before the origin of love
Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2.7K
Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Blood, Major Hogwarts Legacy Spoilers, Canon Divergence, Ancient Magic Theory
Summary: request [paraphrased]: "You know the part during the game when MC visits Ollivander's alone and Rookwood Apparates her away? Can I request an angsty version of this where Sebastian is with f!MC? Rookwood is angry they killed all his men and casts Imperio on Sebastian to force him to attack her. Even though she’s expecting to die by Sebastian’s hand, he eventually fights the curse off because love is more powerful than dark magic."
a.k.a. y'all thought lily potter was the only one with ancient love magic? think again!!!
“Show your face, Rookwood!” you shout into the darkness. “Come out and fight me!”
“My dear, why should I fight you?” Rookwood laughs from high above you, still unseen. “This is child’s play, after all…”
You feel like time stops as you see a bright green curse rocket through the air toward Sebastian, who is powerless to do anything to stop it. The curse hits him in the chest with such force that he’s knocked backward, his head tipping forward as he lets out a sickening groan. But instead of watching your friend die while you stood by helplessly, you watch in abject horror as he tilts his head up and locks eyes with you – smoky-green, soulless eyes.
The moment you and Sebastian step outside Ollivander’s shop, you realize that the typically bustling streets of Hogsmeade are disquietingly empty. It’s nearly sundown now, and instead of seeing a friendly mix of witches and wizards doing their holiday shopping or stocking up on supplies for the winter months, you find yourselves all alone.
“Take out your wand,” you murmur to Sebastian. “Something’s not right.”
Wordlessly Sebastian draws his wand and takes a step closer to you, warily glancing up and down the empty streets.
Then in the blink of an eye, a well-dressed figure Apparates into view just across the way – Victor Rookwood, you realize, complete with that infuriating hat of his.
“Rookwood,” Sebastian boldly calls out. “So we meet again. Didn’t you get enough of a telling-off last time?”
You silently aim your wand at him, daring him to take one step closer.
“Well, well… looks like your friend Sirona isn’t here to stick up for you little menaces this time,” Rookwood says with a sneer. “I’m afraid you two are on your own. In fact, I’ve ensured that we have a moment to ourselves.”
Sebastian quickly lifts his wand and aims it squarely at the man’s face. “What do you want, Rookwood?”
“Oh, come, come, no need for such theatrics,” the man drawls, slowly creeping closer to you both. “In light of what Ranrok now knows, you must agree that our interests are aligned.”
Sparks crackle at the tip of your wand as you lift it toward Rookwood.
“Our interests will never be aligned,” you murmur.
Rookwood glances significantly at Sebastian before he challenges you.
“My dear, you would let goblins take what is rightfully ours? The final repository belongs to wizardkind. We would be fools not to work together.”
Beside you, you observe the slightest falter in Sebastian’s aim. You should have known that someone like Rookwood would immediately be able to pinpoint and exploit his biggest weakness – his resentment toward goblinkind, his uncompromising belief that only they carry the blame for his sister’s curse.
You imagine him thinking, Could he be right? Are we fools to allow Ranrok’s goblins to continue ransacking Isadora’s Repositories? Could we instead be using them to cure Anne?
But before Sebastian says a word, Rookwood’s eyes land on the long, thin box in your hands.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” he demands.
Quickly, you slip the box safely inside your robes. You shake your head only slightly, but Rookwood easily detects its significance.
Rookwood continues, “Might this sudden visit to the wandmaker have something to do with our… mutual pursuit?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say softly.
Suddenly, you see Rookwood’s countenance shift as his true motives become clear.
“That repository is my birthright!” he shouts, stepping toward you with a hand outstretched.
Instantly Sebastian steps in front of you and points his wand at Rookwood once more. “I know one thing for certain, and that’s that Charles Rookwood wouldn’t have wanted you anywhere near it!”
Rookwood laughs darkly as he takes a step back.
“The arrogance,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on Sebastian’s determined expression. “I should have known better than to try to reason with a Sallow, after all – you’re no better than your sister, you simpering fool.”
In a frighteningly low voice, Sebastian asks, “What would you know about my sister?”
“Nothing, of course,” Rookwood sneers. “I only meant that I’ve always thought that children should be seen and not heard.”
You inhale sharply, absently lowering your wand as you process Rookwood’s words – the very same that Sebastian had told you were the last words Anne had heard before she was hit with her curse.
