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sloanesallow · 13 days ago

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Mending Fracture - One Shot

Tag: Post-Hogwarts. Sebastian Sallow x Fem!Reader. No specific House mention. Ominis features. NSFW. Reader is portrayed as a virgin. First time. One Shot. Words count: 12,563K A little contribution to the Sebastian Sallow (Hogwarts Legacy) girlies. This fic was inspired by a dream I had the other day (and for the record, I don’t know a ton about Hogwarts Legacy lore these days, though I was very much into it when the game first came out and followed the Sebastian hype back then). Might have to rewatch the gameplay to get back into the world. Note: I actually don't know how to write nsfw, this is my first nsfw work so bare with me < Also because I came across this edit. The transit smooth af :P Enjoy 🖤

Summary:

Set years after Hogwarts, Sebastian Sallow has become a wandering healer, traveling from place to place, studying dark magic (among other things) in an effort to cure illnesses and lift curses. You haven’t seen him since the events at Hogwarts, since graduation. And yet, how could you ever forget the boy? In your mind, Sebastian is still that sharp-eyed, playful soul with neatly tousled hair and a wicked glint behind his smile. But beneath the charm, there’s something fractured. Something closed off. He’s built walls so high, you're not sure if anyone could ever scale them. And now, after all this time? You've finally caught wind of where he might be.

It was just a normal afternoon.

A warm breeze carried the usual Diagon Alley din, chatter from café windows, owls circling overhead, the rustle of spell parchments unrolling in bookstore doorways. You hadn’t planned on anything other than errands. Tea leaves. A new set of quills. Maybe a butterbeer if the mood struck.

And then you saw him.

Pale eyes flickering under the fair sunlight. Blond hair, almost silver now, shimmering as it caught the light, falling softer, finer than you remembered. You knew that face. Of course you did.

How could anyone forget Ominis Gaunt?

He stood just outside a shopfront, half-shadowed beneath an emerald-green awning, holding a stack of thick-bound books. His posture hadn’t changed, back straight, every gesture precise, like he’d been schooled in stillness and elegance from the cradle. Even the cut of his coat was pristine, buttoned neatly over his frame, not a wrinkle out of place.

But he wasn’t a boy anymore. And neither were you a girl.

His cheekbones were sharper now. The jaw more defined. And his eyes, blind, yet more expressive than any you’d known, seemed to flicker darker. Not in color. In memory. In time.

You didn’t mean to bump into him.

One step too far, one distracted breath and the books tumbled from his arms like leaves on wind.

“I- !” you gasped, immediately crouching to help him. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry- ”

He froze.

The way his shoulders tensed, how his long, elegant fingers hesitated just above yours as you gathered the fallen tomes, it told you everything. He recognized you. Even now. Even after all this time. Just by your voice.

You almost said his name. Almost.

But instead, you handed him the last book, gave him a tight, awkward smile, and turned on your heel. Pretended the past hadn’t just come to life in front of you.

Except something twisted deep in your gut.

You didn’t get five steps before it won.

You spun around, heart hammering, eyes scanning the crowd for pale blond hair, for that tailored silhouette that didn’t quite blend in. And then you saw him again, just disappearing into the crowd.

You pushed forward.

"Ominis!"

Your hand caught his wrist. The sudden movement nearly knocked him off balance.

He turned sharply. Eyes wide, breath caught. His mouth parted in quiet recognition.

And you…

You smiled, breathless and bright, as if time hadn’t separated you by years and choices and silence.

“Ominis. It’s been a long time.”

Your voice was softer than you expected. Hopeful. A little too casual.

He stood there like stone. For a heartbeat.

Then: “Indeed it has,” he said, voice smooth, precise. Proper.

You grinned wider. “Fancy a little catch-up?”

He opened his mouth, perhaps to protest but you didn’t give him the chance.

---

You dragged him into a tea shop tucked between a secondhand robe boutique and a parchment seller. The sort of place students used to linger in on Hogsmeade weekends, small, over-decorated, and filled with the scent of cinnamon and bergamot.

You took a seat. Ominis followed, folding himself into the wooden chair across from you with quiet reluctance. Awkward silence settled like a fog between you.

You broke it, of course. You always did.

“How have you been?”

You sipped your tea as you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

He lifted his own cup, elegant fingers curled around porcelain, and looked at you with that same unreadable calm. “Reasonably well. The years have been... productive.”

So formal. So him.

Still, your lips tugged upward. “Good to see you’re doing fine…”

He shifted, his fingertips gently tapping the table’s edge. “You seem well yourself,” he added. The tiniest smile curved at the corner of his mouth, and just for a moment, you were back in the Astronomy Tower again, eavesdropping on Slytherin boys arguing about spells and moral lines they swore they'd never cross.

“Ah, yeah. I’ve been alright.” You paused. Then, grasping for something more: “So... what are you doing now?”

He tilted his head slightly. Then reached into the inner fold of his coat.

A neat card slid across the table.

You picked it up.

Ominis Gaunt, Owner of The Blind Weaver.

You raised a brow. “A businessman?”

He chuckled. “And a part-time professor at Hogwarts.”

Your eyes widened. You nearly knocked your cup as you leaned forward. “Seriously?”

“Would I lie to you?” he asked, that same quiet wit laced through his words.

You stared at him. The coat, the calm, the way he sat with effortless grace.

“… Maybe not. But I still need a second to picture you yelling at a room full of fourth years.”

“I don’t yell,” he said, lips twitching. “I disappoint.”

That made you laugh, truly laugh, and he smiled for the first time since you sat down.

“What do you teach?”

“Charms. And Ancient Runes.” His voice dropped softer.

You nodded, studying him. The way he didn’t fidget, the way he let silence settle without fear.

But then he stood.

“I have a few appointments to keep,” he said gently, reaching for his robe. “But… if you find yourself curious, The Blind Weaver is just off Knockturn’s edge. Tell the clerk you’re a friend.”

Friend.

The word sat in your chest like a whisper from another lifetime.

You watched him go. Pale eyes, fair hair, and that endlessly calm presence disappearing into the London crowd like mist at sunrise.

You sat there, the tea cooling beneath your fingertips.

And then he flickered through your mind again. Not Ominis.

Him.

Tousled, dark brown hair that never stayed in place, like it rebelled against the order he tried to enforce on the world around him. He’d always run a hand through it, annoyed, distracted, trying to focus on curses and incantations and grand plans.

And those eyes.

Gods, those eyes.

Abyss-dark. Guarded. Dangerous.

The kind of stare that made you feel like he saw through everything and yet you’d never quite reach him. One wrong word, one wrong move, and you’d fall in, swallowed whole by whatever haunted him.

Sebastian Sallow.

The memory of his voice ghosted over you. The teasing lilt. The way he’d always offer a hand in danger, and then pretend it meant nothing afterward. The heat of his palm in yours. The way his ambition burned brighter than anything else in that castle.

You hadn’t turned him in.

You couldn’t.

And that choice, the mercy you gave him was the very thing that drove him away. He’d walled you out. Hardened himself. As if afraid you’d see the ruin behind the charm. Or worse… that you’d try to stay anyway.

You never saw him again after that.

No letters. No signs.

Now, as the sun dipped below the chimneys of Diagon Alley and the ghosts of Hogwarts followed close behind, you wondered where he was. What he’d become. Whether he still ran his hands through his hair when the world got too loud.

Whether he ever thought of you, too.

-----

It was raining.

Not the heavy kind that drums against rooftops in thunderous waves but a soft, constant drizzle, like the sky couldn’t quite make up its mind. The stones of Diagon Alley were slick beneath your boots, the familiar narrow pathways echoing with the sound of distant footsteps and dripping gutters.

