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Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Seven

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

Words: ~12,400

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

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

Chapter Track: About You, The 1975

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

You, Age 24

You were halfway through an equipment inventory. The sun had just dipped past the ridge, and the makeshift base had settled into that strange twilight lull—too late for serious excavation, too early for sleep. The desert air had cooled into something sharp, wind tugging at the edges of the canopy and making the tent walls ripple like breath.

You were kneeling on the ground, hunched over a steel case stamped with fading runes and two conflicting Ministry tags. Half the shipments on this job had been misrouted twice before they made it to the site. You were trying to make sense of what was salvageable—lift, scan, log, reseal. It was repetitive, steady. It gave your brain something routine to do. Something... predictable.

And these days, you needed that.

The last two years had been fast. You bounced from dig to dig, ruin to ruin, cramming field reports and learning how to charm your tent shut while unconscious. You’d made a name for yourself—capable, clever, relentless—but mostly you just felt tired. And… unrooted.

In the past year alone you'd travelled to seven countries and three conflict zones. You’d helped dismantle a cursed temple buried beneath Albania's capital, argued with two separate Ministries about magical salvage rights, and spent six sleepless nights elbow-deep in a cave system outside Bogotá. You’d held artifacts that could kill with a whisper. Had nightmares about half of them.

It was what you'd signed up for; what you wanted when you ran away at 18 and didn't look back. And yet every time you sat down long enough to breathe, the quiet turned sharp. You told yourself you loved the movement, the chaos, the purpose. You had to. Because what was the alternative?

You sealed another case, labeling it in tidy print. You were reaching for the next crate when your phone buzzed twice, one right after another.

You wiped your hand on your shirt and grabbed it, already hoping it would be a message from Sebastian; you hadn't heard from him in a couple days.

Instead, it was from Ominis.

Sebastian’s mentor passed yesterday. The funeral’s in two days. I thought you’d want to know.

You stared at the screen. The messages were short. typical of Ominis. but it hit like a spell to the sternum.

You didn’t even remember his mentor's name, just the way Sebastian would talk about him when you spoke on the phone. He was an older Auror who’d taken him under his wing; someone tough and principled. The kind of figure Sebastian admired and maybe even needed. If Ominis had sent the message, it meant two things. One: this man had mattered. And two: Sebastian wasn’t okay.

You rose without thinking, brushing sand off your trousers with one hand, phone still clutched in the other. The wind caught at your sleeves as you stepped out from beneath the canopy, crossing the gravel-slicked path toward the supervisor’s tent.

The flap of the main tent was half-tied back, lamplight spilling onto the ground like gold. You ducked inside without knocking.

“Everything alright?” your supervisor, Chandra, asked, glancing up from her desk.

“I need to take a few days,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “Someone I… someone important to a friend just died. The funeral’s in two days. I need to be in London.”

Chandra blinked and studied you for a beat too long, as if she were weighing whether to challenge it, but whatever she saw in your face stopped her.

“Alright,” she said finally. “How long do you need to be away?"

You hesitated. “I’m not sure,” you admitted. “Four days?"

She nodded slowly. "You've got a week. I'll authorize the leave,” she said, already reaching for the parchment stack beside her. “There's a portkey in Saqqara for emergencies. It activates on the hour, next window’s in forty minutes,” she said, flipping a form toward you with a flick. “Take this, you'll need it for clearance when you get to the London intake point.”

You took the parchment, fingers tightening around the edge.

"The travel isn't comfortable," she warned. "Worse than apparition. If you get motion sickness, you should bring something for it."

You nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

You weren’t worried about the travel. You were worried about London. Him.

You left the tent, boots crunching over gravel, and ducked quickly into your quarters—cramped, utilitarian, pitched near the outer edge of the base. Cot, trunk, crate-turned-desk. The air still held the scent of campfire smoke and dragon hide balm.

You stared at the trunk for a moment, like it might magically produce something suitable to pack for a week in London.

It didn’t.

Inside were three identical field shirts, three pairs of trousers, all of them with patches, spare boots, a flask, and the threadbare hoodie you'd stolen two sites ago and never returned.

You stared at it all for a moment, then sighed. Not exactly the image of a well-adjusted adult. You grabbed your satchel anyway, stuffing in the cleanest shirt and the trousers with the smallest hole. Then paused, staring blankly at the bag. You were packing like someone with a plan, like someone who knew where they were headed. But the truth hit harder now that you were halfway packed: you had nowhere to go.

There was no outpost waiting. No flat, no job, no temporary bunk. This was London.

You sat down slowly, the bag at your feet, and rubbed your hands over your face.

Sebastian came to mind almost immediately, but the idea was quickly dispelled; this wasn’t the time to show up at his door. Not with everything so raw, not with grief clawing at the edge of him. You didn’t want to be another thing he had to handle.

No. That wasn’t the move.

You slouched forward, elbows on your knees.

Anne and Ominis.

They wouldn't be put out if you showed up out of nowhere.... right? You told yourself they’d be glad to see you. That showing up unannounced after six years wasn’t a massive breach of etiquette or a complete emotional gamble.

Mind made up, you dropped to your knees and began rifling through your things—old maps, crumpled ration wrappers, a broken compass, a handful of Galleons that probably wouldn’t get you far. Then, at last, at the bottom of a side pocket, your fingers closed around a scrap of parchment, soft and smudged from too many years folded up.

You unfolded it carefully to reveal a street name, a flat number, and Ominis’s name, scrawled smaller in the corner

You stared at it for a moment, then folded it again and slipped it into your pocket.

Maybe Anne could help you go shopping tomorrow.

Shopping.

The concept alone made you want to laugh.

You hadn’t done proper shopping in years. If you needed something, you bartered for it at field posts. Or stole it from a teammate. Or transfigured something else to passably resemble it.

But London… London required things. Fabric. Zippers. Shoes that didn’t have scorch marks across the toes. Clothes that didn’t scream I sleep in a tent.

You pushed the thought aside. You’d figure it out when you got there. You had a wand and a coin pouch and a passable shirt. That would have to be enough.

You slung the satchel over your shoulder and stood up too fast, head swimming for a moment as the reality of it settled in. You were really going. After all this time. After everything. You were going to walk into a room full of people who used to know you, who still knew him, and pretend you hadn’t vanished off the face of the earth.

You stepped out and started walking toward the portkey. The desert stretched wide behind you, moonlight pooling in the dunes. When you arrived, you found an old, scorched kettle tucked in a shallow alcove carved into the side of a broken obelisk. You touched it just as the minute turned over.

The tug came immediately.

You hated portkeys. There was no grace to them. They were violent. Like being yanked by the ribs through a funnel of static and wind. You clenched your jaw, fingers locked tight around the rusted handle, as the world ripped itself inside out.

And then you hit the ground hard enough to jar your knees.

Gone was the dry heat of the dig site, the scent of scorched stone and sun-warmed tents. In its place were marble floors, faint perfume, Ministry polish, the air cold enough to sting your cheeks.

London.

You straightened slowly, brushing dust from your coat and adjusting the satchel strap across your chest. Your boots echoed slightly as you crossed to the welcome kiosk.

You handed over your travel parchment, keeping your head down.

The clerk scanned it, barely looking up. “Visiting or official business?”

“Personal,” you said.

“Duration?”

“Seven days... maybe less.”

The clerk stamped your parchment and handed it back without a word.

You tucked it into your coat pocket and made your way toward the main atrium, heart climbing somewhere between your throat and your ears.

It didn’t hit for real until you stepped through the threshold, when the old arches opened up into the vast expanse of the Ministry’s central hall. You stopped short.

It was just like you remembered.

The soaring columns. The polished marble. The enchanted ceiling, locked in a twilight sky that never changed. Footsteps echoed across the stone in every direction, muffled voices layering into a low, constant hum. But what hit hardest wasn’t the familiarity, it was the sudden, jarring awareness that this was Sebastian’s world.

He walked these halls every day. Passed these same pillars, stood in these lifts, breathed this same sterile air. While you were sweating in tents and brushing sand from your eyes, he was here. Existing here.

You turned slowly in place, trying to see it the way he must. Where he might sit for briefings. What desk he might lean against when he was too tired to stand. Whether he ever looked up at the ceiling anymore, or if he’d stopped noticing.

You glanced at the time on your phone. Did the math. If his shift ended at the usual hour, he’d have left maybe… twenty minutes ago. Maybe less. He could still be in the building. Maybe in a lift right now. Maybe just a floor below.

The thought turned your stomach. You turned on your heel and left before the thought could root too deep. Out through the arches. Past the last security check. Boots hitting marble, then stone, then pavement.

And then the city proper opened up around you.

Sunset spilled across the buildings, painting the edges of windows and lampposts. The sky had turned soft, the kind of dusky lavender that made everything feel cinematic.

And then it hit you—viscerally, horribly—how out of place you looked.

Around you, people strode by in tailored coats and crisp collars, eyes sharp, steps quicker than yours. Hair done. Shoes clean. Phones pressed to ears or tucked in sleek pockets. City people. Polished. Present.

You looked like you'd just crawled out of a cave.

Heat crawled up your neck as you stepped down onto the sidewalk. You kept your head low, walking quickly until the Ministry entrance was behind you.

You caught sight of a Muggle cab pulling up to the corner, and without thinking, you raised your hand.

The cab swerved slightly, then stopped with a low squeal. You reached for the door handle, heart pounding like you were about to steal something.

The driver peered at you through the rearview mirror as you slid in.

"Where to, love?"

You read the address off the parchment in your pocket. The name of the street felt strange on your tongue—so normal—and yet it carried so much weight.

The driver nodded, merging into traffic. You leaned your head against the window, watching the city pass in streaks of amber and shadow.

Anne and Ominis lived on a quiet, tree-lined street. A row of tidy brick townhomes stood in a neat line, ivy crawling up the corners, windows glowing softly with warm lamplight.

You stepped out slowly, satchel slung over one shoulder, and handed the driver a few crumpled notes without really checking the amount.

The door shut behind you with a thud, and the cab pulled away, leaving you alone with the quiet buzz of the streetlamp overhead.

You stared at the townhouse for a moment. It was exactly the kind of place you would’ve expected for them. Homey. A little too symmetrical. The curtains drawn in the front windows, one of them slightly askew. A plant on the windowsill.

You stepped closer. The front stoop was small, with two steps and a chipped flowerpot beside the railing. You reached up, hand hovering just over the brass knocker, heart thudding in your throat.

Six years.

Six years without seeing their faces. Without late-night firewhiskey or inside jokes or curling up together on the couch.

You swallowed hard and knocked twice.

A pause.

Then movement. Footsteps. A muffled voice.

The door opened.

Anne stood in the entryway, barefoot and in an oversized jumper, her eyes widening the second she saw you.

You didn’t even get a word out before she launched forward and wrapped her arms around you so tightly you nearly dropped your satchel.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying. “You're home!"

She smelled like lavender and something warm, like cinnamon tea steeped too long. Familiar in a way that knocked the air out of you.

You held her back just as tightly, your fingers curling in the fabric of her jumper. Her shoulders shook with quiet laughter, and yours did too, though yours was closer to relief. Maybe disbelief.

Behind her, you heard movement. A chair scraping. Then—

“Anne?” came a familiar voice. “Who's at the—?”

Ominis stepped into view, sleeves rolled to the elbows. You'd seen him in photos of course, but seeing him in person after all this time was something else entirely.

He looked taller than you remembered. Or maybe he’d just grown into his height. He was lean, but not slight—elegant in that unshakable, deliberate way he’d always carried himself. His features had sharpened with age: jaw more defined, cheekbones more pronounced beneath his pale skin, his blonde hair still swept back.

He stopped short in the hallway, his wand still loose in one hand.

“Ominis,” you breathed.

You could see the moment recognition hit. It was in the set of his mouth, the breath he took like it punched straight through him. And he didn’t speak right away, just stood still as a statue, as if his body hadn’t caught up to the moment yet.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

You expected a handshake, maybe a hand to your shoulder. Ominis had never been the hugging type. When you were younger, it had taken months of friendship before he’d stopped flinching when you touched him unexpectedly. But tonight, without hesitation, his arms wrapped around you in one smooth motion, deliberate and firm. You froze, stunned, then melted into it.