Sebastian understands the implication a split second before you do, and you can see bolts of green light shooting down the length of his wand before you even understand what he’s doing.
“Avada–”
Before he can finish his spell, you feel a hand on your shoulder and suddenly you’re hurtling through time and space as you’re forcibly Apparated away from Hogsmeade, landing in a crumpled heap in the snowy grass. You’re smack in the middle of a desolate bandit camp somewhere in the Highlands.
Beside you, Sebastian is catching his breath while his hands tremble with rage.
“Where did he go?” Sebastian demands. “Where did the bloody coward go?!”
“Careful, Sallow,” Rookwood’s voice calls out from the darkness. “Wouldn’t want to get yourself into a bind!”
Sebastian suddenly shouts as thick lengths of rope appear out of thin air and wrap themselves around his body, forcing him to his knees.
“Sebastian!” you yell. “Finite!”
Your spell deflects right off the enchanted ropes, and Sebastian grits his teeth.
“I’m okay,” he insists. “It’ll be alright, just – just get him, you can do this.”
Desperate, you find yourself alone while Sebastian struggles against his ropes. You’re keenly aware of the dozen or so fully-grown wizards Apparting into the camp with their wands drawn. You’ll have to take on every single one of them by yourself, you realize, with nothing but your own wand and the ancient magic coursing through your veins to defend yourself.
It feels endless. Simply deflecting their spells takes nearly all of your focus, even if you try to spare some for Sebastian while he struggles uselessly against his bindings. You toss curse after curse at Rookwood’s men and eventually you’re forced to start tossing actual barrels and crates at them as well, until finally you pare down the lot of them to the last executioner with his wand trained squarely at your heart.
“Bomarba!” you holler, and across the field, the burly executioner goes flying into a pile of rubble and melts away into smoke, the last to abandon his mission and surrender.
“Show your face, Rookwood!” you shout into the darkness. “Come out and fight me!”
“My dear, why should I fight you?” Rookwood laughs from high above you, still unseen. “This is child’s play, after all…”
You feel like time stops as you see a bright green curse rocket through the air toward Sebastian, who is powerless to do anything to stop it. The curse hits him in the chest with such force that he’s knocked backward, his head tipping forward as he lets out a sickening groan. But instead of watching your friend die while you stood by helplessly, you watch in abject horror as he tilts his head up and locks eyes with you – smoky-green, soulless eyes.
Imperio.
“So go on, then,” Rockwood demands. “Play!”
The ropes that had bound Sebastian’s arms to his side quickly fall away, and before you can even react he lifts his wand and rounds on you.
“Confringo!” he shouts, and a blaze of fire soars just past your ear.
“Sebastian,” you call out. “Can you hear me? Don’t do this, please!”
You know it’s fruitless. Sebastian himself had taught you that the Imperius curse cannot be fought off, even by the most powerful wizards who have ever been trained to resist its impenetrable influence. Despite his dueling skills and his broad knowledge of the Dark Arts, you have to assume that Sebastian doesn’t stand a chance against Rookwood’s voice in his ear.
“Levioso!” you counter, hoping to merely hold him off long enough to get to Rookwood and force him to free Sebastian.
But to your chagrin, the Sebastian you’ve known and loved since your first days at Hogwarts is indeed one of the most disciplined and talented duelers you’ve ever fought, and even though he doesn’t want to, he’ll surely give you a run for your money.
“Diffindo!” he growls, and the edge of his curse just barely nicks the side of your calf. You cry out in pain and collapse to the ground as you press a hand to the bleeding wound.
“Want me to release your little friend?” Rookwood calls out. “It’s simple, darling. Join me against Ranrok and I’ll let him live!”
You know deep down that you can’t ally yourself with Rookwood. Despite Sebastian’s initial hesitance, you have to imagine that if he were able to understand your position, he’d do the very same thing that you’re about to do.
It wasn’t the goblins after all, it was him, you can hear him say. We can never join him, not after what he did to Anne. There’s only one way out of this.
Merlin, you think. This is it.
Without your ability to wield ancient magic or the wand made of the Pensieve artifacts, Ranrok may never gain access to the final repository, you convince yourself – especially if he splinters from Rookwood. Sebastian can give the wand to Fig after you’re gone, he can hide it somewhere Ranrok will never find it…
It could all work out, you reckon, if you die.