Your hood was damp, your coat clinging to your arms, but your steps never slowed.

You stopped in front of a small shop you’d passed once before and never entered. There was no bold signage, no flashing charms in the window. Just a plain black door with foggy glass, the paint slightly peeling on its frame. An old brass bell hung crookedly above the threshold.

The place looked forgotten. Or secret.

Which, knowing him, meant it was exactly where he’d be.

You pushed the door open. The bell rang once, a hollow little sound.

Inside, it was dim. The warm gold glow of a single desk lamp spilled over a corner of the shop like candlelight. Everything else was cloaked in shadow.

And there he was.

Seated behind the desk, quill scratching steadily over parchment, his face softly lit.

“We're closed for today,” Ominis said without lifting his head, the quill never pausing.

You didn't answer immediately. You just stood in the doorway, letting the quiet cradle you for a moment.

“I'm not here to shop.”

His quill stopped.

He slowly raised his head. Pale eyes flickering beneath long lashes, mouth set in a still line.

He rose from his chair. The lamplight kissed the angles of his face, casting soft shadows over high cheekbones and the faintest creases at his brow.

Without a word, he stepped toward a low cabinet, pulled a towel free, and approached. You hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t moved. But somehow he knew. Knew you were wet from the rain. Knew you needed this small kindness.

You reached out as you took it from him.

“Maybe for a cup of tea then?”

He turned before you could answer, already disappearing into the back of the store.

You looked around. The shop was nothing like you'd expected.

Dark shelves lined the walls, every inch of wood crowded with velvet stands and glass cases. Jewelry, if you could even call them that was everywhere. But these weren’t gaudy trinkets. They were old. Older than anything you’d seen at any apothecary or boutique. Charms carved into bone, runes etched into blackened silver. Amulets strung with feathers and fragments of stone that pulsed faintly with forgotten magic. Brass bracelets that whispered curses if you tilted your head just right.

It wasn’t a shop.

It was a collection.

A museum of enchanted secrets.

Dark academia made tangible, worn books, dried flowers in glass vials, and framed sketches of ancient spell circles covered the walls. The kind of place that didn’t just sell magic, it breathed it.

You drifted toward the desk.

Parchments were scattered across the surface like fallen leaves. Spilled ink, looping handwriting, and a quill that moved on its own, scratching something slowly into a piece of thick parchment.

You hadn’t meant to pry.

But your eyes caught it before you could look away.

Seb

Bastian

Sebo

Bas.

The names jumped off the page. Or fragments of them at least. Nicknames. Familiar ones. All of them.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You reached forward, just an inch, fingers ghosting over the edge of one page. You didn’t dare touch. You didn’t need to. You already knew.

Ominis was writing to him.

To Sebastian.

How long had they stayed in touch? What did they say?

Your eyes skimmed a line. You didn’t mean to read it, but you did.

“I saw her today. She seemed well…”

A pulse beat hard behind your ribs.

Footsteps approached again.

“Still two cubes of sugar, like before?”

You straightened instantly. The towel clutched in one hand, your gaze flickering from the letters to Ominis.

He set a tray on the small round table by the shop window. The porcelain cups rattled faintly as he poured with practiced precision. He didn’t look at you, not at first.

But you looked at him.

The light from the desk cast half his face in shadow. The other half illuminated in warm gold. The image burned itself into you. Etched into your mind like one of his shop’s cursed trinkets.

You moved toward the tea slowly, trying to gather yourself. But your voice gave you away.

“You two still write?”

Ominis didn’t even flinch.

“We never stopped.”

His answer came as naturally as breathing.

The words hit you harder than expected. Not because you hadn’t guessed it. But because of how casually he said it. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

They were more than friends. They always had been. A bond forged through war, through pain, through loyalty that never bent, even when it should have broken.

And you?

You’d always been on the outside. On the edge of it. Close enough to feel, never enough to belong.

You swallowed the bitterness that rose. Let your gaze fall back to the parchment. The still-moving quill. Your name wasn’t on any of it. Not written, anyway.

But you were there. A ghost between the lines.

“I…” your voice faltered. You cleared your throat and tried again. “How is he?”

You didn’t say Sebastian’s name. You didn’t need to. The room suddenly felt warmer.

Ominis looked at you for a long moment.

And then, he sank gracefully into the chair beside the window. Lifted his teacup to his lips and sipped.

“If you want to know that badly,” he said, voice like velvet. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

A hundred thoughts collided at once.

You were soaked. Tired. Staring down at a friend of a man you used to know, a man who once held your hand in firelit corridors and then vanished into silence. A man you never stopped thinking about.

And suddenly the world felt like it was teetering on a single word. One decision.

Would you chase him?

----

And that’s how you found yourself stepping out of the Floo, soot clinging to your boots, hair mussed by the strange, ancient draft of magic that clung to the place like a whisper too old to forget. You landed not in a grand manor or bustling wizarding inn, but in the quiet, unassuming heart of an old cottage perched at the very edge of a windswept cliff in northern Cornwall. A cottage that seemed to hold its breath.

Sebastian’s cottage.

Ominis had given you the address only after a long pause. The kind that says more than words ever could. His expression unreadable, his fingers motionless on the edge of his teacup. He hadn’t tried to dissuade you. He hadn’t warned you off. He’d only said, quietly, “If you go… make sure it’s really what you want.” As if he’d been waiting all his life for you to finally ask.

And you had.

You weren’t even certain what you were hoping for. But the longing had become unbearable. The questions louder than your pride.

You wanted to see him again.

The hearth you landed in was dead-cold, no embers, no warmth. A fine layer of ash dusted the iron grate like it hadn’t been touched in days. The room beyond was shrouded in deep shadow, save for the faint, eerie silver of the moonlight slipping through the open door at the back of the cottage, carried on the sound of the storm.

Your boots made the barest creak against the old wooden floor as you stepped into the living room.

It looked abandoned, not the kind of neglect born from distance, but the still, heavy kind left behind by someone who lived inside his own ghost. Every surface bore signs of life, and yet it felt like the house itself was holding its breath. Books were stacked in untamed towers on the floor and furniture, parchment unspooled over the arm of a chair, a steaming cauldron, long cooled, sitting idle in the kitchen’s stone basin. Dried herbs, dittany, nettle, valerian root, hung like sleeping bats from a string across the rafters. And yet not a single candle was lit.

You couldn’t feel anyone here.

But then you noticed it, the back door, unlatched and wide open, whipping in the wind. Curtains flailing like panicked birds in the stormy air that gusted in, cold and soaked in salt.

You set your luggage quietly down beside the worn settee, where a throw blanket hung half-off the backrest. Your fingers trembled slightly as you brushed hair from your face. The cottage was quiet in the way a place becomes when it’s long since stopped being a home. And yet…

You stepped toward the back door.

Each footstep was careful, deliberate, not because you feared being caught, but because something about this place demanded reverence. It felt like trespassing into someone’s mind.

The rain beyond the doorway was merciless. The sky was a deep grey bruise, clouds tumbling overhead in chaotic layers. Wind roared along the cliffside, tugging at your coat as you stepped under the arch of the doorframe and onto the stone threshold.

And that’s when you saw him.

Right there, in the middle of the storm-washed garden, you see him.

No coat. No wand in hand. Just a soaked white shirt, sleeves rolled haphazardly past his elbows, clinging to the shape of his arms and chest. His forearms are bare to the biting rain, muscles taut as he moves with frantic urgency, tending to a row of potion herbs inside a crooked little greenhouse that looks barely held together by charm or will. Glass panels fogged by breath and cold. Hinge creaking in protest. He’s hunched over, fingers digging into the earth like the storm hasn’t noticed him, or he’s too far gone to care.