"I can't believe it's really you," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a breath against your hair.

The three of you just stood on the stoop, Ominis’s arms secure around you, Anne clinging to your side, and for a moment, time folded in on itself and you felt like were eighteen again.

“I—” Anne tried to speak, but her voice cracked. Instead, she grabbed your hand and pulled you forward, guiding you past the coat rack and into the living room.

The townhouse smelled like chamomile and something sweet baking—maybe cinnamon scones—and the moment the door shut behind you, a kind of softness settled into your bones. Like your body remembered what it was to be cared for.

Anne pressed a warm mug into your hands and all but shoved you toward the bathroom. “Go,” she said, gently but firmly. “You smell like… old boots and smoke.”

“You always knew how to flatter me,” you joked weakly.

The laugh she let out was breathless and wet.

The bathroom light was low and warm, the towels folded perfectly on a stool by the sink. The steam from the shower built quickly, fogging the mirror, wrapping you in a heat you hadn’t felt in months. You stood under the spray longer than necessary, head tipped back, arms hanging loose at your sides. The lavender soap made your skin feel human again.

You’d forgotten what being truly clean felt like.

When you emerged, empty mug in hand, hair damp and skin pink from heat, Anne handed you a pile of borrowed clothes—one of her sweatshirts, impossibly soft, and leggings that didn’t quite fit but felt better than anything you owned.

You looked ridiculous. You felt amazing.

The couch was just as miraculous. You collapsed into it and nearly sighed aloud. It was plush in all the right places. Your back gave a little pop, and you could have cried from how good it felt.

Ominis brought you a steaming bowl of stew, passing it carefully into your hands like it was something sacred. It was. You didn’t realize how ravenous you were until the first bite. Carrot and ginger. Soft potatoes. Crusty bread on the side. You moaned around the spoon.

Anne laughed and clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop eating. “I haven’t had a vegetable in three weeks,” you mumbled around another mouthful.

“I’m sending the Ministry a formal complaint,” Ominis muttered. “Endangerment via vitamin deficiency.”

That made you laugh so hard you nearly choked.

The conversation flowed after that, warm and easy. You told them about the dig sites, the long nights, the near-misses, the ancient magic that still hummed in strange corners of the world. Anne cried when you admitted how lonely it had gotten sometimes. Ominis looked away when you told him about the nights you spent in Bogotá, your fingers shaking just slightly around the mug.

And they filled you in too. About Anne’s work with underserved communities, about Ominis’s occasional skirmishes with Ministry policy. You heard about Garreth’s ongoing feud with the Department of Magical Brews. About Amit Thakkar's wedding. About the time Anne nearly hexed a councilor at a town hall meeting for calling Ominis “fragile.”

You laughed until your stomach ached. You cried when they did. You sat on that couch like no time had passed at all.

The next morning was much the same.

It passed in a blur of warmth and kindness. Anne insisted you sleep in; Ominis made tea and honey-butter toast without asking. By noon, they’d whisked you out of the house, staging what Anne dramatically called an intervention, dragging you into a boutique with mirrors, soft lighting, and clothes that didn’t smell like smoke and old parchment.

You left with a handful of essentials—warm sweaters, trousers that actually fit, and socks without holes—and a simple black dress for the funeral.

They took you to a cozy café afterward, fed you real food, teased you until you laughed, and refused to let you pay. Back home, Anne did your hair while Ominis read nearby, the quiet comfort of it all making your chest ache. When she finished, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror, and not in a bad way. You looked like someone you used to be. Someone you might want to be again.

That night, you curled up on the couch between them, fingers brushing theirs, the silence between you easy and safe.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

Anne smirked. “Obviously. We’re delightful.”

But later, the mood shifted, gentle and probing.

“Will you tell him you're home?” Anne asked. "You know, before tomorrow?"

You didn’t need to ask who she meant.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Was thinking I'd just show up to the funeral and... hope for the best.”

They didn’t push. Ominis only said, “He’ll be happy. You’re home. That’s what matters.”

The following morning, the sky outside was a dull grey and the street was quiet in that reverent way the world sometimes gets before something difficult.

Anne had gently shaken you awake at dawn, pressed a warm mug of tea into your hands, and told you it was time.

The dress they’d helped you choose hung from the back of the door, waiting.

You clothed slowly. The fabric was soft, the sleeves grazing your wrists, the cut elegant and understated. The neckline dipped just enough to make you pause—tasteful, appropriate for a funeral, but still more revealing than the oversized shirts and loose layers you’d grown used to hiding under.

You tugged it gently into place, smoothing it over your hips, and turned sideways in the mirror. The reflection staring back at you wasn’t the girl who had left all those years ago. You were softer in most places. Sharper in others.

Undeniably changed.

You wondered how long it would take Sebastian to see it, or if he’d recognize you at all.

You let Anne do your hair again, her hands gentle as she pinned it up. She even dabbed a little makeup across your cheeks and under your eyes, just enough to smooth out the lingering sleeplessness, to make you feel… finished.

“I look like a real person,” you muttered.

Anne snorted. “You are a real person.”

When you stepped into the sitting room, Ominis was already dressed. He wore a dark suit, perfectly tailored, wand tucked into the inside pocket of his coat. His pale hair had been combed neatly back, his expression unreadable but composed.

Anne joined him a few minutes later in a fitted black dress and boots polished to a mirror sheen. Her makeup was subtle but perfect. They looked like grownups. Like people who hadn’t disappeared off the grid for six years.

“You both look…” You trailed off, unable to quite find the word.

Anne offered a quiet smile. “So do you.”

Ominis tilted his head. “You ready?”

You weren’t. Not even close. But you nodded anyway.

The ride to the chapel was quiet.

London passed by in grey streaks beyond the cab windows—wet pavement, bundled coats, the blur of umbrellas crowding the sidewalks. You sat sandwiched between Anne and Ominis in the backseat, hands folded tightly in your lap, knuckles pale. Neither of them spoke. There wasn’t anything left to say.

Your thoughts flickered like static. You tried to steady your breathing, tried not to imagine what Sebastian's face might look like when he saw you. If he saw you. You weren’t even sure he’d glance your way.

The cab slowed as it turned down a narrower street, and your chest tightened when you saw the stone building rising in the distance. Modest. Regal. Dark trim against pale walls. There were mourners gathered near the entrance. Dark coats. Umbrellas. Hushed voices.

Your throat closed.

Ominis was the first to move when the cab rolled to a stop. He paid the fare and stepped out with ease, offering a steadying hand to both you and Anne as you followed. You adjusted the hem of your dress, heels clicking softly against the curb.

The cold hit immediately—crisp and biting, enough to make your eyes sting. Or maybe that was nerves.

Anne slipped her arm through yours, giving it a squeeze.

Together, the three of you climbed the steps. Each footfall sounded louder than the last, until the heavy chapel doors loomed in front of you, cracked open just enough to let in the cold.

You stepped inside, heart pounding.

It was dimly lit. Quiet. Rows of dark pews lined the walkway, and the air carried the hush of reverence and memory.

There were faces, too. Familiar ones.

Poppy stood near the aisle, dark curls styled in an elegant twist, head bowed as she murmured something to Natty, who stood beside her with arms crossed and jaw tight, like she was holding herself together through sheer force. Imelda was there too, dressed in black pants and a fitted blazer, her posture stiff and unreadable, though you noticed the way she reached out to Leander to steady herself.

Garreth was further down, red hair tamed for once, tie crooked, eyes distant. His hands were stuffed deep into his coat pockets, and he looked like he hadn't slept.

Older. All of them. Shaped by years you hadn’t seen. But still them.

The sight hit you like a blow to the chest and you nearly cried right there in the aisle.

Instead, you kept your head down, eyes glistening, and let Anne guide you wordlessly to a pew halfway back. She sat on your right. Ominis on your left. A quiet shield,

And still, you didn’t look for him. You couldn’t. Not until you’d caught your breath. Not until you’d steadied your hands.

But then a voice—low, familiar, unmistakable—cut through the murmur of the room. Quiet. Measured. Speaking to someone near the front.

You looked up and the world stopped.

Sebastian stood just off to the side of the altar, deep in conversation with an older man in ceremonial robes. His profile was half-turned, but you would have known him anywhere. It didn’t matter that it had been six years. It didn’t matter that you’d only seen him in photographs or in the lines of your own dreams. Seeing him in the flesh made your heart stutter like it had been punched through the ribs.

He wore a black suit, slightly rumpled at the collar like he’d tugged at it too many times this morning. But it didn’t matter. Nothing about him had ever needed polish to be devastating.

The jacket fit snug across his shoulders—broader than you remembered. He was no longer the wiry, sharp-edged boy you left behind. He was heavier now. Not soft, but substantial. His frame filled out in a way that only made sense on him, like his body had finally caught up to the fire that had always burned inside it. And maybe he was a touch taller too. Or maybe it just felt that way because everything else about him had grown too. His voice, a fraction deeper. His shoulders, squared. Even the way he stood: back straight, feet planted.

His dark hair was longer now, curling slightly at the nape, the way it always did when he didn’t bother to cut it for a while. A few strands had come loose near his temple, and for some reason that tiny, imperfect detail made your throat close.

He was tired. You could see it in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders curled in slightly, like rest had been a luxury lately. Maybe longer than lately. But even exhausted, even dressed in mourning, he was still him.

Still Sebastian. Still impossibly, heartbreakingly handsome.

And now he was a man. A man who had no idea you were here.

You didn’t hear a single word of the service.

The officiant spoke—soft, reverent words echoing gently through the chapel—but they never reached you. They passed through your ears without landing. Meaningless syllables against the rush of blood in your head.

Because all you could see, all you could feel, was him.

You traced the slope of his shoulders through the fabric of his coat. Noted the way his neck bent, just slightly, when he tilted his head toward the speaker. A curl had come loose again and fallen over the back of his ear. You remembered, with a pang so sharp it hurt, how he used to complain about it when he was studying. How you’d push it back behind his ear without even thinking.

You didn’t even realize the service was over until Anne gently tugged at your sleeve, her fingers warm and grounding.

“Come on,” she murmured. “It’s time.”

You blinked, disoriented, and rose to your feet with the others. The wooden pew creaked beneath you. The sound of shuffling coats, whispered condolences, and soft footsteps filled the space.

Outside, the chill was sharper than before, wind curling around your ankles as you stepped onto the stone path.

You hadn’t taken more than three steps from the chapel doors before you heard a soft gasp.

“Wait—”

You turned.

Poppy was staring at you, wide-eyed, a hand covering her mouth. Natty stood beside her, brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief. Garreth, in conversation with Leander, froze mid-sentence.

“You’re here?” Natty’s voice cracked.

Poppy surged forward and threw her arms around you so fast it knocked the wind out of you.

“Merlin, it’s really you,” she whispered.

Natty wrapped her arms around both of you a second later, and the three of you stood there like that in the cold, clinging to one another like time hadn’t passed at all.

Imelda approached next, quieter, but her eyes were wet. She touched your arm, firm and brief, but meaningful. Leander looked stunned. Garreth didn’t even try to hold back his grin as he yanked you into a hug.

It was overwhelming. Emotional. Beautiful.

Everyone had questions. Everyone was talking at once.

Imelda was grilling you about your travels. Garreth kept trying to make jokes, clearly to stop himself from crying again. Poppy was asking about some dig she’d read about in The Prophet—“Was that you? The Cursebreaker in Tunisia who—” while Natty shook her head and muttered, “You’re not allowed to disappear again. I’m not letting it happen.”

Anne and Ominis hovered nearby, smiling as they watched the reunion.

“Honestly,” Imelda said, nudging Anne with a smirk, “How long were you planning to hoard her before you told the rest of us?”

“Yeah,” Garreth added, voice mock-wounded. “You two get a whole day of quality time and we get, what—surprised at a funeral?!"

Anne shrugged, unrepentant. “She needed a soft landing.”

“She needed real food,” Ominis said dryly. “And trousers.”