“Never!” you call out to Rookwood. “I’ll never join you!”
“Then you’ve made your choice,” Rookwood’s voice echoes back. “I’ll let the Sallow boy show you what happens to anyone who says no to me.”
Rockwood’s twisted laughter rings out all around you as Sebastian’s opalescent eyes look you up and down. He lifts his wand and aims it at your heart, and you close your eyes with your own wand at your side.
“Avada Kedavra!”
…
…You’re still breathing.
How are you still breathing?
When you open your eyes, Sebastian is standing before you looking entirely drained, his eyelids drooping as he sways from pure exhaustion. However, just before he collapses you catch a glimpse of his eyes – his usual warm brown ones, the same magnificent eyes you’ll never tire of seeing after all this.
“Sebastian!” you shout, running over to support him as he tumbles to the ground. “Wh-what just happened?”
“Did I get him?” he asks in a whisper. “Rookwood?”
Stunned, you cast Lumos and peer across the empty field until you notice a figure lying in the snow far at the other end – Rockwood, you assume. He isn’t moving, and his legs are bent in a sick, absurd way as if he’d fallen from the watchtower that he now lays below.
“Yes,” you breathe. “You did, b-but… Sebastian, how did you–”
“I don’t know,” he sighs. He’s clinging to your arm as you help him to sit up and rest his head between his knees. “I have no idea, I just… I couldn’t do it.”
“He wanted you to kill me,” you surmise.
“I wouldn’t,” he says hollowly. “It… felt like my head was being split open right down the middle, with one half of me forcing my body to move and aim my wand and the other half knowing that I’d rather die than use that curse on you.”
“Oh, Seb,” you whisper.
You’re both quiet for several long moments while Sebastian takes deep breaths, his face still hidden between his knees. You slowly rub his back through his cloak and wait for him to sit up. He looks haunted when he finally does – even more so than he usually looks.
“I hurt you,” he mumbles. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“I know, love,” you say softly, the pet name slipping out so easily that you barely even register at first. “I’m okay, it’s just a cut. Some Wiggenweld will fix me right up when we get back to the castle.”
“Can I?” he asks hesitantly, and you reluctantly let him pull your cloak to the slide so he can see the gash on your calf.
It isn’t deep, and it isn’t even bleeding anymore, but the ripped trouser leg and drying blood stains make Sebastian curse under his breath nonetheless.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers. “Why did I do that?”
“You have no choice,” you remind him desperately. “No witch or wizard has ever fought off the Imperius curse like that before, Sebastian, and you spared me my life. I don’t care about a bloody cut when I should be dead.”
“Never,” he chants mindlessly. “Never, I wouldn’t.”
That’s when a thought occurs to you.
“Sebastian…” you say softly. “It’s possible that there are… other types of ancient magic in addition to mine.”
He frowns. “What are you saying?”
“Maybe there’s something… something primeval, something elemental to our magic that you accessed,” you wonder aloud. “Professor Fig told me that his wife Miriam had spent years studying ancient magic, and it can’t only be that which I have the power to wield. Perhaps you were able to defy Rookwood’s will because you – you connected with a magic that’s more powerful than even an Unforgivable.”
“More powerful than that kind of darkness?” he asks softly. “...That type of magic exists?”
“Of course, it must,” you say simply. “Darkness can’t be more powerful than light, can it?”
He considers your supposition as if it’s the first time the thought has ever occurred to him.
“So… so what, the power of ‘friendship,’ something like that?” he asks, a corner of his mouth quirking up into the first thing resembling a smile that he’s shown since you entered Hogsmeade hours ago.
“Something like that,” you tease him. “Maybe the power of ‘love.’”
You’d meant it entirely in a platonic way, but as soon as the words are out of your mouth, Sebastian goes red and ducks his face.
“That’s – that’s ridiculous,” he mumbles. “I mean, love, that’s… Who said anything about love?”
You’re quiet while you watch Sebastian try and fail to gather his thoughts. He’s flailing, and all of a sudden you realize something clear as day that you can’t quite believe you never recognized before.
“Sebastian,” you murmur. “...Do you suppose you broke through an Imperius curse because you’re in love with me?”
“Wh-what?!” he laughs.
“Because if you did, that would be probably the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, in all the books I’ve ever read,” you continue. “And if that were the case, I would have to tell you that I’m madly in love with you, too.”