You didn't call his name. Not yet.

His dark hair, longer than you remembered is plastered to his forehead, the wet strands curling around his temples. Rain runs in rivulets down his neck, dripping from his jaw. He’s soaked through, chilled to the bone, but it’s clear he hasn’t even thought of shielding himself. No spell. No umbrella. Just hands in the dirt, trying to protect something delicate in the middle of chaos.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

This was a man shaped by loss and silence and too many years trying to fix what had already been broken.

You simply stand in the doorway, half-shrouded by the curtain blowing wildly behind you, shoulder leaned gently against the wooden pillar, watching him. And the wind howls between you.

Part of you wonders why he doesn’t just use magic. A simple incantation could have preserved the plants. Sealed the glass. Heated the soil. But no, he’s doing it the Muggle way. The stubborn way. And that, more than anything, tells you he’s still the same Sebastian in ways that matter.

Only slightly, enough for his eyes to catch movement in the periphery.. And for a moment, everything just stopped.

He freezes. Like a spell rooted him to the spot.

You see it hit him all at once: the realization. The disbelief. And just then, a streak of lightning rips across the sky behind him, casting a sudden white glow over his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the shadow beneath his eyes, the way his lips part slightly as if forming your name but too stunned to speak it aloud.

He hadn’t expected you to come.

You can see it in the dilation of his pupils. The way his fingers uncurl. The way his breath shortens, not from the cold, but from you.

“What are you doing here?” he asks at last, his voice low, nearly lost to the sound of the wind but not unkind. If anything, it’s too gentle. The question trembles at the edges, buried beneath a wrinkle between his brows that makes it sound like an accusation.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I can’t visit an old friend?”

And with that, he turns away. Back toward the greenhouse. Back to the plants. Like hiding his face might protect him from what you’ve brought with you.

“Go home,” he mutters. His tone flat, void of inflection, except you’ve known him long enough to hear what’s underneath.

You take a step forward. Rain flicks against your cheek, seeping into your collar. “Do you really want me to leave?”

That stops him.

You can almost see his shoulders go rigid, his neck tightening as if your question physically caught him by the throat.

“I said go home,” he repeats. Louder. Sharper. Still facing away.

But you notice it now, the way his frame has changed. His back broader, more solid, more grown. The boy you once knew now carries himself like a man who’s been carrying too much for far too long. Fists clenched at his sides, his entire body wound tight like a bowstring, as if he’s one second away from snapping or crumbling.

You’re not afraid of either.

The silence thickens between you, heavy with everything unsaid. The storm fills in the space his voice leaves behind, wind lashing through the trees, thunder murmuring low on the horizon.

And then, without a word, you drop to a crouch and begin slipping off your boots. Your stockings come off next. You fold them, tuck them beside your bag, and stand barefoot at the threshold, rain soaking the hem of your cloak.

You don’t say anything. You simply start walking.

The grass is icy underfoot, the earth soft and unforgiving. Rain pelts you from above in cold, heavy sheets, plastering your clothes to your skin. Hair clings to your cheeks. But you don’t care. You walk toward him like you’ve walked this path before, like every step is one back to something you lost.

He hears you coming.

You know he does. You see it in the way his shoulders flinch just slightly, like he can feel the air shift behind him.

“What are you doing?!” he calls out without turning, voice suddenly raw with disbelief. “You’ll catch your death out here-”

But before he can finish, you reach him.

You reach out and take his hand.

Your fingers find his, soaked and cold and stiff with tension. He flinches again, not from surprise, but from the ache that touch brings with it. He looks down at your hand, at the rain streaming down your arms, your soaked sleeves. Then his eyes lift to yours.

“Sebastian.”

His name breaks between you like a breath you’d both been holding for years.

His gaze softens, only barely but his jaw remains clenched. You’re close enough now to see the shadows beneath his eyes, the way the rain runs from the tip of his nose to his lips, like the sky itself can’t stop crying for him.

“We’re all grown up,” you murmur, your voice steadier than your heart. “And I don’t like repeating myself.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His hand is still in yours.

“Can we go inside?” you ask. Rain drips from his hair to your skin, like a memory being shared. You look up at him, your hand tightening just slightly in his. “Please.”

That one word,so quiet, so genuine is what finally cracks him.

Without speaking, without even looking back at the greenhouse or the plants he was so desperate to protect, he grips your hand tightly and pulls you with him.

He doesn’t let go until you’re both across the threshold and he slams the back door shut with a trembling finality that echoes through the walls.

----

The moment the two of you step inside, the house seems to exhale.

A dim golden glow blooms to life, candles lighting of their own accord along the walls with gentle flickers, pushing back the cold dark that had swallowed the room earlier. The chill doesn’t vanish completely, but it shifts, giving way to something quieter. More alive. Like the space itself recognizes your presence and isn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

Water drips from your clothes onto the wooden floor in small, steady rhythms.

You’re barely through the threshold when Sebastian turns abruptly and vanishes down the hall.

No words. Just soaked footsteps fading down the corridor.

He’s back.

A large towel in his hand, moving faster than you can respond. He closes the space between you without hesitation, throwing the towel over your head like it’s an instinct more than a decision, and starts drying your hair in rough, purposeful motions. Not gentle but not cruel either. Somewhere between frustration and worry.

His eyebrows are furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as he ruffles the towel over your scalp like he’s mad at the rain for touching you. You’re so stunned by the nearness, the scent of him, the warmth of his breath, the sudden tenderness of the moment disguised in irritation that you forget to breathe for a second.

“I can do it myself,” you mumble from under the towel, muffled by cotton.

He scoffs softly, a half-laugh, half-growl but steps back anyway, releasing you. The moment his hands leave, the cold rushes in again, and you almost miss their weight.

“Stay here,” he says, voice gruff. It’s not a request.

He doesn't meet your eyes as he turns away, disappearing into the bedroom.

You hear the rustle of drawers, the dull thump of a wardrobe opening. When he returns, his arms are full, a clean towel, a folded shirt, flannel pants, thick and worn in. The fabric looks soft enough to sleep in forever.

You watch him through the soft candlelight, trembling slightly as water trails from your sleeves to your fingertips. He hands you the clothes without ceremony.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Change.”

“I brought my own-” you begin, gesturing vaguely toward your suitcase.

He doesn’t even look at it. Doesn’t look at you. Just presses the bundle of clothes into your arms with quiet finality. “Go get changed.”

There’s a weight in his voice. Not quite anger. Not quite command. But something heavy.

You open your mouth again. “Sebastian-”

His name lands between you like a crack in the floorboards.

And then, softly, barely above a whisper, he says, “Please.”

That one word, please, pulls something taut in your chest. It’s the same thing he said earlier. But this time, it’s not a barrier. It’s a thread. Frayed and shaking and vulnerable.

You nod silently.

He turns his back as you start to step away, and that’s when you see him lift his hands, slowly, methodically to unbutton his drenched shirt. Candlelight flickers across the curve of his shoulder, the defined line of his back. He peels the fabric from his skin without ceremony, and you have to look away, a heat rising beneath your skin that has nothing to do with the fireplace crackling back to life behind you.

You slip into the bathroom and close the door behind you with a soft click.

Inside, it smells like cedar soap and cool stone, but the towel in your hands smells like him.

You glance down at the clothes he gave you. The shirt is far too large, clearly his, worn and soft from use, the fabric brushed thin around the collar. You hold it close, fingers ghosting along the hem. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you press your nose to the cloth.

He smells like.

