little. “You usually handle them fine. You’ve shut Araminta down with a single look more times than I can count. So what’d she do this time?”

You shrug, trying to wave it off. “Nothing. They were just being rude. Like always.”

He doesn’t budge.

“Rude how?”

It’s a simple question, but it cracks something. You press your lips together, tighten your grip around your knee.

“They just ran their mouths,” you say, feigning indifference. “Same old stuff. Gossip, snide comments. It’s fine.”

“...What did they say?”

You look anywhere but at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly matters."

You bristle, even though he’s right.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

Your eyes snap back to his, and there’s no teasing in them. Just patience. Frustrating, infuriating, endearing patience.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. The words press at the back of your throat, hot and heavy, but you force them out through clenched teeth: measured, sarcastic, like if you keep the delivery casual enough, it won’t sound like it hurt.

“They were just talking shit,” you say finally. “Apparently my bra size is now a matter of great public concern.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a second he looks so baffled it might almost be funny.

“What?”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I don’t know. Araminta was bored, I guess. It’s not a big deal."

Sebastian blinks like he’s been hit with a stupefy. “...What exactly did they say?”

"Oh, you know... how I'm flat as a board, how there's nothing to grab, how I 'disappear when I turn sideways’—you know, classic material.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond. He’s gone very still, gaze fixed on you now with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

You try to wave him off. “Don’t make a thing out of it. Honestly, they're clearly running out of material if that’s the most scandalous thing they can come up with.”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“Sebastian-”

“No, really.” His voice is deceptively calm, but there’s fire behind it. You know this look. It's the one he gets right before he does something stupid and noble in equal measure. The one he carries into every duel, every injustice, every time someone crosses a line.

“Don’t,” you warn, lifting a finger. “Do not go marching into the Slytherin common room.”

He drags a hand through his hair, agitated, like he’s weighing whether the impending detention would be worth it, and you both know he thinks it would be.

“I’m serious,” you say, sharper now. “Do not make this worse.”

Sebastian exhales through his nose. “They made you feel like shit. That is worse.”

You shake your head, laughing wryly. “They didn’t say anything I didn't already know. I already felt this way as it was.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately wish you could swallow them back.

Sebastian stills.

“What?"

You sigh, "Forget it, it’s nothing—

“No—"

"Sebastian, seriously—"

"No." His voice hardens. "What do you mean you already felt that way?"

You press your forehead to your knees, wishing the stone floor would just crack open and swallow you whole.

“I mean,” you mumble, “that they weren’t wrong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the words tumbling out in pieces now, brittle and half-formed. “It’s not like I haven’t thought it before. That I’m... not like them. That I don’t look like them. There’s nothing about me that stands out. Nothing that makes anyone stop and stare.”

You take a breath. Your voice wavers, but you push through.

“I’ve seen the way people look at girls like Araminta. The way they light up a room. The way they get picked, noticed. And me? I just...” You try to laugh, but it catches. “Apparently, I vanish if I turn sideways. So.”

It’s meant to be funny. It lands like a bruise.

“They didn’t say anything I haven’t already thought." You finish quietly. "They just said it out loud. And now it’s stuck in my head.”

Sebastian is quiet for too long.

When you finally lift your head, just enough to glance at him, he looks stunned. His brows are knit in disbelief, mouth slightly open, as though he can’t decide if he’s more angry or heartbroken. And beneath it all… he’s blushing.

His ears are a little pink, and there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck like he’s just realized the topic of conversation has wandered somewhere deeply personal, uncharted territory neither of you has dared step into before.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. He falters, blinks, then tries again.

“That’s…” he starts, then shakes his head, clearly flustered. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

He throws his hands slightly in the air, eyes still wide, voice too loud in the quiet room. “You honestly think no one notices you?”

You just stare.

Sebastian scoffs, incredulous. “People notice. I notice. I—everyone—”

He stops himself suddenly, the momentum catching up to him, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I mean… not that it matters what I notice, just—” He clears his throat, stiffly. “Araminta has no bloody clue what she’s talking about. Guys aren’t as shallow as she makes us out to be. I mean, yeah—sure, some of them are idiots., but most of us aren't just basing our feelings on whether or not a girl has...” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, as if trying not to say big boobs out loud.

You raise an eyebrow, weary and unconvinced, the silence stretching between you like a challenge you’re too tired to issue.