You grinned. The cold was biting at your cheeks now, but you barely felt it through the hum in your chest. Warmth. Laughter. Familiar voices. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed being known.

But then Poppy’s voice cut off mid-sentence. Her eyes widened, focus shifting just past your shoulder. Natty, beside her, went still. The entire group stiffened like a flock of birds sensing a change in the wind.

You didn't need to ask why. You already knew. And slowly, heart in your throat, you pivoted.

And there he was.

Sebastian stood halfway down the chapel steps. His coat was open, dark curls mussed from the wind. He looked like he hadn’t meant to stop, but that he’d just caught sight of something impossible and forgotten how to breathe.

His eyes were locked on you, and the second yours met his, shock—sharp and immediate—flashed across his face. Then confusion. Then a sort of hesitant, disbelieving joy that made your stomach turn.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You couldn't move. You didn’t even notice when the others stepped away to give you space.

You thought, somewhere in the back of your mind, that you should say something. His name, maybe. A joke about funerals not being the best setting for reunions. A quiet I’m here. But your voice wouldn’t come.

He took another step. Then another. And then he was moving in earnest, crossing the distance between you with long, purposeful strides, and the whole world fell away.

You didn’t think about how you looked. Not about the dress that hugged in places you wished it didn’t, or the six years that had settled across your body in ways you hadn’t quite made peace with. None of it mattered now because he didn’t slow down. Didn’t hesitate. You barely had time to breathe before his arms wrapped around you and pulled you in hard, crushing, real.

You stumbled into him with a soft sound, and his arms tightened further. One hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair like he couldn’t stand not touching you everywhere at once. The other arm wound firmly around your waist, holding you to him like the very idea of letting go was unbearable.

Your hands came up slowly, shakily, and clutched at the lapels of his coat. And then you broke, just a little, a quiet sob tearing loose against his shoulder as you buried your face in the space between his neck and collar.

He was real. He was real and he was holding you.

You felt him press a kiss, gentle and desperate, to the side of your head. Once. Twice. A third time, as though each one could make up for the years he hadn’t.

“You’re here,” he breathed. His voice cracked. “Fuck, you’re here.”

You nodded into his coat, fingers gripping tighter. You didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care about the crowd watching, the dozens of curious glances, the murmurs rippling across the chapel steps, because you could feel the racing of his heart beating against your own. Rapid and uneven. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to collapse or soar.

“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “It’s really you.”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face. His eyes were shining, his brow drawn tight, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. A tear slipped down your cheek, and without hesitation, he brushed it away with his thumb.

"It's really you," You whispered back, your voice barely holding together, hands still fisting into his coat like maybe that would make this all permanent.

Something in his expression crumbled, and then he was pulling you in again.

"I missed you so fucking much." His voice was shaking, and you could feel the tremble in his chest, the damp warmth of his tears soaking into your hair where his face was buried.

"I missed you too," you hiccupped, your voice cracking wide open. “So much, Sebastian. You have no idea.”

He pulled back just a touch to look down at you, brown eyes searching your face with a kind of desperate reverence.

“How long…” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again, a rasp in his throat. “How long are you staying?”

Then he shook is head before you could speak,

“No,” he murmured, hoarse and raw. “Actually, I don’t care. Doesn’t matter where. Doesn’t matter how long. If you’re here, then you’re with me.”

His words landed like a blow and a balm all at once, soft and staggering, leaving you reeling in the space between heartbreak and hope.

"You'll still have me?" You mumbled, thinking for a moment you might be hallucinating this entire exchange, like any second you'd wake up in your cot with sand in your socks.

His hands cradled your face before you could blink, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks. “Are you kidding?” he said, almost breathless. “There’s never been a moment I didn’t want you.”

You didn’t mean to sob.

It broke out of you before you could stop it, loud and raw and shaking your entire frame like it had been buried under six years of silence. And then you were moving, throwing yourself back into him, arms locked tight around his shoulders, face buried against his neck as your knees gave out from under you.

“Hey—hey, shh,” he murmured, voice thick, lips pressed to your temple as he held you like you were something fragile and precious all at once. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—fuck, I’ve missed you.”

You were both crying now, openly, shamelessly. His chest heaved with it, his breath catching in the same uneven rhythm as yours. His hands slid down to your waist then under your thighs and suddenly you were off the ground.

You let out a startled gasp as your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, but you didn’t protest. Not when his grip was so sure, so solid. He was carrying you. Through everything. Just like always.

Your legs curled instinctively around his waist and he turned around, starting toward the street without a word, like the rest of the world had ceased to exist the moment you fell into his arms.

Gasps and murmurs rippled behind you, but none of it touched you. None of it mattered. Not the stares or the whispers or any of it because his heartbeat was right there under your own, thundering just as loud, and he still smelled like him, warm and familiar like bergamot and old books and cedar—something that lingered. Something that had always meant home.

A cab was already pulling up by the time you glanced over his shoulder, the driver’s eyes wide, watching the scene unfold.

Sebastian didn’t care. He yanked the door open with one hand and ducked inside with you still in his arms.

You barely noticed the blur of the city sliding past the windows. You didn’t hear where he told the driver to go. You didn’t think about the fact that you had nothing with you. That all of your stuff was still at Anne and Ominis's.

You were in his lap, wrapped in his arms, his face tucked into your neck like he still couldn’t believe you were real. His hands ran over your back, your arms, your hair—greedy and gentle, desperate and reverent all at once.

And you let him.

Let yourself lean into the heat of him. Let your fingers trace the back of his neck where his curls brushed the collar of his coat. Let your eyes close against the swell of emotion rising in your chest, too big to hold.

His flat was just like you imagined.

Familiar in that strange, aching way that made your chest feel too tight, like stepping into a dream. The moment he unlocked the door and nudged it open with his foot, still carrying you like something too precious to set down, you were hit with the warmth of it. The smell of cedar and clove and the faint trace of laundry detergent. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting long shadows on the hardwood floor. There was a coat tossed over the arm of the couch, a half-finished book splayed on the coffee table, the scarf you'd made him hung by the door.

You recognized things from the photos and videos he’d sent over the years—cropped shots, glimpses of a life you’d always been just outside of. The battered kettle on the stove. The lopsided herb planter by the window. The old, faded armchair you once joked looked like it had survived the war.

He set you down gently in the kitchen, arms lingering around your waist. You stayed pressed to his chest, arms still looped around his middle, forehead resting against his collarbone while he leaned his cheek against your hair.

Neither of you said a word. There was nothing to say. Not yet. Not when everything still felt too raw, too fragile, too much.

He reached for the kettle with one hand, the other still splayed warm across your lower back. The sound of water rushing filled the quiet, broken only by hiccuped breaths and the occasional sniffle.

When the kettle began to hum, he stepped away just enough to fill two mugs, and you could see the tremble in his fingers.

He handed a cup of tea to you wordlessly, and then, with that same gentle pull, he guided you down the hallway.

You passed framed photos on the wall—some you recognized, some you didn’t. A younger Anne. A blurry one of Ominis with a pint in his hand. One of all of them together at some pub, Sebastian’s mouth open mid-laugh. You didn’t know when it had been taken, but you knew you hadn’t been there. The ache of it caught in your chest like a bruise being pressed.

He opened the door to his bedroom and flipped on the light.

It was exactly what you expected. Clean in the way only someone constantly overwhelmed by life keeps things clean. A hoodie was draped over the back of a chair. His half finished crossword sat on the nightstand beside a nearly empty glass of water.

Sebastian crossed the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants—well-worn, soft, too big.

He held them out to you with both hands and you reached out slowly, fingers brushing his again.

“I’ll give you a minute,” he said softly.

"No," the word left you immediately, "No don't go just... just turn around."

His eyes softened. He nodded. Then he turned around, spine straight, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

You changed quietly behind him, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your dress, movements jerky with leftover adrenaline and the lingering weight of everything unsaid. You didn’t bother folding the fabric when it pooled at your feet—just stepped out of it and into the hoodie he’d handed you. It smelled like him. The sweatpants sagged at the crotch and clung to your hips, but they were warm and they were his.

“Okay,” you whispered, voice small. “You can look now.”

Sebastian turned slowly.

His gaze swept over you, and he looked at you like you were holy. Like seeing you wrapped in his clothes and standing in his room was the most impossible, beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.

You clutched the hem of the hoodie, twisting it between your fingers. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to name the feeling rising in your chest. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief. Or just the pure, unfiltered ache of being seen by someone who still knew every version of you and wanted this one, too.

Sebastian stepped forward and reached for your hand.

“Come on,” he said gently.

You let him lead you back down the hall, the warmth of his palm grounding you with every step. The tea mugs had been abandoned somewhere in the haze.

He dropped onto the couch and pulled you down into him. You folded into his lap without protest, arms slipping around his neck. He shifted, adjusting you until you were tucked perfectly into the curve of his chest, your legs folded beneath you, your head resting just under his chin.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for six years.

Neither of you spoke.

You just sat there. Held each other. Breathed together. The tension still hummed beneath your skin, the high of everything—grief, shock, love—slowly bleeding out into something softer.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. The world outside the windows could’ve fallen away, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

You just knew that your heart was finally quiet.

Eventually, when your tears had dried and your breathing evened out and your hands had stopped trembling against the fabric of his shirt, you leaned back just enough to see his face. See that the freckles you knew so well were still there—scattered like constellations across his nose and cheekbones, a map you'd memorized long ago. But there were new ones now, tucked into the edges of his skin where time had pressed its thumbprint. The crease between his brows had deepened, etched more permanently into his face like a scar from too many sleepless nights. His eyes—still that same warm, bottomless brown—looked older too. Not duller. Just... fuller. Like they’d seen more than he ever meant them to.

Your fingers found their way to his face before you could stop them. You traced the bridge of his nose, the line of his cheek, the sharp edge of his jaw that hadn’t quite been there before you left.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“...Six years is a long time.”

He leaned into your touch like he’d been starved for it.

“Too long,” he murmured. “I don’t know how I did it.”

You nodded faintly. “I don’t know how I didn’t come back sooner,” you whispered. “I thought about it. A hundred times. A thousand.”

He smiled, bittersweet. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, shaky and soft. “Yeah."

Sebastian let out a breath—part relief, part disbelief—and his hand slid up your back. “Though I’ve got to admit,” he said, his voice lighter now, “you picked one hell of a setting for our grand reunion.”

You huffed. “What, the emotional gut punch of a funeral didn’t feel appropriate?”

“I was half-convinced I’d hallucinated you,” he said. “Like, grief does weird things to people. I saw you and thought, ‘No way. That’s not her'. But then... but then you looked at me. And I knew."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening where they rested against his chest. “I was panicking the entire time," you admitted. "I honestly didn't hear a single word anyone said during the service."

His mouth quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close. “When did you arrive? Did you tell anyone you were coming or was the grand entrance a surprise for everyone?"

You sniffled and gave a sheepish shake of your head. “I showed up on Anne and Ominis's doorstep the other night and I think I gave them both a heart attack.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh. "So all three of you were keeping secrets from me, hm?"

You gave him a half-hearted shrug, trying for innocent and failing completely. “I wanted to at least go shopping before I saw you again. Have a real shower. Trust me, you should be thankful you didn't see me when I first arrived."

Sebastian scoffed gently. “You could’ve shown up covered in soot and dragon guts, and I still would’ve been the happiest bastard in London. Speaking of," He said, brow furrowing. "How did you get here? Weren’t you stationed somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere?”

You nodded your head, nestling a little closer. “Portkey. One of those emergency ones they stash away for field medics or diplomatic extractions.”

His brows lifted. “You had one of those lying around?”

You snorted. “Of course not. I had to get it authorized.”

Sebastian blinked. “That usually takes days.”

You gave him a slow, smug look. “Not when you have six years’ worth of unused personal time and a reputation for never asking for anything.”

Sebastian blinked. “You mean to tell me you cashed in your entire career’s worth of goodwill in one night?”

“An hour,” you corrected, lifting your shoulders in a casual shrug. “Ominis texted. I walked out of a tent, walked into another, asked for the time off, and I was in London just about an hour later.”

He blinked again, slower this time. “You dropped everything.”