Aged parchment, crushed bergamot leaves, and a faint trail of ashwood. Something earthy and old, like a forgotten library where time still lingers between the pages. It’s nostalgic. Familiar. Like fall air through an open window, like your fifth year at Hogwarts, like something you never meant to memorize and now can’t unlearn.

You close your eyes and breathe it in. It's warm. It's grounding. It's him.

The oversized shirt swallows you when you slip it over your head. You pull on the pants, too long at the legs and roll the waistband once to make it sit. You catch your reflection in the foggy mirror. You don’t look like yourself. But in a strange, quiet way, you feel more like you than you have in years.

You step into the hallway, barefoot, your hair still damp. The candlelight is softer now. The house breathes like it's settling in for the night.

But Sebastian is gone.

And you don’t call for him.

Instead, you move quietly, retracing your steps back to the living room. You hesitate for a second, like you’re crossing a boundary you can’t uncross before sinking into the couch by the hearth. The cushions dip beneath you, still warm from his presence earlier. The fire murmurs gently, its light painting the room in flickering amber.

You feel, somehow, like an intruder. Like this little cliffside cottage isn’t just a home, it’s a sanctuary. A place where he’s hidden every piece of himself he couldn’t bear to leave behind. A house that knows how to keep secrets.

And you… you are the storm that walked in uninvited.

So you wait. Wrapped in his clothes. Surrounded by the scent of him. By the history between you.

And somewhere in the house, the boy you used to know, the man he’s become is either building the strength to come back… or figuring out how not to fall apart when he does.

----

When he returns, he’s dry.

Damp curls still cling to his forehead under the towel he’s draped around his head, but his clothes have changed, no longer soaked and clinging, but a soft, loose shirt that skims over his shoulders, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the hem wrinkled where he clearly didn’t bother with neatness. His steps are silent, assured, and there’s a kind of unshakable focus about him now. The kind you remember from long nights in the Undercroft, hunched over ancient spells or forbidden texts. The kind that left no room for protest.

In his arms, he carries a shallow basin of steaming water. A small tin of something, a salve rests in one hand. Another towel is slung over his shoulder. Tender in a way that has nothing to do with softness.

He kneels.

Right in front of you. Without a word. As if this were a normal thing, as if years hadn’t stretched between you like an unhealed wound.

His calloused fingers reach for you. One hand encircles your ankle gently but with finality, the other cradles your bare foot, cool from the storm, and lifts it with care. He holds you still.

You jerk slightly, startled, unsure what the hell he’s doing. “W- What are you-?”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

“Don’t move.” His voice is low. Measured.

Your foot hovers awkwardly in his hands.

“I’m fine,” you protest weakly, your voice barely holding its ground. “I didn’t step on anything.”

He doesn’t answer at first, only lowers your foot into the basin with slow, deliberate grace. The warmth hits you instantly, a contrast so sharp to the earlier cold that it almost makes your breath hitch.

Then he mutters, “There’s a Sootthorn bush growing near the edge of the greenhouse.”

You blink. “A what?”

“Sootthorn,” he says again, voice clipped. “Seasonal spikes. They retract in spring, but this time of year they flare. Invisible in the rain, but sharp enough to slice skin if you’re barefoot.”

“I didn’t step on anything,” you repeat, defensive now.

“I’m checking anyway.” His jaw ticks. “Knowing you… it’s likely.”

You want to argue, but his tone is too… Sebastian. Frustrated. Gentle. Stubborn to the bone.

Like a scolding older brother, except it makes your pulse kick up instead of shrink.

He begins to wash your foot, with almost reverent movements, his thumbs pressing delicately at your heel, the arch, the curve of your toes. Each motion is clinical, but the heat pooling in your chest is anything but.

You lean forward slightly. “I can do that myself-”

His eyes flick up at you for half a second, sharp as flint. “Stop talking.”

Your mouth closes before you even realize it.

He ducks his head again, brows furrowed, gaze scanning your skin as if searching for invisible damage. His hands move over you gently, warming the cold out of your bones. And then.

“Stop squirming.”

“I’m not-”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not-”

“You are.” He smirks. “Haven’t changed much.”

The audacity in his voice. The warmth in his hands. The ghost of the old Sebastian, playful, smug, utterly impossible, curls beneath the edges of the man in front of you.

And you don’t fight him. Not really. Because something in you aches at how he’s doing this without question. Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt. Just quiet, determined care.

When he’s done rinsing, he gently lifts your foot out of the water and rests it atop the towel now spread across his thigh. The fire crackles behind him, throwing shifting gold across his features as he carefully pats your skin dry, every motion precise, unwavering.

Then, without pause, he lifts his hand.

A small wooden box floats smoothly toward him from the far table, gliding through the air with practiced ease. It lands beside him, the lid clicking open to reveal a neat row of potion vials, some delicate and silvery, others thick and opalescent, organized by size and shape like a scholar’s toolkit.

You don’t recognize a single one.

He selects a narrow bottle, dark amber, with an iridescent shimmer under candlelight. He pours a drop into his palm and the scent is faintly herbal, tinged with lavender and something sharper underneath and rubs his hands together to warm the potion. Then, with the tenderness, he applies it to the sole of your foot.

You nearly flinch. Not because it hurts but because it tickles.

You press your lips together, stifling a laugh as his fingers slide along the arch, his thumb making slow circles near your heel. It’s… unfair. Unfair, how delicately he’s doing this. As if you’re something breakable. As if this moment isn’t driving you slowly, irreversibly mad.

“Sebastian, I think that’s enough…” You shift, half-laughing now, half-panicked.

He doesn’t even look up.

You watch him in the soft flicker of the firelight.

For the first time since arriving, you can truly see his face. No shadows, no storm. Just him.

His features have sharpened, not drastically, but enough to draw your attention. The boy you once knew had edges softened by youth, by hope. But this man, this version of Sebastian bears a different weight behind his eyes. Still that same amber-brown, but darker now, like forest soil damp with rain. As if whatever light they used to reflect has dimmed into something more private.

His freckles are still there, scattered like faint stardust across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, though they’ve faded a little, thinned out like someone who hasn’t seen the sun in a while.

His hair is damp, tousled from the towel and faintly curling at the ends. Firelight glows softly along the strands, warm brown, almost golden in places and something in you aches at the sight.

You don’t think. You just move.

Fingers reach out instinctively, brushing away a strand that’s fallen across his forehead. Your fingertips graze his skin, just barely. The kind of touch one doesn’t even mean to offer aloud. Like a whisper you didn’t realize was your own.

And his eyes lift.

The contact lasts less than a second, but it lands like thunder in your chest. He looks at you. Really looks at you. Eyes steady. Like he’s trying to read what you’ve become since he last saw you, like he’s wondering if he should let himself hope you’re still the same.

But he says nothing.

Just scrunches his nose slightly, a subtle tell, the kind you remember from years ago and reaches for the socks in his lap. He pulls them over your feet with practiced gentleness, careful not to tug too tight.

Then, without a word, he begins to clean up. Gathers the tin, the towel, the basin, his motions silent. Something in his jaw tightens as he leaves the room again, and you're left alone with the fire and your spiraling thoughts.

He’s always been like this, guarded. Proud. Impossible to pry open unless he wanted to be opened. And yet, he’d just knelt before you, washed your feet, touched you like something precious.

And now he’s running again.

You sigh quietly, fingers curling into the cushion beneath you. It’s hard to tell whether his refusal to talk is more infuriating or... familiar. Comforting in that same exhausting way only Sebastian could ever manage.

When he returns, the room feels heavier.

He doesn’t speak.

Your eyes find his. His find yours. And for a long moment, neither of you looks away.