Sebastian is stunned into silence.
“You love me?” he eventually whispers.
“I do,” you tell him. “And… and I never really thought about it before, because it doesn’t really feel all that different from being friends with you, except – except I would have let you kill me rather than kill you, even though I know what’s at stake.”
“I still think you should’ve,” Sebastian jokes quietly. “You’re much more important than I am.”
“Regardless, we couldn’t have let Rookwood find out about the last Repository, and I would have taken the Killing Curse to stop him,” you sigh. “I trusted you would have taken the Pensieve wand back to Fig.”
“I would’ve turned my wand on myself first,” Sebastian says plainly. “Without a second thought.”
Merlin, you can’t believe he actually says things like that.
Rather than continuing to dwell on what could have been, you offer him a hand up and support him by the elbow while he shakily makes his way to his feet. He still looks pale and rattled, but he’s able to start to walk toward the exit of the crumbling ruins – still clinging to your hand.
“Come on,” you murmur. “When we get back to the castle you can rest.”
“What about the Repository?” he asks weakly.
“Let me and Fig worry about that,” you murmur. “You’ve already done more than enough for me today, love. You need to recover.”
“M’not even hurt,” he protests, but he sounds utterly depleted.
“Hush,” you whisper. “Just keep holding onto me, alright?”
It’s not easy getting Sebastian back to the castle; he keeps pitching to the side on the back of your broom as he fights to stay conscious, but you manage to keep him from falling off. Despite his protests, you take him straight to Nurse Blainey so he can get some proper rest (and so someone will be forced to keep an eye on him for you).
“Be safe,” he murmurs while you squeeze his hand in his infirmary bed. “Please.”
“I promise, Seb,” you tell him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Just be here waiting for me when I get back.”
“You’ve made sure of that,” he grumbles, but he offers you an encouraging smile before you leave for the Map Room one final time.
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Please tell me more about gender flipped Jamie because that seems like So Many Thoughts that I would love to hear
I have so many thoughts and yet they are so ephemeral and unspecific and this has been languishing in my askbox and this isn't technically what you asked for but here's what I wrote instead:
Chelsea sent Roy into retirement the way you sent an aging dog to be euthanized. Slowly and gradually, an inescapable march towards a day you knew was coming. Roy's agent gently broke the news to him that they wouldn't be renewing his contract, but there was no gently breaking Roy.
The retirement itself was an underwhelming affair; he stayed numb throughout the presser, answered questions, and left the spotlight. No bang--not even a whimper.
That was months ago. Now Roy Kent, former Chelsea star, was daydrinking at a bar in Richmond at half-three in the afternoon, wondering if he could convince the matron of the house to change the fucking channel.
"Rough season our girls have had," the proprietor, Mae, explained in a tone befitting a bartender cleaning a pint. In reality, she'd joined Roy at the bar with her own glass of chardonnay. "Lot of shake ups. New owner, new gaffer. Still, it could be worse. This new coach of theirs might be from the States, but we're sitting higher up on the table than we have in years. Does your lot keep up with the Super League, then?"
It was one in a series of loaded questions. Roy couldn't imagine you could be a bartender in London without knowing who Roy Kent was. Sheer wasted optimism, he'd had, moving out of Chelsea and assuming anything short of leaving the country would get him away from the haunting specter of his own fucking jersey.
"Yeah," Roy answered reluctantly. "Yeah, some of us keep up. All the teams in the Premier have sister teams, don't we?" Except for Richmond. The one outlier--the only team in the league without a big brother to speak of.
"Mm. Then you heard about the scandal?"
Roy grunted. Of course he heard. Everyone knew about Rupert Mannion ages ago; it was about bloody time someone did something. Awful for his ex-wife that it'd fallen to her to do it.
Mae topped off his chardonnay before pouring the remainder of the bottle into her own glass. "This new gaffer though, he's one of the good ones. He hangs around here sometimes, and you can tell just by listening to him--he respects those girls."
Since retiring, Roy had gotten used to living in a fog. He spent time with his niece, met with the yoga mums, let old ladies in bars talk his ears off to their heart's content, but anything he did between those events was a drudgery--a slow painful effort to drag one foot in front of the other, metaphorically and physically.
So he couldn't have said what it was about Mae's offhand praise for the Richmond Whippet's new gaffer that rankled him into talking back.
"Is he any good though?"
"What was that?"