You nodded, smile fading into something softer. “Of course I did. It was you.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes searched yours like he needed to feel the truth of it in the air between you, not just hear it. And when he found it written in every line of your face, every soft syllable still lingering, his expression crumbled.

"Thank you," he murmured. “I don’t deserve that."

You shook your head before he could spiral further. “Don’t say that. You don’t get to decide what you deserve from me.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, his eyes glinting wet again. "You're always too bloody nice to me."

“And you,” you said, voice steady, “have always mattered more than you think.”

Sebastian let out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around your waist. “You keep saying things like that and I’m going to start crying again,” he warned, half-laughing, half-choked.

You leaned back just far enough to meet his eyes, a crooked smile tugging at your lips. “Then maybe stop being so soft.”

He made an indignant sound. “Oi, I don’t cry that easily. It's just that you appeared after six years like some kind of fever dream."

You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and he grinned at the sight of it, even as he narrowed his eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t pass out," he said. "Or faint into the hedges."

You snorted. “Imagine: our big moment, ruined because you faceplanted into a rose bush.”

"Probably would've gotten fewer stares than our dramatic exit," he mused. "They all looked so scandalized while I carried you off."

"...You did manhandle me across a garden during a funeral, Sebastian."

He looked entirely unrepentant. “Swept you off your feet is the phrasing I prefer.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed. “You didn’t even warn me. One second I was standing, the next I was airborne.”

He smirked. “Well, you looked like you were about to fall apart. Thought I’d get ahead of the crisis.”

“You were the crisis!” you said, laughing now.

He grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You sighed happily, resting your head back against his shoulder. "Never."

Sebastian’s voice dropped into something warmer, velvet-soft and teasing. “So you admit it then.”

You gave a hum of mock reluctance. “Admit what?”

“That I’ve still got it,” he said smugly, tilting his chin just enough for the stubble to brush your temple. “The dramatic flair. The impeccable timing. The rakish charm—”

“Oh, please,” you groaned, laughing as you swatted lightly at his chest.

He caught your wrist mid-swat and held it there, fingers wrapping around yours. His eyes searched your face with something more serious than his grin suggested.

“I missed this,” he said softly.

You nodded, your throat tight again. “Me too.”

He watched you a moment longer, eyes soft and unreadable. Then, with a small smile, he gave your hand a squeeze.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice thick but steady. “Time to catch up. Come on, CB. Spill your guts. Tell me everything.”

You huffed a laugh and leaned into him. “That’s a tall order. Be more specific.”

Sebastian made a show of thinking. “Okay. Start with… the worst meal you’ve eaten on a dig site in recent memory.”

You let out a bark of laughter. “Oh Merlin. That’s where you want to start?”

He nodded solemnly. “Food is sacred. I need to know what culinary horrors you’ve endured.”

You snorted and settled more fully into his side, the fabric of his hoodie soft under your fingers. “Alright. There was this one field camp near the Velebit mountains where we were in the middle of a torrential storm and supplies got delayed. We were living off emergency tins for three days.”

“Tinned what?”

“Still don’t know. The label was in Cyrillic. But whatever it was, it moved, Sebastian.”

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, recoiling slightly. "It moved?"

You nodded, dead serious. “Wiggled when you stabbed it with a fork. One of the interns cried.”

Sebastian looked personally offended. “That’s not a meal. You should’ve filed a report.”

“I tried,” you said with a shrug. “The parchment disintegrated in the rain before I could send it. Probably for the best. I was half-feral at that point and the report was just a series of death threats aimed at an import company in Dubrovnik.”

He wheezed out a laugh, his head tipping back against the couch. “Merlin, I missed you.”

You smiled. “I missed you too.”

He grinned and nudged your shoulder with his. “Alright, what about your worst injury?"

You groaned. “Sebastian.”

“Nope. I want gore. Drama. The whole tale.”

You shot him a flat look but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Fine. Uh… cracked rib, shattered left wrist, second-degree burns, and I got bit.”

“Bit?” His eyebrows rose, concern flickering across his face.

“By a statue,” you deadpanned.

“...A statue bit you.”

You nodded solemnly. “Clean through my jacket."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What kind of cursed arsehole carves a statue with working canines?”

You shrugged, sipping imaginary tea. “Ancient wizards were freaks.”

“That’s not ancient. That’s deranged.”

“It was guarding a tomb,” you added. “Kind of its job.”

He threw up his hands. “I’ve fought actual dark wizards with less commitment than that.”

You grinned. “It got one of the interns by the ankle. Dragged him like five meters before we dislodged it.”

Sebastian was shaking his head now, half in disbelief, half in admiration. “You have got to start writing this stuff down. Postcards do not do it justice.”

You laughed, warm and breathless. "Maybe I'll write a book. ‘Haunted Tombs and Other Perils: A Beginner’s Guide to Getting Hexed Abroad’.”

Sebastian snapped his fingers. “Yes. That's the one. I'd pre-order it in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, would you?” you asked, lifting a brow. “Special edition with cursed map inserts and pop-up hexes?"

Sebastian leaned back with a groan of mock awe. “God, yes. I want the collector’s edition. Signed. Blood-splattered, if possible.”

You snorted. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, your turn.”

He blinked. “My turn?”

“Give me some gore, Sallow. What's your worst injury.”

He looked thoughtful, drumming his fingers lightly against your thigh. “Worst injury… hmm. Well. You remember that bloke who tried to smuggle illegal wand cores through that café in Notting Hill?”

“...The one who enchanted the tea tins?”

“That’s the one. We raided the place at dawn. Should’ve been simple. But the bastard had boobytrapped half the storage room. I stepped on what I thought was a loose floorboard. Turns out it was a spring-loaded trap that—get this—launched me into a bloody display shelf full of antique teacups.”

You were already laughing.

“I still have ceramic scars on my back,” he went on solemnly. “One shard lodged itself in my arse, by the way. Took two healers to get it out.”

You wheezed. “No.”

“Oh yes. Anne made me sympathy shortbread with tiny teacups iced on top.”

You collapsed into him, full-bodied laughter leaving you breathless. Sebastian shook with his own laughter until his forehead dropped to your shoulder, arms warm and secure around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.

And neither were you.

The light outside dimmed by degrees, unnoticed at first—just the natural progression of late evening melting into night. The corners of the flat grew softer, shadows stretching across the walls, but you stayed curled together on the couch.

Memories surfaced, the kind you hadn’t thought of in years. Detention mishaps, late-nights in the Undercroft, whispered confessions under starlit towers, pranks you blamed on Ominis, and the way you used to pass notes under the table during History of Magic.

Other stories were new.

Sebastian told you about the time he and Garreth accidentally set fire to the breakroom at the Ministry with a cursed coffee press. You howled when he admitted that Ominis had walked in, sighed, and wordlessly cast aguamenti before leaving without comment. You returned the favor with a story about a temple you’d been excavating in the Pyrenees, where your team was temporarily trapped underground with a malfunctioning time turner that made every hour feel like a day.

You didn’t notice how dark it had become until you shifted to look at him and realized you could barely make out his expression. Just the faint glint of his eyes catching the moonlight. Just the outline of his jaw, softened by shadows.

“You know,” you said after a long pause, voice quiet, “we’ve been sitting in the dark for, what, an hour?”

“At least,” he murmured, sounding entirely unbothered. “I didn’t want to move.”

You smiled. “Me either, but I'd like to capitalize on my time being able to see your face, so maybe we consider the revolutionary idea of turning on a light?”

Sebastian made a low, thoughtful noise. “Mmm. Good point. You have your wand on you?"

“Yeah, but I’m very comfortable and it's under my ass so... it's your turn to be the responsible adult,” you said, nudging him with your knee.

Sebastian sighed dramatically. “Merlin forbid. Fine. But only because I’m curious if you still make that little scrunched-up face when the light hits too fast.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do. It’s like watching a mole experience daylight for the first time."

You smacked his arm as he leaned forward, blindly patting at the coffee table until he found his wand. A flick of his wrist and the lamp clicked on, casting the room in a soft, amber glow.

You squinted immediately, nose wrinkling, eyes narrowing into slits.

Sebastian burst out laughing. “There it is!”

“Oh, sod off,” you muttered, shielding your face with a hand.

“You look like you’ve been exhumed.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in three days! And what the hell is this shave-job?"

You lifted a hand to his cheek, fingers brushing along the uneven stubble there with mock disapproval.

Sebastian huffed, both amused and defensive. “Look, I gave up halfway this morning, alright? I didn't expect my long-lost best friend to turn up out of nowhere, otherwise I would've shaved like a civilized man,” he finished with a self-deprecating grin. “Or at least tried to.”

You laughed, fingertips still grazing the edge of his jaw. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered.

Sebastian’s eyes lit at that, his voice going soft and teasing. “You think I’m cute?"

You froze for half a second then quickly tried for nonchalance as you withdrew your hand. "I mean in the same way a stray dog is cute. Messy, unkempt, probably hiding fleas.”

“Ouch," he teased. "That’s a low blow"

You shrugged. “You’re the one who started with ‘mole experiencing daylight.’”

He raised a finger, expression solemn. “An accurate observation.”

“Still rude.”

“Still true.”

You shook your head, lips twitching. Sebastian shifted beneath you, glancing toward the kitchen. "You hungry? Or want another tea? I can reheat what we left. Or make fresh. Or—”

“Or,” you said, interrupting him, “we just keep sitting here."

Sebastian tilted his head, considering. “That does sound like a good plan.” His hand slid from yours to rest lightly against your leg. “But I do have one condition.”

“Do tell.”

“I am getting out of these bloody funeral clothes. This tie’s been choking the life out of me since noon.”

Only now did you really look at him from the neck down.

You’d been so focused on his face—on his voice, the warmth of his body beside you, the overwhelming him of it all—that you hadn’t truly noticed the rest. The way his dress shirt had creased from hours of wear, the collar askew, the top button long-since undone. The sleeves still cuffed, the black tie hanging stubbornly from his neck, belt still in place.

You blinked. “Merlin, you must be so uncomfortable." Without thinking, you moved to scramble off him, hands braced against his chest. “Alright, go change, I’ll—”

But Sebastian’s arm looped under your thighs before you could finish. Your breath caught in your throat, hands reflexively clutching at his shoulders as you were hauled up with him, your legs dangling for a half-second before instinct had you wrapping them around his waist for balance.

“Sebastian—!”

“What?” he said innocently, already carrying you down the hall. “You can just turn around, right? Shield your eyes?"

You let out a sigh that turned into a laugh, "Alright, alright. God, at this rate we'll be the poster children for separation anxiety."

Sebastian chuckled, the sound warm against your ear as he walked. “We’ve earned it,” he said lightly.

You hummed in agreement as he deposited you gently onto the bed, your arms still looped loosely around his neck until the last second.

“Now," he said, alright unbuckling his belt. "If you’d kindly avert your gaze…”

You flopped backward dramatically onto the mattress, forearm thrown over your eyes. “I’m not looking!"

Except... maybe a little peak. Just a sliver of light beneath your forearm—barely enough to count, really.

Sebastian had his back half-turned, already pulling his slacks down his thighs, and Merlin, Sebastian Sallow had grown into himself in ways you were not fully prepared for.

He was massive. Not just tall—though he was tall, a good head above most people you knew—but broad. Solid. The kind of solid that didn’t come from sleek, chiseled vanity, but from years of real use. Strength that came from chasing suspects down cobbled streets and hauling people out of burning wreckage. Broad shoulders that tapered down to a thick waist and strong hips. Not particularly lean, but muscular, with a bit of soft give.

He was dusted all over with freckles, his skin golden-brown from the sun. You caught the line of scars along his back then, pale against tanned skin, clustered low beneath one shoulder blade. Tiny, ceramic-white slivers nestled in a faint web of healed tissue.

The teacup incident. He hadn’t been exaggerating.

And his boxers rode low on his hips, the waistband slung carelessly beneath the dip of his stomach. You shouldn’t have been looking. You weren’t looking.

And yet, your eyes betrayed you.

They traced the dark trail of hair that started at his navel and disappeared downward beneath the elastic, but he turned slightly before you could completely scandalize yourself by eyeing his bulge.