Finally, he walks forward and and sits beside you. Not too close. Not too far.

The silence stretches again. And you, because someone has to try, let the words slip before you can stop them.

“How have you been?”

You want to slap yourself the moment it’s out. It sounds ridiculous. Trivial. Like you hadn’t crossed mountains, metaphorical or otherwise, just to see him again. And from the slight twitch of his brow, he clearly agrees.

“Really?” he says, one brow arching, voice tinged with disbelief. “That’s your question?”

You don’t back down not this time.

“I’m just trying to catch up with my friend,” you say, tone even. “Is that wrong?”

He huffs softly. It’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. But it’s enough.

His gaze drifts toward the fireplace, where golden light dances along the carved stone.

“I was doing fine,” he says eventually. Not with bitterness.

His hands rest on his knees, fingers clasped tightly, a habit of his when he’s holding something back.

You glance sideways at him. “So… are you a healer now?”

That catches him.

He turns slightly toward you, surprised. “Ominis told you?”

“He told me some things,” you admit, shrugging. “But I wanted to hear it from you.”

He’s quiet again. You wonder if he’s weighing whether he owes you honesty, or if he's just trying to find the right words.

“I try to be,” he murmurs. “I travel. Study magic where it’s tied to illness. Curses. Bloodlines. Memory rot. Some of it... not recognized by the Ministry.” He pauses, jaw tightening a little. “But it helps people. Sometimes.”

You don't press further. Not yet. You know him well enough to understand that these scraps of honesty are his way of reaching out. A hand offered in a language that never came easy to him.

Still, one thing rings loud in your mind:

He could’ve told you to leave.

He didn’t.

He wanted you to stay, even if he can’t admit it. Not with words. But with socks. Salve. The kind of stubborn, impossible devotion that’s written in the things he does instead of says.

Sebastian’s gaze flicked back to you from the hearth, eyes hooded beneath thick lashes as the firelight painted shadows across his face. “What about you?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though you didn’t miss the faint tension laced behind it. A question he’d been holding back. One he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

You hesitated, caught momentarily off guard. The stillness in the room made your pulse feel loud.

“I’m working as an Ancient Magic Researcher now,” you said, trying to ease the weight in your chest with a short, dry laugh. It came out thinner than you liked.

His brow didn’t lift. No surprise flickered across his face. He simply gave a small, knowing nod, as if he had expected nothing less.

“Of course you are.”

Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That wasn’t a question.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he replied with a faint curl of his lips, not quite a smile. “It suits you. You’ve always had an unnatural fascination with runes and ruins and things that shouldn’t be touched.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the faint smile that crept up. “Glad to know my interests were alarming even back then.”

Sebastian leaned back, his profile sharp against the fire’s glow. “They weren’t alarming. Just... predictable. You always did exactly what you wanted. No matter how foolish or dangerous.”

You let the silence stretch a moment, watching how the fire caught the strands of his hair, still damp from his bath. The warmth from the hearth barely chased the cold that clung to your spine. You weren’t here just to reminisce. But the past had a way of bleeding into the present when it came to Sebastian Sallow.

“Enough about me,” you said finally, your voice softer, more cautious. “What are you doing these days?”

You swallowed. “Ominis told me bits here and there.”

That name made him glance at you, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. You didn’t press it.

“And Anne?” The question was. You didn’t want to open a wound, but you couldn’t help it, it was always there, lingering between you both like a half-healed scar.

He didn’t flinch. He just sighed through his nose and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

“She’s fine,” he said quietly. “We write. Not often. She’s... moved on. Got a new life now.”

There was something in his voice that sounded tired. Bone-deep tired. Like someone who’d spent years chasing ghosts and found nothing but shadows.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The words sliced clean through the moment. No venom, no anger, just cold, sharp truth, as if he’d been holding it in all evening, and it had finally slipped free.

You blinked. Heat rose behind your eyes, sudden and fierce, but you blinked it back. Straightened your spine.

“You said that years ago too,” you said, voice low. “Didn’t listen then either.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed, a flash of something almost like guilt crossing his face. Or maybe frustration. Maybe both.

“Maybe you should have,” he muttered, more to the fire than to you.

“I met Ominis,” you countered, not backing down.

The words dropped into the room like a stone into still water, soft, but jarring enough to send visible ripples through Sebastian.

You didn’t miss the way his shoulders stiffened, his spine going taut like a bowstring. He didn’t turn to you, but you saw it, the subtle shift. The way his fingers curled slightly against the fabric of his trousers.

“I didn’t mean to talk to him,” you added, quieter this time. More to yourself than to him.

The crackle of the fireplace seemed louder now in the growing silence. Shadows flickered across the walls, dancing in time with the unspoken things between you.

“I just…” you exhaled, and your voice dropped with the weight of admission, “I was thinking about you. Hoping maybe he knew where you’d gone.”

You didn’t embellish. You never had. Lying had never come naturally to you. Not when the truth, however brutal, always demanded to be seen. You would rather hold something ugly in your hands than pretend it wasn’t there.

“And to be honest, I was pissed.”

That word lingered in the air like the sting of a slap.

Your jaw tightened as you stared down at your own hands, fingers gripping the hem of his oversized shirt now wrapped around you like armor.

“Are you even considering me a friend?” you asked, voice brittle. “Or was I just a fucking bypass to you?”

His gaze cut to you, sharp and laced with something tangled, surprise, regret, maybe even a flicker of shame. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but you didn’t let him.

“You cut me off,” you said, bitter laughter bubbling in your throat like acid. “Like I was just another bloody mistake in your cursed life.”

His eyes locked onto yours. A flare of hurt, denial, something deeper surfacing in them.

“You weren’t a mistake,” he said suddenly, voice rough. Almost broken. His hands reached out, grasping your shoulders, not hard, but enough to anchor you. To make you look at him. “Don’t say that.”

His touch burned through the cotton of the shirt, grounding you and unraveling you at the same time. And in the dim firelight, his face, sharpened with age, eyes shadowed with years of guilt and distance, looked utterly helpless.

Like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

His hand raked through his damp curls, leaving them disheveled, his frustration mounting visibly. It made your heart clench. Made you want to both hold him and scream at him all over again.

“Then why didn’t you write to me?” you demanded. “Why did you turn your back and disappear like I meant nothing to you?”

His silence made the candle flames flicker as if the room itself were holding its breath.

“You know why.”

And when his eyes met yours again, open in a way you hadn’t seen since you were teenagers. The walls he so carefully built around himself cracked in an instant.

“Everything I touched turned dark,” he said, voice low and laced with bitterness. “And I didn’t want you to be part of that. I didn’t want you caught in the wreckage of my choices. You were better off-”

“That wasn’t your decision,” you cut in sharply, voice trembling with suppressed fury. “You don’t get to erase me from your life for my own good.”

Your breath came faster now, heart pounding in your chest. He’d said it like it was mercy. Like walking away was noble. And maybe it was, in the tragic, misguided way Sebastian always believed himself the villain and savior in the same breath.

But he hadn’t given you the choice.

“I just don’t want to lose you too,” he said suddenly. The words tore out of him like they’d been buried deep for years, festering and painful.

-----

Those words still hung in the air, reverberating through the silence like the aftershock of thunder.

And it hurt.

You looked at him, your heart pressing against your ribs with a quiet ache as his brows furrowed deeply, a crease settling between them as if he, too, was trying to hold himself together with nothing but guilt and willpower.

“You did lose me,” you whispered, your voice laced with a pain you didn’t bother to mask.

He flinched, just barely, but it was there. And it said everything.