Sebastian shifts where he sits, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Look, I just mean—bloody hell, they’re so wrong. About all of it. It’s not some universal law. You can’t just measure worth like that."

You give a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah, well... I don't know about that.'

Sebastian frowns. “Why not?”

You hesitate.

“They... brought up the guy I like.”

His face shifts, just a flicker, but you see it. He schools it quickly.

“A guy... you like?”

You nod, staring at your hands now. “Said he’d never go for someone like me. That if he was going to, he’d have done it by now.” You laugh, tired and bitter. “They’re not wrong. It’s been years. And he’s never once—” You shake your head. “Not even a hint. It’s just… not happening.”

You glance up, and Sebastian is staring at you like you just told him the sky’s not blue anymore.

You watch as the color drains slightly from his face, the flush fading from his cheeks and settling somewhere behind his eyes instead.

“Wait,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse. “Years?”

You suddenly realize how much you’ve said. How fast it came out. And how dangerously close you’ve drifted toward the truth.

Shit.

Your face burns as the heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You’ve liked someone,” he says again slowly, “for years. And you never told me?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. His expression flickers. You don’t know what part of him takes the hit first: his stomach, his heart, his ego, but you see the impact. You see it in the way he goes still again, hands clenched together, throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

“And...” he starts, voice quiet now. “Is he... is he a complete idiot?”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a breath that almost could’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so shaky. “Because if it’s been years, and you’re sitting here thinking you’re not enough, then he’s either blind, cursed, or the biggest idiot of all time.”

You laugh, short and incredulous, before you can stop it. It’s not funny. Not really. But the irony is so thick you could bottle it.

Sebastian frowns. "...What?"

You press your lips together, shaking your head as the laughter fizzles out into a sigh. “Nothing,” you say. "It's just not as simple as you're making it sound."

He narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t sound complicated. You like someone. You’ve liked him for years. You’re brilliant and kind and brave and you make people better just by being around them. That should be simple.”

You shake your head. “Yeah well... none of that matters when the person you're in love with doesn’t feel the same.”

He holds your gaze. You can practically see him digesting the fact that you love someone.

“...Do I know him?”

You hesitate. That's kind of the problem.

“I— Sebastian, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask.”

He searches your face. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to know,” you hiss. “Because I wasn’t supposed to say anything. And now I have, and if I say any more—”

You stop. Clench your jaw. Shake your head.

But Sebastian is already sitting straighter. Already leaning closer, just slightly, like he can’t help it. Like your answer is a thread he's already started pulling, and now he can't stop.

“Alright,” he says, slowly, measured. “Alright. I won’t ask.”

You almost exhale with relief.

“I’ll just guess.”

Your heart lurches. “Sebastian—”

“No, no,” he insists. “Let me try."

You can see the way he’s watching you now, like he’s sifting through every name, every interaction you’ve ever had in front of him, lining guys up like suspects.

"It’s someone from school, obviously," he says. "Someone in our year? Or older? You're the type that'd like a bloke that's mature..." He squints a little. "Is it Professor Sharp's apprentice?"

You give him a flat look. “That’s illegal, Sebastian.”

He holds up his hands. “Just eliminating possibilities.”

You can tell he's still trying to keep it light, still clinging to the edges of humor like it's armor, but the tightness in his jaw remains.

“Okay,” he tries again. "So... someone in our year. And you've liked them for years so it's someone we see often. Someone who’s... what? Clever? You like clever.”

You give him a look, but you don’t argue.

“And funny,” he continues, nodding to himself.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you profiling my type?”

He hums under his breath then starts muttering names.

“Not Leander. You threatened to shove his wand up his nose last year... maybe Amit?” Sebastian frowns. “No. You’d crush him. And..." Sebastian tilts his head slightly, looking at you like he’s seeing you through a new lens, puzzling out some terrible equation he doesn’t want to solve.

“Garreth.” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

“I mean, he is clever,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Annoying, yeah, but clever—"

“Sebastian—”

"—you sit next to him in Potions. You share notes. He makes you laugh, doesn’t he? Merlin, he gave you chocolate on your birthday, didn’t he?”

You stare. “He gives everyone chocolate on their birthday. It’s what he does.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, have you... have you liked Garreth this whole time?”

Your face scrunches in disgust. “Sebastian, no, Garreth is like a brother to me.”