Not that it helped, because now you were thoroughly distracted by his thighs. Thick and powerful, dusted in coarse hair, you had a horrible, traitorous thought about how they’d feel caging you in.

And god, that ass.

You clamped your arm tighter over your eyes and threw out a theatrical, “You decent yet?” even though you knew he wasn't.

"Yeah," he said. "One sec."

The rustle of fabric followed. And then footsteps, slow and unhurried, drawing closer to the bed.

"Alright," Sebastian said, voice much nearer now, “you can look.”

You peeked out cautiously, just to be safe.

He stood at the edge of the bed in a worn old t-shirt and soft-looking lounge pants that sat low on his hips, fabric clinging just enough to make your thoughts unwholesome again. His hair was slightly mussed from the change, his cheeks still lightly flushed.

“I’m officially unchoked and off-duty,” he announced, tossing his discarded tie toward the hamper and missing it by a mile. “Feels good.”

“You look more like you,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Sebastian’s smile softened at that. “Yeah?”

You nodded, lowering your hand at last. “Less Auror, more Sebastian. My Sebastian.”

His expression flickered for a second, something tender and unreadable surfacing behind his eyes. But then he was moving again, crawling onto the bed beside you.

“Your Sebastian is very tired,” he said as he flopped down, shoulder bumping into yours.

You looked over at him, at the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks as he blinked lazily up at the ceiling. Warm and rumpled and close. So close.

“I still can’t believe you carried me like that,” you murmured, shifting slightly to better face him.

Sebastian smirked, eyes still half-lidded. “I used to piggy-back you all the time, remember?”

“I was seventeen," you said, incredulous. “And weighed at least two stone less.”

Sebastian gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes still on the ceiling. “You don’t feel any heavier.”

You snorted. “Liar.”

He turned his head then. "Not lying."

You looked away, cheeks warming under the weight of his gaze. “You’re just trying to get into my good graces.”

“Trying?” he echoed, the corner of his mouth curling. “Please. I’ve been living in your good graces since we were fifteen.”

You scoffed, but it came out softer than intended. “Debatable.”

“Is it?” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to argue, but then—

Tap tap tap.

Your head jerked toward the sound. Sebastian’s hand shot up to drag across his face.

“That’s an owl,” he said flatly.

You nodded, sitting up. “That’s definitely an owl.”

Sebastian groaned. “Do we have to open the window?”

“Well, it might be important.”

He sighed heavily, dragging himself upright. "Fine, fine..."

Leaning forward, he unlatched the window. The owl didn't wait for pleasantries; it swooped in, dropped a letter neatly onto the bed, and was gone again with a rush of feathers and indifference.

You stared at the envelope. There was no Ministry seal, just a modest, inked return address and your name scrawled on the front.

Sebastian frowned, noting your hesitation. “It’s for you?”

"I guess so," you said, just as confused as him.

You picked it up with slow fingers. The return address was a law office, not one you recognized immediately, but your stomach dropped the moment you saw the country.

You went very still.

Sebastian’s voice cut through the quiet, softer now. “What is it?”

You didn't answer, just tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter within. It was a single page, crisp and clinical.

Your eyes skimmed the lines, the meaning unraveling slowly at first—and then all at once.

We are writing in representation of Healer Élodie Marchand… currently facing formal charges under local Penal Code 327.4 for the provision of prohibited medical procedures… your name was provided as a character witness, should you be willing to offer testimony in defense…

Your vision tunneled.

Your fingers clenched around the edge of the paper before you could stop them. That country. That city. That healer. Her whispered reassurances, your trembling hands, the pain that followed, and the crushing, echoing silence after.

You were twenty-two again. Cold and bleeding and alone.

The room around you blurred.

“Hey,” Sebastian said, alarmed. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just stared at the letter, like if you kept reading it would vanish. Like this moment, this ghost from your past, would fold neatly back into the recesses of your mind if you waited long enough.

But it didn’t.

Sebastian shifted closer, now sitting fully upright, his knee brushing yours.

You could feel the question forming on his tongue, and you knew you couldn’t lie to his face about it. Sure, you'd hidden it from him all this time, but this was different. This wasn’t some omission, this was now, and he knew something was wrong. Really wrong.

Wordlessly, you extended the letter, your fingers reluctant to let go until his brushed against yours. He took it slowly, his brow furrowed, eyes flicking between you and the paper.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare. You stared at the folds in the blanket like they might ground you, like they might hold you together while he read the part of your story you’d never meant for him to see.

Silence stretched.

You felt the shift in him as he read. Heard his breath catch and the near-imperceptible sound of the paper crinkling in his tightening grip.

“...What is this?" He said, clearly still processing the implications. "When was this?”

The words lodged in your throat like broken glass. Your hands twisted in the blanket. You stared at the way your fingers clenched the paper, willing yourself not to unravel.

“I was twenty-two.”

"...You were pregnant?"

You nodded slowly. "For a couple weeks, yeah."

Sebastian didn’t say anything for a moment. His fingers loosened on the paper, then curled tighter again.

You still wouldn’t look at him.

"...So you had an abortion?" he asked softly. Not accusatory, just trying to understand, like the words themselves didn’t quite fit together in his mouth yet.

You nodded.

Sebastian exhaled, slow and uneven, and carefully set the letter down between you on the bed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“...whose was it?”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging. "Doesn't matter."

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” His voice spiked, not angry, just startled. Pained, maybe.

You flinched anyway, and he must’ve seen it, because the next second he was shaking his head, scrubbing a hand down his face like he regretted it the moment it left his mouth.

“Sorry. I just—” He exhaled roughly. “I’m not—I’m not trying to push. I swear.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"...I didn’t choose him, Sebastian."

Sebastian’s head turned sharply, his whole body going still. He stared at you, brow furrowed deep like he hadn’t heard you right, or maybe like he had, but his brain was refusing to process it.

“Are you saying—?” he started, voice low and hoarse.

You nodded before he could finish. Your mouth opened, the words getting stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but you forced them out. You had to. You owed him the truth.

“I didn’t want it,” you said quietly. “I didn’t want him. He… he didn’t ask, Sebastian.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just stared at you, eyes wide and haunted, mouth parted like a question had been carved into it and left unfinished. His hands curled into fists in his lap. His whole chest lifted with a sharp, shallow inhale like he couldn’t get enough air.

“Tell me he didn’t hurt you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Tell me he didn’t touch you like that—”

“He did."

Sebastian looked like he might be sick. His shoulders dropped, jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched. One hand shot up to drag through his hair, trembling faintly.

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the horror in his expression, or worse, the pity, so you kept your eyes on the blanket, on your fingers twisted tight in the fabric.

"I... I was at a local bar. He seemed nice, he—" You squeezed your eyes shut, too late to stop the sting. "He put something in my drink. I tried to stop him. I said no, I tried to fight him I—”

You broke off. The words turned to ash in your mouth.

Sebastian was breathing hard, like each word was a blow. His hands were braced on his knees now, fingers white-knuckled. Then, finally, his voice broke through the quiet.

“Fuck.”

You risked a glance at him.

His eyes were glassy, jaw clenched hard enough to ache, and his shoulders were hunched like he was physically holding himself back. From what, you didn’t know. Rage? Grief? The urge to go back in time and burn the entire city to the ground?

Probably all three.

“He drugged you?” he asked, voice hoarse, almost disbelieving. “And no one—no one helped? No one noticed?”

You shook your head. “It was a crowded place. No one saw.”

Sebastian let out a sound between a growl and a groan. He shot to his feet, pacing a few steps before raking both hands through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

"...Did you tell anyone?"

"No," you admitted. "Only you. Right now."

Sebastian stopped pacing. He turned toward you again, eyes fierce and wet, but his voice—when it finally came—was raw and trembling.

“I wish I’d known.”

You looked down.

“I should have known,” he went on, stepping closer, tone rising just slightly with each breath. “You never should have had to go through that alone. Never.”

You swallowed hard, throat aching.

“If I had known—Merlin, I’d have hunted him down and fucking slaughtered him for touching you. For—” He broke off, voice cracking. “You didn’t deserve that. None of it.”

You shook your head, eyes glassy. “You had just gotten your promotion.”

Sebastian blinked, thrown. “What?”

"That night. You sent me a voice memo saying you'd just gotten your first promotion. You had training. You were so happy. And I—I couldn’t ruin that for you.”

Sebastian stared at you like you’d just confessed to setting yourself on fire for his sake. His expression collapsed, rage fracturing into something hollow and heartbroken beneath the surface.

“You think I would’ve given a damn about that job?” he asked, voice cracking. “You think a fucking promotion would’ve mattered more than you?”

He ran a hand down his face again. When he finally looked at you again, the fury was gone—burnt out, spent. All that was left was grief.

“You were alone,” he said softly. “And I was out there celebrating like a bloody idiot, and you were—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve helped. I would’ve helped.”

“I know,” you whispered. “But I... I guess I didn’t want you to see me like that."

Sebastian sat down heavily beside you. His hand reached for yours again, tentative. You let him take it.

“Like what?” he asked, voice low. “How did you think I’d see you?”

You hesitated.

“Like I was weak,” you murmured. “Or ruined. Or... or dirty. I don’t know.”

Sebastian’s jaw tensed, and he shook his head, almost violently. “Don’t. Don’t ever say that about yourself again.”

You blinked, startled.

“You weren’t weak,” he said fiercely. “You were drugged. Hurt. You survived something—someone—you never should’ve had to survive."

You looked down, throat tight, but he wouldn’t let your gaze stay there. He reached out—gentle, deliberate—and tilted your chin until your eyes met his.

“You are not ruined,” he said. “You are not dirty. I don’t care what you’ve been through. I mean—I do, of course I do—but it doesn’t change anything. Not how I see you. Not how I feel about you.”

You froze, heart thudding in your chest, breath caught somewhere between your ribs. With a gentle hand, his thumb swept softly along your cheekbone, catching the first stray tear.

“I mean it,” he said, softer now, like a vow. "You're my best friend, the most important person in my goddamn life, and nothing—not time, not distance, not anything—can change that."

The silence that followed felt different now. Not like the sharp-edged quiet of before. Not heavy with shame or fear or grief.

But still. Settled.

Safe.

You breathed in slowly, then out, and felt, finally, as though your lungs could finally fill. As though something that had been knotted inside you for years had started to loosen. Not gone. Not forgotten. But no longer yours to bear alone.

Sebastian’s thumb lingered at your cheek, brushing another tear away like it offended him to see it fall. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you.

You sank into it, letting your forehead rest against the curve of his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You stayed there for a long moment, breathing him in. The warmth of him. The steadiness.

Eventually, his voice found its way to your ear again, low but so achingly gentle.

“I wasn’t there,” he murmured. “Not when it mattered most. But I’m here now. And I’ll take care of you.”

Your arms tightened around him, throat too full to speak.

“I mean it,” he said again, shifting just enough to press a kiss into your temple. “You want to spend the evening on the couch, and that’s what we’ll do."

He pulled back enough to look you in the eye again.

“And whatever you want for the rest of the time you’re here, we’ll do that too. I’m yours, alright? I’ll always be here for you.”

You nodded, lips trembling into something that might have been a smile. Not quite whole. Not yet. But real.

And when he stood and offered his hand, you took it without hesitation.

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 9 days ago

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LOVED weaponized and already so excited about the new series. love your writing!

HELLO! Thank you so very much! I'm so flattered and honoured that you read Weaponized and are enjoying my current series ahhhhhh ;.; much love!