The words settled between you like falling ash, soft, silent, irreversible.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, so tightly that his knuckles paled, bone white against the glow of firelight. His jaw ticked, his breath shallow. His eyes, once warm and teasing, now bloodshot with a truth that had lived unspoken too long.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice low, rough like gravel. “I miss you. Every damn day.”

“Then stop pushing me away,” you said. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it carried more weight than a shout. “I didn’t come this far just to be cast off like a stray Kneazle scratching at the door.”

He shook his head, the motion brittle, helpless. His voice cracked around the edges when he spoke again.

“You deserved better... than a friend who couldn’t even tell light from dark anymore.”

“You think I cared about that?” You leaned in now, your gaze unwavering, anchoring him where he stood. “You mattered to me, Sebastian. Even when I hated the things you were doing… I never stopped caring."

His breath caught. For the first time in years, he truly looked at you. Like someone reaching out from deep water, unsure if you’d still offer a hand.

“I wanted to protect you,” he murmured. "and I tried..."

Your gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, the firelight seemed to hold still around you both.

“I know,” you said quietly. “But you don’t get to decide what’s best for me by cutting me out of your life.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as if the weight of your presence, your words, was almost too much to bear.

You glanced down, your voice gentler now, but still firm. “Do you know what they call me these days?”

His brow rose slightly, curious despite himself.

“An Arcane Theorist,” you said with a faint smile, pride weaving itself delicately into your words. “It’s the title I’ve earned. I study ancient magic… how it shapes the world. Not exactly the safest work, either.”

You saw the way his mouth tilted up, almost imperceptibly, as if part of him wasn’t surprised at all. You had always chased knowledge with reckless grace, your fingers reaching into places others feared to go.

“You always had the mind for it,” he said softly.

“I also had the right to choose who I keep in my life,” you added, letting the statement settle. “And I chose you.”

A beat passed. He inhaled, as if the truth had winded him.

“I thought about writing,” he said at last. “Dozens of times. I’d pick up a quill…. I swear.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He looked down, his fingers flexing.

“I didn’t think I had the right to.”

You slowly leaned forward. He instinctively backed away but not far. Just a half-shuffle, like the ghost of resistance. But you paused, sensing his hesitation, giving him room to decide.

“You always had the right,” you said gently.

And that… that made him look at you again.

You studied him in turn, his tired eyes, the tension in his jaw, the remorse buried so deep it might never leave him. But under that, still the boy who used to pass you notes in Charms class, teasing you about your over-prepared parchment and your scrawled margin theories.

“I kept your letters,” you said, your voice threading into something fond and distant. “From fifth year. Even the one where you mocked my essay on spellcrafting theory.”

That finally drew something from him, a huff of a laugh, rough and half-stifled. His lips twitched upward.

“That one was a bit dramatic,” he muttered, eyes warming.

You grinned despite yourself, letting the moment breathe.

“Remember that ridiculous bet we made in sixth year?” you asked, stepping closer again. This time, he didn’t move. “Whoever finished the essay first got butterbeer from the loser.”

He nodded slowly, the memory resurfacing between you like an old photograph.

“You lost every single time.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft scoff. “On purpose. Obviously.”

Sebastian let out a low laugh now, the sound like gravel and relief, and something gentler beneath.

“I still bought the drinks,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent.

“You always did,” you murmured. “Even when you won.”

“It wasn’t about the bet.”

He looked at you then, not like a boy who once made mistakes, but a man who carried them. Who had waited years to say what he never could back then.

“I just wanted the excuse,” he said, voice low.

And in that moment, it wasn’t about winning or losing. It wasn’t about letters or titles or missed chances.

It was about two people older, worn, not unbroken but still standing in the same firelit space.

Closer than they had been in years.

“You once told me…” you began, your voice barely above a whisper, “that if things weren’t falling apart… you'd try to be braver with me.”

And in a heartbeat, you were both back there again, under the dappled shade of the great tree by the Black Lake. Both of you bleeding, bruised, breathless, but alive. Laughing on your backs like fools who had just outrun death. The scent of spring clover in the air, the world spinning gently above. He'd looked over at you then, mud on his jaw, dried blood at his temple and said those exact words with a half-smile and eyes that had seen too much.

If things weren’t falling apart…

You stared into his eyes now, the question lingering like a challenge between you.

“Are they still falling apart?”

For a moment, the fire crackled and hissed in the hearth behind you, the silence thick with unspoken truths. You saw it clearly, his pupils trembled faintly, his chest rose with a long, slow breath. Whatever thoughts he was battling with, they were tearing through him like a storm. But there was no hesitation in his gaze now.

Then he straightened, like a man steadying himself before a duel.

“Y/N L/N,” he said, formally, too formally and your brows rose at the sudden shift in tone. “I, Sebastian Sallow… have been many things in my life. Reckless. Foolish. And, undeniably, a coward, especially where your heart was concerned.”

“I must have wounded you more than once, and for that, I will never be proud. But…” He stepped forward now, eyes locked with yours, the muscles in his jaw tense with sincerity. “If I may be so bold as to ask you… properly this time.”

He swallowed, his voice soft but steady. “Would you allow me the honour of courting you?”

That was him. That was exactly the Sebastian you knew, not just the cocky boy who used to sneak chocolate frogs into your books or make dramatic speeches before every duel, but the man standing before you now. Stripped of pretense. And sincere in a way that made your chest ache.

He held your gaze, but something about him shifted. Gone was the easy arrogance, the effortless grin. Instead, there was a nervous tension in him, like he was waiting for the guillotine to fall. As though your silence was heavier than any spell cast in battle.

And you didn’t wait a moment longer.

You threw your arms around him.

He froze, stunned, breath caught then melted into you with a force that nearly stole the ground from under your feet. His arms wound tightly around your waist, anchoring you as though afraid you might vanish. One hand found its way to your hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, while the other pressed firm at the small of your back. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, drawing in a sharp inhale.

And there it was.

That scent you remembered or maybe it had just evolved with him. A clean, fresh aroma clung to his skin, something warm like cedarwood, faint smoke from the hearth, and a crisp note of bergamot from whatever shampoo he must’ve used. You could still feel the subtle heat from the bath he'd taken, that soft warmth of someone who’d just stepped from steam and water, and your body instinctively relaxed deeper into him.

His breath ghosted against your temple as he dipped his face into your hair, his hold tightening imperceptibly as if he needed you closer still. For the first time in years, you felt safe.

You sighed into him, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to this impossible, fragile moment. And for several long heartbeats, you both just stood there, two people who had once been broken, now trying to piece something back together.

Eventually, you leaned back, just enough to look at him. The flames in the fireplace cast a golden glow across his face, highlighting the strong line of his cheek, the gentle curve of his jaw. You raised your hand, and slowly, without speaking, you let your fingers trail along his cheekbone.

His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, lashes long and trembling faintly, as though your hand alone could undo him.

You traced the edge of his face, every movement slow and reverent, over the arch of his brow, the curve of his nose, the slope of his jaw. You hadn’t seen him in so long, and even now, sitting this close, it felt surreal. In your memories, he was still that sharp-tongued boy in a too-big Hogwarts uniform, smirking behind stacks of library books.

And yet… when he opened his eyes again, that spark was still there.

You reach up again, tracing the shape of him slowly, starting at the outer corner of his eye, following the line of his brow, down the bridge of his nose to its tip. Then across the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“Did you get thinner?” you murmur, almost accusingly, your brow furrowing.

A deep, surprised chuckle escapes him, low, warm, and rumbling against your chest where the two of you are still held so close.