The effect is immediate. Sebastian’s entire posture uncoils. His shoulders drop. His expression loosens with visible relief.

“Oh. Okay, okay... Good.”

You tilt your head. “Good?”

He blinks. “I mean, not that it would’ve been bad, I just—” He gestures vaguely. “I just… couldn’t see it. That’s all. You and Garreth. Doesn’t track.”

You raise a brow, but he’s already shifting again, visibly determined to move the conversation forward.

“So it's not Garreth, Amit, or Leander. And it’s someone you didn’t want to say anything to. Which means it’s probably someone who matters to you. Someone you were scared to lose.”

Your throat tightens.

“Someone... stable,” he continues. "Someone who listens. Loyal. Kind. And a little intense. I mean let’s face it, you’ve never been into boring.” He flashes you a quick, sidelong glance. “Which eliminates like, half the blokes in our year.”

You don't respond, just hug your knees tighter.

“So," he mutters, gaze distant now. "maybe he’s so used to having you around that he just... doesn’t see what’s right in front of him.”

You press your forehead into your knees again. Shit. He's getting close, too close, and you can feel it, like the floor under this entire conversation is starting to give.

“Sebastian—”

He holds up a hand. “No, no, wait, I’m on a roll.”

You groan into your arms, “Sebastian, please—”

“He must be someone you trust. Someone you spend a lot of time with," he pauses, brow furrowing in consideration. "...Is it someone I’d hex if I knew? Would I be mad if I found out who it was?”

You freeze. How do you answer that when the person you’re in love with is him?

But Sebastian watches your reaction. Sees the stillness, the tension in your shoulders, and you feel it, the way the air changes like the thread he’s been pulling has suddenly snapped taut.

“Oh,” he says, softly. Too softly. You can see the way his posture shifts, the way his mouth parts like he’s putting it all together and arriving at the wrong conclusion.

Fuck.

"Wait, Sebastian you don't understand—"

“Merlin’s beard…” he mutters. “You like Ominis, don’t you?”

You jerk upright, staring at him. “What?! No!”

But Sebastian is already spiraling.

“I mean, I guess it makes sense,” he says, hands gesturing wildly as he starts pacing in a circle. “He’s calm. Thoughtful. Tragic. Girls love that. He’s got that whole brooding pure-blood heir thing going for him—”

“Wait!”

“—and he listens, and h's polite, and he never says anything idiotic, and—bloody hell, you would go for Ominis, wouldn’t you? You two always sneak off to talk in the library to talk about ancient magic theory stuff. And you’re always looking at him like he’s saying something brilliant—”

“Sebastian!”

He doesn't listen.

“I don’t blame you, you know. Really. He’s the better choice. I get that. I do. He’s a Gaunt with Ministry connections and a bloody fortune, not to mention he actually knows how to shut up when he's supposed to."

You stand too, cutting him off before he works himself into another full sentence. “Sebastian, for fuck's sake it’s not Ominis!”

That finally stops him.

He turns to you, and you stare at each other, him with his eyes wide, mouth still half open from the rant he hadn’t finished, and you with your chest heaving, heart racing, the blood pounding in your ears.

“It’s not Ominis," you say again. "I love him, but not like that. Not even remotely. Not ever.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. But the storm clouds behind his eyes don’t fully clear. “Then… why did you look like that? Why... why did you think I'd be mad if I knew who it was?! Nobody else fits the profile!"

Your heart leaps into your throat. There is someone else that fits the profile. There is exactly one, and he’s standing right in front of you, eyes wide, every line in his body pulled taut with tension as the gears in his head begin to turn.

You can see it. And you start to panic.

Your hands begin to shake. You don’t know if it’s adrenaline or dread, but you can feel it in your fingertips, a restless tremor that has nowhere to go.

You take a step back. Not far, just enough to feel the air between you again, to breathe. Because this wasn’t how you imagined it.

If you ever told him, it was supposed to be quiet. Thoughtful. Gentle. Not like this. Not cornered in the Room of Requirement with your heart practically bleeding out between sentences, your chest heaving and your voice splintering every time he looks at you.

And he is looking at you. Staring at you like you’re not the same person he walked in after. Like he’s watching something fall apart and come together at the same time.

And then, quietly, so quietly it barely makes it past the space between you, he says, “Holy fuck…”

You flinch.

“You mean me?”