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 9 days ago

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Cure on the Run HAS GOT ME SO HOOKED the dynamic is just chefs kiss!!! I can’t wait to see where you take this story!!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR MESSAGE AND KIND WORDS ;.; <3<3<3 SO GLAD YOU'RE ENJOYING

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 9 days ago

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So urm…. DO SEB AND MC GET TOGETHER AT THE END OF ALMOST ALWAYS? GIRL YOUR KILLING ME! (You don’t have to tell me, just jokes) I want to cry every time I read it😭 it’s so good I look forward to it almost everyday (mind the pun😏)☺️ I see that tag that says angst with a happy ending… I see it. Also is this gonna be one of those stories that show them at every age and how they end up when they’re old and wrinkled😂😂 Or is it gonna be like a story where it shows them at every age JUST before they meet? (if they do)

HAHAH HELLO!!! Thanks for your message hehheheh. Don't worry, the story will not end when they're old hahaha. There are 12 chapters total prologue + epilogue! And a happy ending, I promiseeeee

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 12 days ago

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Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Six

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

Words: ~5,900

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

Chapter Track: All I Wanted, Paramore

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

Sebastian, Age 23

The city was in full holiday swing: the streets were strung with lights, gold and silver decorations were suspended above shopfronts, and carolers warbled in every square whether you wanted them to or not.

Sebastian barely noticed any of it. He was exhausted.

Work was relentless this time of year. Crimes spiked around the holidays—something about desperation and opportunity and too many people in too little space. His department was already short-staffed, and with half the Auror corps rotating leave schedules, the rest of them were pulling double shifts.

But then again, it was easier than being home with her.

Sebastian walked the path back to Samantha’s flat after another long shift, coat collar turned up against the wind. His wand arm ached from casting shields all day, and he could still smell the faint scorch of a spell-gone-awry clinging to his sleeves.

The shops were all closed now, but their displays still glowed. He crossed the street and paused for a moment outside a tiny stationery shop. A sign hung in the window: Seasonal Postcards Half-Off. His eyes caught on one in the display—deep blue with a hand-painted constellation chart. He smiled faintly. You would’ve liked that.

Then his smile faded.

You’d been gone five years now, and the pain of it had never gone away. It had shifted, sure—evolved from the sharp, breath-stealing absence of that first year into something quieter, more insidious. Like phantom pain. A limb long gone. But still there. Always there.

He tapped the toe of his boot against the curb, eyes lingering on the postcard a second longer before pushing off again. The wind bit at his ears, but he didn’t hurry to get home. Didn’t see the point.

As he walked, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbing through your thread like he always did when he missed you more than he could stand.

Still no replies.

You and him used to talk more. Not every day, not even every week, but often enough to tether him to wherever in the world you were. He'd saved every postcard, every voice memo. He could quote half of them from memory.

But the thread had frayed.

He wasn't sure exactly when, but sometime last year, something had shifted, and your messages had grown more and more infrequent.

Your last text was over a month old.

Sebastian tried not to let it get to him. Told himself it was work. Travel. Bad signal. All the usual excuses. But this time felt different. Eleven messages from him had gone unanswered. Eleven. And one of them had been a photo of him and Ominis at their usual booth at the pub, mid-toast, looking like they’d stepped right out of seventh year.

You used to love those photos. You told him they made you feel at home.

But this time? Silence.

He stared at the screen a moment longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard, like maybe if he just found the right words, they’d bridge the silence. He even typed something out.

Still alive out there?

Then deleted it.

Had you forgotten about him completely? Found someone new and let your life move forward without a second glance in his direction? He wondered if you'd finally come to the conclusion he’d always secretly dreaded—that he was never really enough for someone like you. Not then, and not now.

The thought twisted in his chest, half-resentful, half-resigned.

He shoved the phone back in his coat pocket with a frustrated exhale and kept walking. Past the shuttered tea shop, past the corner where you once slipped on black ice in seventh year and he caught you by the hood of your coat, laughing so hard the two of you nearly toppled over. The memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

He passed that spot every day. It never stopped hurting.

The building came into view just ahead. Samantha’s flat was perched on the top floor of a converted townhouse, all sharp corners and symmetrical windows. He climbed the steps two at a time, the ache in his legs dull compared to the one behind his ribs.

When he pushed the front door open, warmth hit him immediately. The air smelled faintly of roasted rosemary and something sweet beneath it.

The flat looked like something out of a design magazine. Pristine, ultramodern, curated down to the candle arrangement on the coffee table. Every surface gleamed. Not a single item was out of place.

Sebastian shrugged off his coat and stepped into the kitchen where he could hear Samantha moving around. The tension was immediate. She was standing by the island, arms crossed, wine glass in hand.

The dining table was set immaculately, but only one plate of food remained. In the middle was a bottle of wine, uncorked, sweated onto a coaster.

“You said you’d be back by seven,” she said flatly. "It's Christmas Eve, Sebastian."

“I know. The patrol—”

“Always runs late,” she cut in, voice flat. “I should’ve known.”

He sighed, tugging at his collar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said, finally turning to face him. “Just…eat."

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once and sat down.

The food was lukewarm, carefully plated, and almost too pretty to eat. Her meals always were. She liked things neat. Curated. Intentional. He took a bite out of obligation, not hunger. It tasted fine, but felt like chewing glass.

Samantha didn’t sit with him. She stayed leaning against the counter, sipping from her wine glass and scrolling through her phone. Her silence was louder than any outburst.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “The roast is good.”

She didn’t look up. “It was better an hour ago.”

He nodded, chewing again. Every scrape of cutlery against the plate sounded like a reprimand. Eventually, he gave up halfway through and pushed the plate slightly aside. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“You always are,” she muttered.

He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, she was already walking toward the tree in the sitting room.

It was one of those gaudy looking white ones with the pale blue decorations and glass icicles instead of ornaments.

“Let’s just do gifts.”

He looked down at the half-eaten plate, the garnish wilted and congealing. It looked as tired as he felt.

He exhaled through his nose and stood, dragging a hand through his hair before following her toward the Christmas tree.

Samantha was already crouched beside it, reaching for the gifts beneath the bottom branches. The lights cast a cold glow over her features, pale and sharp.

“I know we said we wouldn’t spend much,” she began, voice overly light, like she was trying to pivot the night back toward salvageable, “but I couldn't help myself."

She stood and held the box out to him. Perfect corners. Silver foil wrapping. Ribbon tied in a crisp, symmetrical bow.

He accepted it with both hands. “Thanks.”

Samantha folded her arms as he peeled the paper back. The box beneath was ornate, the writing written in Czech, the name of that upscale boutique they'd visited last spring etched in gilded cursive. Sebastian vaguely remembered the place. Remembered standing awkwardly near the front while Samantha combed through displays and chatted in with the shopkeeper.

Inside was an orange scarf, thick and richly textured, the kind of thing that screamed luxury. He ran his fingers over it—soft as sin, probably cost more than a month’s rent in the lower districts.

He didn't hate it, but it felt… excessive. The color was too bold—something he’d never wear, never pair with his uniform. Still, he smiled.

“It’s lovely, Sam,” he said. “Very soft.”

“You always wear that old one from school,” she said, smiling thinly. “Drives me mad.”

He forced a laugh. “Right. Well… this is definitely an upgrade.”

“I just thought you deserved something nice.” Her tone was deceptively casual, but he could hear the undercurrent—the hope, the question beneath the gesture: Did I do good?

He nodded, searching for something else to say. “You remembered the shop.”

“I remember everything,” she said, and for a second it sounded more like an accusation than a fond truth.

He set the scarf back into the box gently, careful not to wrinkle the fabric. She watched him as he did, wine glass in hand, her expression unreadable.

“Your turn,” Sebastian said, reaching behind the tree. His gift for her was smaller, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. He passed it to her carefully.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you wrap this yourself?”

He half-smiled. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

She gave a breath of laughter, short, but genuine, and began to peel the haphazard wrapping away. Inside was a narrow velvet box. She paused before opening it, her thumb grazing the edge.

They’d said they wouldn’t spend much. But Sebastian knew Samantha, so he knew better. Those kinds of promises were just for show, said out of politeness, not intent. He’d known full well she’d get him something expensive, something meant to be photographed and admired and envied. And she had.

So of course, he’d matched it.

He always did. Always tried to keep her happy by buying the best, throwing money at things like it might patch over the parts of him that didn’t measure up to her expectations. Like maybe if he gave her enough, one day he’d wake up and actually love her.

Inside the box was a bracelet. A delicate silver chain studded with tiny sapphires, her birthstone. She’d mentioned the jeweler once, in passing, on a warm spring afternoon while they’d been walking through the square. She’d paused at the window, murmured something about how she used to dream of owning one. He’d barely replied at the time, too tired from his shift to do more than grunt.

But he remembered.

And now, nestled in velvet, was a piece from that very shop. The logo glinted in gold on the inside of the lid.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I love it,” she said, voice quiet but sincere. “Thank you.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “Happy Christmas.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand before slipping the bracelet onto her wrist.

She turned it this way and that, admiring the sparkle, then pulled her phone from the arm of the couch.

Sebastian watched as she angled her arm, adjusted her hair, shifted positions.

Click. Click.

Samantha beamed at the camera, the same picture-perfect smile she wore at Ministry events, at brunches with her friends, on every single online post.

“This’ll look amazing with my dress for New Year’s,” she said, still snapping photos. “God, I should’ve gotten my nails redone—this color’s all wrong.”

Sebastian hummed a response, eyes drifting to the window. Frost gathered in delicate webs across the glass, white against the dark. Somewhere, far off, he could hear faint carolers—out of tune, slightly drunk, undeniably enjoying themselves.

He looked back at Samantha. She was still smiling at her screen, fingers already typing. Probably tagging the shop. Probably composing the caption.

He cleared his throat. “Want a top up?” he asked, nodding toward her wine.

“Please,” she said, holding out the glass without looking up.

He took it to the kitchen, refilled it slowly. He needed something to do with his hands.

When he returned, she was perched on the edge of the couch, phone abandoned now, bracelet glinting under the white lights of the tree.

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the glass. “This night didn’t go how I pictured it, but… I appreciate the gift. Really.”

Sebastian nodded again. Sat down across from her. He was about to reach for his scarf box—just for something to fidget with—when the sharp tap-tap of talons against glass made both of them look toward the window.

An owl.

They both stared for a beat and the owl pecked again, impatient, eyes reflecting the tree lights as it shifted its weight on the sill.

Sebastian stood slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Probably work,” he muttered.

Samantha snorted behind him. “Please. Your supervisor would’ve just texted you. It isn’t 1995, Sebastian.”

He ignored her comment and crossed the room, lifting the sash just enough to let the owl duck inside. It flapped once, shaking off a few snowflakes before offering its cargo.

A small box. It was banged up on the edges, tied with twine, one corner slightly crushed from the owl’s grip. But he’d recognize the writing on it anywhere, even smudged from snow and travel.

His name was written in your hand.

His heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. He stood there for a second too long.

“What is it?” Samantha asked, glancing up.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, I think it's a Christmas gift from CB."

The temperature of the flat dropped 10 degrees though nothing in the room had physically changed.

"How nice of her." Samantha said, her tone frosty enough to rival the snow still clinging to the owl’s feathers.

Sebastian carried the box back into the sitting room, snow still melting in droplets across the paper. Samantha’s eyes flicked to it, unimpressed. She took a slow sip of her wine and gave a thin, mirthless smile.

“Charming presentation,” she muttered.

He didn’t answer. Just sat down and began untying the twine.

Inside, cushioned by soft, wrinkled tissue, was a scarf. Deep green—the exact shade he always gravitated toward. He knew immediately you’d chosen it on purpose.

The wool was slightly coarse to the touch, the kind of yarn sold in bundles at local markets. It wasn’t luxurious, and he could already spot the imperfections; the places where a stitch had clearly been dropped and hastily picked back up, or where the rows weren’t perfectly even.

But it was real. It was yours. And it was long enough to loop around his neck twice, just the way he liked.

He ran his hand along the edge, tracing the subtle shifts in texture.

It was beautiful.

Lying atop the scarf was a postcard. He flipped it over, and his heart skipped. Your handwriting, instantly familiar—blue ink, smeared at the corners.

Happy Christmas, Bas.

I know this isn't the fanciest gift but I spent three months pretending I knew how to knit, so if you hate it, please just lie to me, okay?

I know I’ve been terrible about staying in touch this year... I keep telling myself I’ll send a message, but by the time I think to say something, it feels like too much time has passed. Or maybe I just get scared you won’t want to hear from me anymore.

But I hope you know, truly, that I think about you all the time. Even if I don’t always say it.

I miss you.