“Do I look like I’ve gotten thinner?” he counters, amusement dancing in his voice as his hand brushes your hair back gently, tucking a damp strand behind your ear. His fingertips linger, tender as they stroke your cheek.

You don't answer immediately. You’re not even sure. He looks different but not in any one way you can name. There’s wear in his eyes, a solemnity to his face.

“I don’t know…” you murmur honestly, eyes searching his features. “You just… seem different.”

Your fingers trace along the corner of his mouth, and you feel the way it twitches slightly under your touch. His breath hitches. Then, suddenly, his hand closes gently around your wrist, halting your movement.

“Sorry-” you begin, worried you’ve crossed a line.

“Don’t be,” he breathes.

And before you can respond, he lifts your hand to his lips. The first kiss is featherlight against your palm but it’s followed by another, and another. Down to your knuckles, then the delicate length of your fingers. Your skin shivers under the soft press of his mouth, your breath catching with each lingering kiss.

When his eyes rise again to meet yours, there’s a new heat there. A quiet intensity that pulls the breath from your lungs. His hand cups your face carefully, as if cradling something fragile. And then, without warning, he leans in.

His breath ghosts across your lips before he catches you fully, drawing you into him with a kind of aching desperation. One hand finds your waist and grips it, not rough but firm in possession. His lips meet yours with a hunger that makes your knees tremble.

You gasp softly into his mouth, surprised by the sheer force of it, but he only deepens the kiss, tilting his head, pulling you impossibly closer. There’s no hesitation in him, only urgency, only want and need. You can feel it in the way his fingers tighten at your hip, in the way his mouth consumes yours like he’s afraid he’ll never get another chance.

And for a moment, your heart falters. Because you missed this. You missed him, his intensity, his recklessness when it came to you.

Your hands tangle in his hair, and you kiss him back with a hesitancy that only makes him fiercer. He growls low in his throat, barely more than a sound and angles your face, claiming every response you give like it’s owed to him. Like it belongs to him.

It overwhelms you. The way he pours himself into it. The way he makes it feel like he’s kissing you with years of silence behind it. You cling to his shirt, helpless against the onslaught, breathless as he devours you.

And when he finally pulls back, both of you are gasping. The heat between you crackles like fire on dry wood.

You stare at him. His lips are flushed, glistening slightly from the kiss. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and his eyes, his eyes, they look like storm clouds torn open.

Your fingers, still trembling faintly, move from the nape of his neck down to the collar of his shirt. You trace the edge of the fabric slowly, then reach back up, your thumb brushing gently across his bottom lip. His eyes flutter half shut at your touch, and he almost purrs, like he could melt under you.

“That’s all you have?” you ask softly, a teasing smile ghosting across your lips.

He snorts, a sharp little sound through his nose and you catch the shadow of that old smirk returning.

“Don’t be cocky,” he mutters. “I’m trying to keep my composure here.”

“You don’t have to,” you say plainly.

And those four words crack something open inside him.

His grip on your waist tightens. There’s a subtle shift in him, like something restrained is starting to unravel.

----

Before your mind can even register what’s happening, Sebastian wraps his arms around you, one steady beneath your thighs, the other firm across your back. He lifts you with startling ease, as though the weight of the world could never compare to the weight of you in his arms.

“Sebastian-” you gasp, instinctively clutching his shoulders, heart hammering with the fear you might fall, despite the strength anchoring you to him. But he doesn’t waver, doesn’t stumble at all.

He walks, no, carries you with quiet certainty through the room. You notice then that the soft flicker of candlelight and the warm glow of the fireplace have been gently extinguished. Shadows reclaim the space, and in that muted darkness, it feels as though the world outside no longer exists.

When he finally lowers you onto the bed, the mattress gives beneath your weight, the softness of the bedding cocooning around you. The scent of him clings to the space, warm sandalwood and faint hints of bergamot, the familiar sharpness of aged books, and something freshly clean, likely the remnants of his soap or shampoo. A soft, smoky spice that somehow smells like comfort and ache, all at once.

“Sebas,” you breathe.

He pauses, still leaning over you, his eyes locked on yours. For a heartbeat, everything stands still.

“I don’t want you to regret this,” he murmurs, the words barely audible as he presses a reverent kiss to your forehead. His lips linger, and in that moment, you feel the tremor in him, the vulnerable crack in a boy who’s worn armor far too long.

“I won’t,” you reply without hesitation, your voice steadier than you feel. Your eyes meet his, unwavering.

He breathes out once. Then he leans down, brushing his lips against yours again, soft this time, a question rather than a conquest. But soon, his need spills through the gentleness. He kisses you more deeply, his lips parting yours, tongue sweeping in as if chasing the taste of every unsaid word between you. His fingers thread into your hair, and yours into his, both of you tangled in something far more dangerous than magic.

His hand drifts under the hem of your shirt. The contact is warm, reverent until you tense, catching his wrist. He stills instantly, and looks at you, lips parted, breath brushing against your cheek.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispers, his voice husky and low. His fingers brush against your hand, not pushing, just waiting.

You nod once. Giving him the permit he has waited for so long.

He leans back slightly, long enough to pull his own shirt over his head, baring the lean planes of his torso to the dim light. Scars, faint, old, lace his skin like ghost stories. You almost forget to breathe.

Then, he takes your hand and presses it to his chest. You feel his heartbeat, fast, thunderous beneath your palm. You glance up to find his eyes watching you, full of quiet fire.

“I’m just as nervous,” he confesses, almost inaudibly.

He kisses you again, tender now, slow like molasses, thick with yearning. When your body eases into his, his lips begin to explore the curve of your neck, the line of your jaw, your collarbone. Each kiss trails warmth in its wake, each graze of his teeth makes your breath catch. You’re melting under him, unraveling.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt again and this time, you raise your arms to help him pull it over your head. He takes his time. His lips follow the path of revealed skin, worshipful and aching. A low sigh escapes you as he kisses his way down to your navel, his breath fanning against your stomach, sending shivers across your skin.

“You're trembling,” he murmurs against your skin.

“How could I not,” you whisper, voice unsteady.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, his words a vow against your skin.

He slips his hands to your waist, reverent and steady. Then he glances up, his eyes locking with yours as he slowly lowers his head and presses a kiss to the soft inside of your thigh. You shudder, instinctively covering your face with both hands, overwhelmed by how deeply he’s undoing you without a single word.

His mouth finds its way to you, pressing firm, open-mouthed kisses against the damp heat still veiled beneath the last thin barrier of cloth. You gasp, fingers tightening around the blanket beneath you as his tongue teases the sensitive fabric, warm and insistent, and you shudder at the jolt of sensation it sends spiraling through your spine.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you feel the gentle scrape of his teeth pulling the fabric aside, baring you completely to his breath, his gaze, his hunger. He presses a final kiss against your thigh before his arms tighten, anchoring you down and he dives in.

The first contact is overwhelming.

The heat of his mouth. The deliberate stroke of his tongue. The deep, unrelenting hunger behind every movement.

You cry out, your voice cracking as your fingers fly to his hair, tangling in soft strands while your back arches helplessly. He groans, purrs, into you, as though your response is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He licks, then sucks gently, kissing you with the kind of reverence most people reserve for prayers.

Every motion of his tongue is calculated, practiced, but desperate. A contradiction of control and craving. You try to close your legs, overwhelmed, but his grip holds you firmly open. His strength is unyielding but never rough. It’s as though he knows your limits even before you do.

When his eyes lift to meet yours, dark and feral, something inside you twists. There’s hunger in them, but something else too. Worship. As if you're something sacred.

“Sebas-” You whimper his name, your voice cracked and breathless.