You can’t look at him. You can't. And when he takes a step forward, you instintively take a step back.

But you nod.

Just once.

He breathes in like the room has punched him. His voice is smaller now. “How long?”

Your throat is dry. “Fifth year.”

The silence that follows is a vacuum.

A black hole in your chest.

This is it. This is where the floor gives out. This is where everything breaks—your friendship, your years together, the late nights in the Undercroft and the whispered laughter in empty hallways. All of it shattered because you said too much. Because you couldn’t keep it inside.

And you always knew would happen—that the moment the truth left your mouth, the dynamic you’d built together would crack down the middle. That you’d ruin everything.

Your best friend. The person you loved more than anything. And now—

He laughs.

You blink. Disoriented. Did you just hallucinate that?

He laughs again, louder this time, and there’s no cruelty in it. No it's... It’s stunned. Relieved. Almost breathless. And when he speaks, he sounds like he’s trying not to let the joy in his chest burst out all at once.

“Merlin’s bloody balls, I must be the biggest idiot of all time.”

Your head snaps up.

Sebastian is grinning. Absolutely beaming. His hand runs through his hair like he’s trying to smooth out the disbelief crackling across his entire body.

“I love you too." He laughs. "Fuck, that's feels so good to say out loud."

You stare at him.

“But...” your voice is small, scared still. “You never made a move. You never even looked at me like, like I was—”

He cuts you off, incredulous. “—Because I thought I couldn’t have you!"

You blink, stunned.

“I didn’t think someone like you could feel that way about me,” he goes on, a little breathless. “And now I find out you’ve been walking around thinking you’re not enough? That you’re not, what? Womanly enough? Desirable enough?"

He shakes his head, jaw tight now.

“You say you disappear,” he says. “But I’ve never once walked into a room and not seen you. You’re the only one I ever see. I’ve loved you exactly as you are since the day you stepped into Hogwarts.”

A stunned breath escapes you.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he says. “Gorgeous. Clever. Brilliant. And you’re hot as hell, if we’re being honest.”

You laugh. It bubbles up without your permission, cracked at the edges and filled with something new.

Hope.

Sebastian steps closer again, and this time, you don’t retreat.

"I mean for fuck's sake, have you seen yourself?” he says, like he’s the one overwhelmed now. “Do you know what it's like?"

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat, and suddenly his hands reaching for you, one hovering near your jaw, the other ghosting over your waist.

“I’ve been trying not to stare at you since fifth year,” he says, voice rough now. “Trying not to imagine things I shouldn’t. Wondering how soft your skin is. If you’d ever let me touch you. Wondering what you’d look like with your shirt off—”

You let out a broken sound, something between a breath and a laugh,

His voice lowers. “I’m serious. I’ve dreamed about it. About you. Your body. The way you move. The way your jumper clings to your chest when you come in from the cold. The way you stretch after long practices. Merlin, the shape of you makes me crazy.”

He looks at you then, eyes burning with something unguarded. Something real.

“I love your body. I love you. Exactly how you are. I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing. And if you don’t believe me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “just say the word. And when you’re ready… I’ll show you.”

Your breath catches.

“How much I love every part of you,” he continues. “How perfect you are. Especially—” he huffs, a little laugh of disbelief, like he still can’t fathom you ever doubting it “—especially your boobs. I’ve imagined them more times than I should probably admit.”

Your cheeks flush, but the look in his eyes is steady. Heated, yes, but also tender.

“I bet they’d fit in my hands like they were made for me,” he adds, eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Bet they’d feel even better in my mouth.”

You make a small, shocked sound at that, and he smiles. A little wicked. A little breathless.

“And I’ll tell you again,” he says, voice a whisper now. “As many times as it takes. You’re beautiful. And I’m yours. Merlin, I love you."

He reaches up, brushing his fingers along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

You lean in.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything. Urgent and aching, slow and desperate. His hands cradle your face, and when your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, he groans low and rough, and deepens the kiss like he’s just realized he can.

He pulls back only when you’re both breathless, and even then, he doesn’t go far. His forehead presses to yours.

"I love you."

You laugh softly, and it feels like the sound has been buried in your chest for years just waiting to be set free. You touch his face, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone, and say it. Quietly, surely.

“I love you too.”

Through his smile, he kisses your cheek, then your temple, then your mouth again, softer this time, like he’s sealing a promise between you.

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