Your name was hastily signed, like you'd poured more of your heart out than you expected and needed to sign before you took it all back. In the corner was a doodle of two snowmen, one shorter than the other, their stick arms just barely brushing.

You and him, unmistakably.

Sebastian stared at it for a long moment, throat tightening.

He could picture you hunched over a desk somewhere far away, ink smudged on your fingertips, tongue tucked between your teeth in concentration as you drew them out. You probably had that line between your eyebrows too, the one he always wanted to smooth out with his thumb.

Sebastian didn’t have long to sit in it, though—that ache of relief, of being thought of, remembered, wanted—because then Samantha laughed.

It wasn’t a real laugh. It was that sharp, humorless exhale she did when she was biting something back. His stomach dropped before she even opened her mouth.

“I see she’s taken up crafts,” Samantha said coolly. “How quaint.”

Sebastian blinked. “Sam…”

She stood, slow and deliberate, setting her wine glass down with a quiet clink.

“I mean, look at it,” she said, gesturing toward the box like it had personally offended her. “She couldn’t even bother to wrap it properly. And you—” her voice cracked with disbelief, “you’re just sitting there with that look on your face. Like she just handed you the bloody moon.”

Sebastian set the postcard gently aside, fingers still curled as if reluctant to let it go. “Can we not do this tonight?” he said, voice low. “Please.”

“Why not?” Samantha snapped, stepping closer. “Because it’s Christmas? Because you’re busy being sentimental over someone else’s gift that probably cost five knuts to make?”

He stood then, slowly. “It’s not about what it cost.”

“No,” she scoffed, “it never is with her, is it? She just has to exist and you fold like parchment.”

“Samantha—”

“She ghosts you, sends a pity gift, and suddenly none of this matters?” She threw a hand out toward the tree, toward the scarf she'd bought him, the gleaming bracelet on her wrist catching the light.

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is that I spent weeks planning the perfect dinner, the perfect evening, and you were late. Again. I sat here alone for two hours waiting for you. I even wore the stupid perfume you said you liked, and now you’re clutching her scarf!"

She wasn’t wrong. Sebastian knew she wasn't. But he hated when she did this, when she peeled him back and got too close to the truth.

So he snapped.

"I said I was sorry for being late! Work ran over! I can't just walk out of a patrol mid-shift because you lit candles and opened a bottle of wine.”

"Work always runs over," Samantha said, voice tight, arms crossed beneath her chest. "Every bloody time. And I’m always the one sitting here waiting, telling myself it’s fine. That you’re just busy. That you’ll try harder next time."

Sebastian scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaustion clawing behind his eyes. “I am trying.”

“No,” she said sharply. “You’re coasting. You're pretending.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Sam.”

“Do I?” she snapped. “Because it feels a lot like I’ve been dragging this thing uphill by myself for months while you half-heartedly play house.”

“I show up. I come home. I do what I can for you. How can you not see that?”

“You show up physically,” she hissed. “That’s not the same thing and you know it. You’re here, but you’re not here, Sebastian.”

He exhaled, jaw clenched. “And what exactly do you want from me? Some grand gesture to prove I’m invested?”

“No,” she said. “I want the basics. I want to feel like I matter to you. Like I’m not just something you’re settling for while you wait for a postcard from her to land on your doorstep. How can you not jsut see that she’s gone, and I’m the one who stayed?!"

"The basics?! For fuck's sake I got you a bracelet that cost half my bloody paycheck,” he snapped, voice rising. “I went to that stupid jeweler you mentioned once in passing and waited in line for two hours just so I could surprise you. I remembered. I always do.”

Samantha’s mouth opened, but he didn’t stop.

“I show up. I answer your texts. I work double shifts, I come home exhausted, I pay part of your rent just so you can keep up this picture-perfect flat you wanted. But none of it ever seems to be enough, does it?”

“You think throwing money at this makes it real?”

“No,” he growled, “but don’t act like I’m not putting in the effort. I’m doing everything I can to make this work. I try to be the person you want me to be, and maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s not nothing.”

Samantha’s eyes glittered, furious and wet. “Then why does it feel like I’m still losing to someone who hasn’t even been here in years?”

He barked out a laugh—short, humorless, defensive. “Jesus Christ, she’s my best friend, Sam!”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not!” he said, stepping closer, voice rising. “How many times do I need to explain this to you? She was there for me when nobody else was. That doesn’t just disappear.”

She turned from him, biting her lip so hard it went white. “What I want to know is how many times we need to have this argument. How many times we need to break up over the same goddamn things before you admit that I’m right?”

He snorted. “Is that what this is, then? A break up?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me. Because I’m not going to keep dragging myself through this if you’re never going to meet me halfway.”

“Right,” he muttered, voice hardening. “Because I’m the villain here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he spat. “That’s what this always comes down to, isn’t it? I’m selfish. I’m distracted. I’m still hung up on her. And you—you’re just the poor, patient saint putting up with it.”

“Don’t twist this around on me,” Samantha snapped. “I have been patient, for years, because I love you!”

“No,” he said, tone dropping like an axe. “You don’t love me. You love an idea of me. Some version you built in your head and keep trying to force me into, and clearly, I’m not living up to it.”

“Sebastian—”

“You’re right,” he cut in. “We keep having the same fight on different days in different rooms like that’s going to change something. But it never does, does it?”

He turned away before she could answer, still clutching the gift you sent, and pointedly leaving Samantha’s behind.

He shrugged on his coat, wrapping your scarf around his neck with a quiet sort of finality.

Samantha blinked as though she hadn’t actually considered that when he said ‘break up’, he’d meant it.

“Are you seriously leaving right now?”

Sebastian met her eyes. His voice was calm.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Then he walked out the door.

Outside on the street, the wind cut sharper than before.

It howled through narrow alleys, bit at bare skin, and pricked his eyes until they watered. Anger simmered just beneath his ribs—not because he and Samantha had broken up. They’d done that before, too many times to count, and it had always felt like hitting rewind. He was angry because she’d been right. Because the whole goddamn time, she'd been circling something he’d tried to keep buried, and she’d gotten too close.

Halfway down the block, he stopped walking and jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. His fingers brushed the battered cardboard of the cigarette pack he never should’ve bought in the first place. Without thinking, he slid one out, held it between his fingers.

It made him think of Samantha. Of the worst parts of him. The version of himself he hated most: the one who clung to old habits, hid his shame in silence, and lit up just to feel in control.

He stared at the cigarette for a beat too long. Then, with a sharp exhale, he crushed it between his fingers and tossed the whole pack into the nearest trash bin without breaking stride.

When Sebastian finally reached the steps to his building, his hands were raw from the cold, his shoulders tight with guilt. He didn’t hesitate—just keyed the door open and slipped inside, the city’s chill chasing at his heels.

The flat was dim. Quiet.

Books cluttered the coffee table, shoes were piled haphazardly near the wall, a half-folded Auror report drooped over the arm of the couch like it had given up waiting to be read. This place—the one he used to share with Ominis—was meant to be yours, too. At eighteen, he’d hoped you’d join them here. That you'd take the third room. That you’d all stay together, the way you’d always promised.

But that room stayed empty. You never came. And still, somehow, it felt like the place was waiting for you.

He kicked off his boots and dropped his keys into the dish with more force than necessary. The scarf was still wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like the warmth of your hands.

Sebastian sat down hard on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his temples.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Because the truth, the unavoidable truth, was that he’d been a complete and utter asshole. Still was. That argument with Samantha hadn’t been a fight, it was deflection. A well-practiced playbook of half-truths and circular logic and gaslighting. A hundred little performances designed to avoid admitting the one thing he didn’t want to say out loud.

He was still hung up on you. He was in love with you. And he never should’ve dragged Samantha through the mess of pretending otherwise.

They kept breaking up and getting back together like repetition could overwrite the truth. Like if Sebastian tried hard enough, if he was kind enough, generous enough, present enough, then eventually something would spark. Eventually he’d stop feeling empty.

But it never worked. The love never came.

And that moment with the scarf… He hadn’t even tried to hide it. Couldn’t. His chest cracked wide open the second he saw your handwriting. It had felt like breathing for the first time in months.

He let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes closing. His fingers curled in the yarn at his collar and he pulled it to his nose.

It smelled like wool, of course—coarse and earthy, faintly scratchy. A bit like cardboard, too, from being shipped across god knew how many borders. But beneath that, subtle and stubborn, was you.

Your perfume.

The muggle one you used to swear by, the one he never learned the name of because he didn’t need to. He’d know it anywhere. The one that always lingered on your scarf, on your pillow, on the inside of his collar when you hugged him or fell asleep against his shoulder.

Floral, but not cloying—clean, like sun-dried sheets or the first breeze of spring. Lily of the valley, soft and cool, threaded through with something warmer—ripe strawberries kissed by summer sun. And beneath it all, that low, musky undertone—earthy and rich, like the heat of your skin after a long day.

The scent unfurled in his chest like a slow ache until it was curling beneath his ribs and dragging him straight back to the Undercroft when you sat at his side, soft and sleepy, leaning on him like you’d always belonged there. Straight back to the library where you sprawled across from him with ink on your fingers and a quill behind your ear.

He let his head fall back against the cushion, fingers tightening in the yarn as he pressed it to his face.

His eyes slipped shut.

The flat around him faded—no more clutter, no more cold boots by the door or half-sorted case files on the coffee table. All there there was, was you.

You beside him.

He could see it with aching clarity, the dip of the cushion beneath your weight, the way your legs folded beneath you, always with your knees knocking into his. Your hair was still damp from a shower, clinging to your temples and curling at the ends, leaving wet spots on the shoulder of your sweatshirt, probably one of his, sleeves rolled up to your elbows.

You’d glance over with that half-smile, eyes crinkling in that way that made his stomach twist. "Still cold?" you’d ask, voice warm, teasing as you poked at the scarf.

He’d shrug. Maybe nod. Pretend to play it off, even as his toes were half-frozen in his socks. And you’d laugh under your breath. That quiet, unbothered sound.

“Want me to warm you up?”

He imagined the look you’d give him then, mischievous, a little smug, but mostly tender. Like you knew you had him and always would.

And then you’d kiss him. Not like Samantha kissed him. Not laced with old cigarette smoke and overpriced lipstick but something real.

You’d taste like home. Like the tea you were always making and never quite finishing. Your lips would be slightly chapped, but he wouldn’t care. You’d kiss him like you meant it. Like you’d been waiting to. Like you knew every inch of him already but still wanted to relearn it all from scratch.

You’d sigh against him, and it would drive him mad. He could almost feel the brush of your breath, the faint pressure of your hand curling in the fabric of his shirt.

He’d reach up without thinking, cradling your jaw like it was instinct, thumb dragging over the slope of your cheek, fingers threading into the still-damp strands at the nape of your neck.

Sebastian sunk into the fantasy, his hand moving over his stomach, down to the waistband of his trousers, unbuttoning them to free the ache that had begun to pool there.

He exhaled, low and shuddering, your name echoing somewhere between his ribs as he wrapped a hand around himself.

He could almost feel the weight of you in his lap, soft and plush in all the ways that drove him insane. Your sweatshirt would ride up just a little as you shifted over him, revealing the curve of your waist. He’d trace that skin with shaking, calloused hands, and god, he had imagined this so many times. Over the years, the image of you had sharpened and blurred and sharpened again, until he wasn’t even sure what was memory and what was longing.

But that didn’t stop him from trying to stitch you together from scraps like a madman.

That blurry photo you sent from Crete two summers ago, half cropped because you hated how your legs looked. The tug of your smile in a selfie. A dimly lit image from a pub, your arm looped around a friend, eyes crinkled, shoulders bare, a braid slipping loose over your chest. He’d stared at that one for hours. Zoomed in until the pixels blurred, just trying to imagine what you might feel like under his palms.

He'd studied the curve of your hips beneath soft fabric. The way your thighs pressed the sheets when you sat cross-legged on some hotel bed. The slope of your collarbone, the arch of your brow, the freckle near your shoulder.