He hums softly in response, the vibration searing through you. And then, slowly, one of his hands slides down, fingers ghosting over your skin before finding their way between your thighs. The pressure is gentle at first, exploratory, but precise. He watches you closely, reading every twitch, every breath, every gasp.

He moves up to you, dragging his lips across your thigh, your stomach, the curve of your ribs, until his face is beside yours once more. You can still feel the wet heat of his breath against your skin, your entire body trembling as he rests his forehead to yours.

“You’re holding back,” he murmurs against your cheek, his voice a husky rumble. “Don’t.”

You look at him, eyes wide and glassy, as he gently presses his lips to your temple.

“Let me hear how good I make you feel,” he whispers, voice like silk wrapping around your nerves. His fingers press deeper, curving so slightly.

Your breath shatters.

You arch again, grabbing onto his shoulders, your lips parting in a soundless moan as he finds a spot that unravels you completely.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and raw, each word laced with heat. “Keep looking at me like that.”

You couldn’t look away even if you tried.

The moment his second finger joined the first, the world seemed to blur at the edges. The rhythm he set was precise, yet patient. A coaxing tide that pulled you deeper into him, into the space where everything else fell away.

Your body trembled beneath him, a mess of sensation and breath, as his mouth found yours again. His kiss was grounding, but no less desperate than his touch, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders, nails grazing his back as your body betrayed how close you were.

“Sebastian, I- I…” Your voice fractured, and your head fell forward against his chest, dizzy from the pleasure twisting tighter in your core.

He held you steady, breath grazing your temple. “Yeah,” he whispered against your skin. “Let go, princess. Let me see what you look like when you fall apart.”

The heat inside you snapped, a surge of electric release rushing through your limbs. Your thighs shook violently as your body surrendered to the waves crashing over you. Sebastian kissed you through it, catching every sound, every quiver, as if tasting the very essence of your unraveling.

He pulled back only slightly, chest heaving as he looked at you, at the way your body trembled, at the flush rising to your cheeks, at the softness in your dazed eyes. His hand lifted slowly, your release glistening across his fingers.

“Breathe,” he said softly, as if drawing you back into your body. “It’s alright. You’re doing so well.”

With delicate care, he brushed your hair from your forehead, his touch a calming balm. You could barely find the strength to reply, chest still rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

A spark flickered behind his dark lashes as he brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue curling around them, tasting what you’d given him. The sight made your breath catch again, your body both exhausted and aching anew.

You swatted his shoulder, half-embarrassed, half-entranced. “Sebas…”

But he caught your wrist effortlessly, his eyes locked onto yours like gravity itself. He pinned your hand gently to the mattress, his body hovering close, and leaned in, his voice turning into a whisper just for you.

“Let me help you,” he said as if he were making an offering. “Let me worship you properly.”

There was a desperation in his voice now, not just lust, but need. As if touching you, being with you, was the only way to stay whole.

His hand reached downward, and he tugged the waistband of his pants down with practiced ease. The air shifted. The moment became still, sharp with anticipation. His body, all taut muscle and trembling restraint, hovered above you. You could feel the heat radiating from him, could see how he ached for you.

His breath hitched as he pressed against your thigh, the slickness of his need smearing across your skin like a secret he couldn't hide. He was trembling too now, and that vulnerability made something inside you clench.

He aligned himself at your entrance, but he didn’t press forward yet. Instead, his length dragged torturously along your slick folds, the teasing friction causing a sharp moan to escape your lips. Your back arched in anticipation, need curling like fire through your core.

“Please,” you whispered, breath hitching. The word was fragile, aching, almost lost between the spaces of his measured rhythm.

Sebastian smirked, just barely, his dark gaze flicking up to meet yours. The kind of look that unraveled you from the inside out. “Please what?”

The head of him dipped against your entrance, just enough to make your body jolt. Not enough to satisfy. He was toying with you, deliberate and controlled, chasing the music you made when you came undone.

“Please just… put it in.” Your voice cracked with yearning as your arms wound around his shoulders, fingers curling like anchors against his warm skin.

Slowly, achingly, he pushed in, inch by inch, as if he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. His brows furrowed, breath catching against your neck as he fought the primal instinct to just lose control. The muscles along his arms trembled, the veins in his biceps straining, every part of him resisting that edge.

He kissed you through it all. Feather-soft kisses along your jaw, your shoulder, your temple. He clung to you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

When he was finally buried deep inside you, a low, guttural sound slipped from his chest. You both exhaled at the same time—one breath, shared between two souls. His hand moved instinctively to your lower belly, pressing down softly as if grounding you to the moment.

“You okay, sweet girl?”

“Y-yes…” The word fell from your lips in a shuddering breath, your eyes fluttering closed.

He chuckled quietly, forehead resting against yours. “You feel like heaven.”

And then, lower, almost to himself, he groaned, “So warm… tight…” The rest of the sentence dissolved in a breathless moan.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, cheeks burning as he continued. His words were reverent, even when they were filthy. And still, he was tender. As if you were something sacred he had waited lifetimes to touch.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Please look at me.”

Even when he said please, it still sounded like a command.

But you did.

You looked into his eyes and saw yourself reflected back. Your body, your need, your love. The wrecked, desperate expression on his face nearly undid you.

“I’m going to move, alright? If it hurts, bite me. Kick me. Do whatever you need.”

You nodded, breath trembling.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then, gently, so gently, he drew back, and pushed in again. A slow, purposeful rhythm that made the world tilt.

It felt strange, at first. Intimate in a way that shook you to your bones. But it wasn’t pain. It was intensity. Every inch of him touched something that made you tremble, fingers digging into his back as you gasped at the sensation.

The room echoed with the sound of your joined breaths, your quiet cries, and the soft, rhythmic connection of your bodies. The wet heat where you were joined made your skin flush with embarrassment, but his praise, oh, his praise, made it impossible to hide.

“There. That’s it. You’re doing so well,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Such a good girl for me.”

The more you relaxed, the more his pace shifted, slowly at first, then gaining rhythm. You watched as his face twisted in bliss when your body clenched around him, unable to hold back the sob of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and in that moment, he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

You didn’t recognize your own voice when you cried out, not until he smirked and said, “There it is… that sweet sound. Sing for me, princess.”

His hips snapped harder, more deliberate, as he chased the angle that made you see stars. The sweat on his brow trickled down the edge of his jaw. Still, his gaze never left you.

When your body jolted beneath him, trying to bury into the blankets, he leaned in and bit your shoulder, not harshly, but just enough to remind you that you were his.

“Uhn-”

“Eyes on me,” he begged, desperate now. “Please, I need to see you.”

You forced yourself to look up, even as your body trembled and twisted beneath him. And what you saw in his eyes, hunger, reverence, love, made your breath catch again.

His pace was relentless now, a stark contrast to the gentle whisper of his hand cradling your head, shielding you from the thudding of the headboard. He held you as if you were breakable, but moved like a man who’d waited far too long to make you his.

“Sebas- ugh- right there!”

“Here?” he growled against your neck, and thrust into that perfect place again. “Right here? This is where you love me most, huh?”

You sobbed a yes against his lips, and his mouth was on you, devouring your sounds, your breath, your very soul.

And that night, he didn’t stop.

Not until you were breathless and sated, not until he had buried every ache, every longing year apart, into the depth of your shared need. Not until you had shown him every version of yourself, delicate, fierce, undone and he had worshipped each one.

You would later joke about it, how tempting Sebastian was dangerous.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

He could be sweet, he could be patient. But when it came to you…

He was a storm dressed in skin.

And you were his favorite place to fall.

-The End-

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x f!mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #I don't think I blinked at all reading this 👏🏻

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