"Their new coach," Roy gestured with his wine glass at the television in the corner. "The American. Is he any good?"
Mae shrugged one shoulder. "He's gotten better."
"So not really then."
The look Mae gave him could've scoured paint from a wall. "Well, talent isn't everything. Is it, Mr. Kent?"
She left under the guise of check on the three men in the corner. Regulars, by the looks of it; and the three of them the only ones aside from Mae wearing supporting colors for the local team.
He hadn't watched a match in ages. Oh, he'd caught highlights--it was impossible not too--but the few times he'd tried, unfairness ballooned in his chest like an atom bomb, and he gave up.
He hadn't bothered to watch anything from the women's league either. What difference would it make to try watching a different league. Sure, he didn't know any of them the way he knew the men in the Premier League, but football was football and envy was envy.
From what little he'd seen so far, he didn't envy Richmond at all. Everton had them on the ropes.
Roy winced as Number 14 knocked one off the crossbar. It'd been a good attempt. A solid cross from Number 9 had put it in the path, but with no one else nearby she'd gone for a risky shot.
From what little he'd paid attention to, only 9 and 14 were making any actual progress on the pitch, with 9 working double time to cut up the field. Every time the ball dropped back down the center, Richmond lost possession. Every. Time.
It was Number 6 that was the problem. McNally, that was it. Red-head, center-mid, captain. Roy knew her by reputation. A tough, seasoned player, who'd gotten her fair collection of caps for England. She had the experience; it didn't make any fucking sense why she'd be the weak link.
Roy looked away. He took a gulp of his chardonnay and relished in the unpleasant way it stung his nose. It'd be masochism to keep watching.
He kept watching.
Within five minutes, he'd cracked it.
Number 6 refused to pass to Number 9.
The gameplay split off like a branching tree. Either 6 got possession, crossed to another player, and they lost it to Everton's deep defensive line; or 9 got it herself and took it up the field, at which point the entire Richmond side narrowed down to the actions of 9 and 14.
What the fuck was going on?
In the aerial cameras showed two Everton players marking Number 9. Number 6 crossed to Number 24, and 24 took it to the net only for a defender to block her out easily.
A close up lingered on Number 24. She couldn't have looked more upset with herself. Young thing. Good talent, bad nerves. Fixable with the right support.
Number 6 got into Number 9's face and shouted. So where's her fucking support?
The camera panned in on 6 and 9 as what looked like a shouting match took place between the teammates. There was McNally, red-haired and red-faced and openly swearing even if the mics couldn't pick it up, and then there was Number 9. A cut of a girl, strong featured and iron-jawed, with her forehead set down like she intended to ram McNally like a bull if the captain came any closer.
What a fucking mess.
The camera panned to the gaffer, who stood with his hands in his pockets and a frown under his mustache. He called neither player off.
The match went back into play and almost immediately Number 9 took a foul. A blatant hit, tackled before she could grab possession again. Everton had singled her out just as clearly as Roy had.
Number 6 stood off to the side while 14 and 24 argued with the ref. The captain watched in open annoyance as Number 9 levered herself off the ground with a wince, her left side stained with grass and a limp.
Some fucking captain.
Number 9 took position for a free kick, and her name finally flashed across the screen in a font large enough for Roy to read. Jamie Tartt. Tartt lined up for the kick, for all the good it would do when she was a good forty meters back--
Tartt walloped the ball cleanly into the net.
A frisson of electricity ran down Roy's spine.
The lads at the end of the bar broke into cheers.
Half of the Richmond Whippets descended on Tartt. The other half shuffled around in discontent.
Number 24--Obisanya--nodded at Tartt, who nodded back. They didn't hug.
Extricating herself from (half) of her teammates, Tartt threw an arm around the only person she'd passed to all night--14, Rojas. Heads pressed together, headband to matching headband, they looked furtive and serious in their two-person huddle.
The camera panned back to the gaffer. He clapped but he didn't celebrate.
The whole thing was bizarre.
No, Mae was right; talent wasn't everything. Because Richmond had talent--what a spectacular fucking goal--and they were a fucking mess, like nothing Roy had ever witnessed before in his career.
If Mae was willing to put up with him, he might have to come back for the next match. Who knew, maybe he'd try swinging by on an off-match day to catch their gaffer and give him a piece of his mind.
Finally, something to look forward to. His sister would be so proud.
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