He imagined your legs around his waist, soft and strong. The way you'd would give under his palms. How your stomach would brush his as you leaned in, your breath warm against his lips, your hair falling like a curtain. Your chest against his—soft, generous, rising and falling with every quiet gasp.

You’d feel so fucking good. The kind of full-body warmth that’d make him forget the world. He’d kiss your stomach, your thighs, your chest—anything he could reach. Leave marks if you let him. Worship you the way he’d only ever dreamed of doing.

His hand began to move faster at the thought, thumb flicking over the weeping tip as his hips bucked into the touch.

He imagined your cunt wrapped around him, wet and tight. The stretch of it. The way your voice would tremble when you told him how good it felt.

He pictured how you’d ride him, how you’d roll your hips just right, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like you’d dreamed about it just as often. His hands would grip your waist, fingers digging into the softness there, and he could almost hear it—the faint slap of skin, the slick slide of your bodies moving together, the breathless little gasp you’d let out when he thrust up into you. Your name would tumble from his lips, broken and breathless.

“Just like that,” he whispered to no one. To you. To the memory of a body he’d never even touched.

Sebastian rutted up into his fist, chasing that imagined rhythm.

He could see it so clearly: the way your face would twist in pleasure, head tipping back, mouth parted just enough to let out those soft, ruined sounds he’d burn the world to hear. Your hands would be on his chest, bracing, nails dragging across his skin when the pressure built too high to contain. And then you'd looked down at him—eyes half-lidded, mouth wet and kiss-bruised—and you’d moan as you came around him—he knew you would. Loud. Unbothered. You’d cry out his name, hips twitching as you sank down and ground against him just to drag it out, just to feel him.

And he’d be gone, too. Completely gone. Undone by the image of your face, your body, your voice whispering his name like it belonged to you. Then you’d lean in close, lips at his ear, voice a ragged whisper, “I’ve got you.”

Sebastian came with a choked gasp. Your name shattered in the back of his throat as his release spilled hot over his knuckles, hips twitching, breath catching on every exhale like it hurt to come back down.

The silence after was crushing.

No weight in his lap. No breath on his skin. Just the ache of his hand and the scarf still bunched against his chest, damp from where he’d gripped it too tight.

He swallowed hard, throat thick with the taste of longing, and he stayed like that for a long moment—still, wrecked, staring up at the ceiling like it might give him some kind of answer.

This wasn’t new. Sebastian had done this a hundred times. A thousand. Ever since the day he met you, it had only ever been you.

He let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter, the mess between his fingers was starting to cool, but he didn’t move to clean it yet. Didn’t move at all. Just laid there in the quiet ruin of it.

And Merlin help him, it was a good thing Samantha didn’t know.

Didn’t know that even when he had her beneath him, sighing his name, dragging her nails across his shoulders, he was picturing you. Always you. The slope of your back, the shape of your thighs, the exact way you’d look at him when you came.

He couldn’t fuck her without seeing your face in the dark. He couldn't fuck anyone without seeing you.

It didn’t matter how many nights he spent trying to outrun it—how many bodies he took to bed, how many lies he told himself to justify the ache. None of them were you.

And he thought, in passing, that maybe this wasn't just love. Maybe it was obsession. Devotion. Madness, even. But Sebastian didn't care. He knew tonight when he went to bed, he'd dream of you all over again.

In fact, he counted on it.

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Banner Credit

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 13 days ago

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don’t know who needs to hear this but AO3 comments section is not Letterboxd. giving unsolicited criticism to a fanfic writer does not make you a “fanfic critic” because there’s no. such. thing.

giving unsolicited criticism to a fanfic writer just makes you a spoiled, rude, entitled asshole at best, makes the author stop posting their works altogether at worst.

a reminder that it’s always okay to just stop reading and quietly click away from a fic if at any point you feel like you don’t like it for whatever reasons. unless specifically asked, there’s no need to tell the author, whose work you read for free, how you dislike something they wrote for themself for fun.

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 13 days ago

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not that this man would ever take a vacation but you can't convince me this isn't john price on leave somewhere on the coast. his belly's softer because he's been eating whatever he wants lately. he bought short shorts to wear and invites you to ride out onto the water in the boat he rented. he calls you bunny and rubs sunscreen on you and invites you spend the night in his cottage a few ticks down from yours.

he lets you drink his whiskey and likes the way your nose twitches at the smell of cigar smoke he purposefully blows into your face. helps you ride his thigh after getting tipsy and then fucks you raw until you can't see straight.

the next morning, he wakes you with a tongue in your hole. then pops over to the shop to buy you a shit ton of pastries before hurrying back to feed it to you in the bed. hushing your sleepy whines with a peck on your mouth and nuzzle of your cheek in between each bite of the breakfast.

gotta eat up, bunny. he's got a day full of upcoming activities for the two of you...

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 17 days ago

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Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Five

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

Words: ~5,800

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

Chapter Track: Medicine, Daughter

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

You, Age 22

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

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

One unread message from Ominis.

“Missed you tonight.”

Attached was a photo.

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You got up.

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

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

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

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

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

That earned a few chuckles.

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

You turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure you could.”

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Do I?”

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

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

You let yourself enjoy it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a voice memo from Sebastian.

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

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

I wanted you to be the first to know.

You listened again. And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sighed. Slipped your phone back into your pocket.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Sebastian.

So you played along.

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

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

You snorted.

He watched your mouth when you smiled.

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

You shrugged. “Sleeping. A lot.”

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

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

“Did it work, though?”

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

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

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

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

Then came the disconnect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something was wrong.

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

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

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

But it didn’t fade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he followed.

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

He grabbed your arm hard this time.

“I said don’t touch me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was happening. This was real.

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

He didn’t listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop, please—no—”

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

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

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

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

“Stop moving,” he growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did you get here?

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

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

Why were your trousers off?

The haze began to lift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had happened.

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

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

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

But you couldn’t stay on the floor.

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

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

You didn’t look too closely at anything.

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

No one saw you.

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

You stepped under it.

And you scrubbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitated, thumb hovering. Then pressed play.

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

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

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

Silently at first. Then harder.

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

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

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

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

But if you called, he’d come running.

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

And you couldn’t do that to him.

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

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

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

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

You added a heart emoji then hit send.

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

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

Life, continuing.

You closed your eyes. And let it.

Just for a while.

Time passed in a haze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t let that happen.

Then one morning, it all caught up.

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

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

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

Six weeks.

Your hand gripped the edge of the sink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That earned a furrowed brow. “You?”

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

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

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

“…Alright. Go see the camp medic."

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

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

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

“Got it,” you said.

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

You needed to get to town.

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

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

You made your way to the pharmacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked like hell.

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

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

Your stomach roiled.

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

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

Sebastian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were.

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

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

Two pink lines.

Your vision blurred.

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

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

You didn’t want this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your throat wouldn’t cooperate.

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

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

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

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

You knocked once.

The woman who opened it didn’t smile.

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

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

You stepped inside.

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

“I’ll need payment first,” she said.

"How much?" You rasped.

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

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

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

But that wasn’t the world you lived in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Breathe in,” she instructed.

And then it began.

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 20 days ago

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An Analysis of the The UK Wizarding World Population

How Many Wizards Are There, Really?

Okay, so this started because I just needed to get this figured out. The numbers in the Wizarding World have always felt a little… off. So I decided to sit down and really work it out using the books, real-world stats, and some basic demographic logic to see what kind of population could actually support the magical society we see in the series.

I've done my best to be as thorough as possible, but of course, there are probably things I missed, details I overlooked, or assumptions that could be challenged. This isn’t meant to be a definitive answer, just a grounded, numbers-based attempt to reconcile the world we see in the books with what it would actually take to make that world function. Think of it less like a census and more like a curiosity-driven thought experiment. One that, once you start… you kind of can’t stop thinking about.

Okay, so how do we start? Well, we’re told several useful things in canon:

There are 7 years at Hogwarts.

There are 4 houses.

Each student is sorted into a house in their first year.

Using the books as a reference, we can start to gather some information to help us get a baseline for the population. Throughout all the novels, Harry names the following Gryffindors in his year:

Ron Weasley

Neville Longbottom

Dean Thomas

Seamus Finnigan

Hermione Granger

Parvati Patil

Lavender Brown

If there had been anyone else in his year, I am making the assumption that they would have been mentioned. This means there were a total of 8 Gryffindors that year. However, in several scenes throughout the books, we do see joint house classes and various comments are made that allow us to make assumptions about other houses.

For example, in first year flying lessons, it is said that when Harry arrived, there were "twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground". Thus, there were 12 Slytherins with the 8 Gryffindors. This would give an average of 10 students per house per year during Harry's time. In total, that's approximately 40 students per year, meaning a total of 280 students in the school across the 7 years. This also implies that there are only approximately 40 magical children are born per year in the UK.

Next we can apply a simplified demographic model used to estimate how many people are alive in a population at any given time if the population is stable:

Population size = Annual birth rate × Average lifespan

We know wizards live longer than muggles, so lets assume a average life span of 120.

4,800 = 40 × 120

Now, if you're like me, you're looking at this total thinking "that is a tiny number of wizarding folk". So, I'd like to point out a few factors that we should consider:

Birth rates during war

Society and the economy

1. War-time Birth Rates

First, let's start with war-time birth rates. Looking at a real-world example, "by 1914, the birthrate was around 2.88 children per woman, but by 1918 this had collapsed by almost 50%".

Students who arrived at Hogwarts in 1991 (Harry's year) must have been conceived during the year of 1979. Importantly, the First Wizarding War lasted from 1970 to 1981, and thus we can conclude that wizarding births would presumably have also significantly decreased during this period of time.

So, assuming twice the number of magical births per year, that would give us:

9,600 = 80 × 120

Double our original value, but once you step back and consider the infrastructure, complexity, and institutions that we’re shown in the books, it still seems tiny.

With this in mind, I will shift my focus from population biology to sociological and economic modeling.

What do we actually see in wizarding society? Even filtered through the narrow, teen-focused lens of Harry’s POV, the wizarding world contains infrastructure, complexity, and economic specialization that a population of just 4,000 could never realistically support.

2. Society and the Economy

Hogwarts

A fully staffed residential boarding school with:

Multiple subject specialists

Caretakers, groundskeepers, nurses, kitchen staff

Expensive magical architecture, security, and upkeep

Referred to as the only wizarding school in the UK

Revered internationally (seen as elite)

If we assume the oft-cited (if narratively inconsistent) “1,000 students at Hogwarts” figure from J.K. Rowling’s 2000 Scholastic chat is correct at peak capacity, then: 1,000 students ÷ 7 years = ~140 students per year Now apply the lifespan-based model: 14,000 = 140 × 100

Even this is conservative in my opinion, but it's better than our original figure! So let's continue...

2. St. Mungo’s Hospital

A multi-ward medical institution

Staffed with Healers, assistants, and administration

Serves everything from spell damage to long-term care

Using a conservative UK hospital ratio, 1 bed hospital bed per 100 people gives us 30,000 magical people served.

3. Ministry of Magic

The Ministry includes:

At least 7 named departments

Subdivisions like Aurors

Full-time court officials (Wizengamot), clerks, obliviators, diplomats, and more

In the real-world, the UK government employs (500,000 / 67,000,000) × 100 = ~0.7% of the population.

Even if the Ministry is bloated (as governments often are) and employs 1,000 people, then 1,000 / 0.007 = ~140,000 magical citizens.

Now, if these figures aren't enough for your consideration, I have a few more...

4. Azkaban

Azkaban is a high-security, long-term prison used to hold:

Violent criminals

Political prisoners

Entire cells full of Death Eaters

In real life, most countries don’t operate entire island prisons unless they have substantial incarceration numbers. For comparison, Alcatraz housed ~250–300 inmates and still required a significant support system.

Even if only 1% of magical adults ever serve prison time, that implies a population large enough to make Azkaban worth running, once again suggesting a base of at least tens of thousands, not a few thousand.

5. Magical Economy

In the novels, we see:

Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade packed with specialty shops (wandmakers, potion ingredients, magical pets, etc.)

Flourish & Blotts hosts author signings

The Daily Prophet is a fully operational national newspaper

Magical public transportation (Knight Bus, Floo Network)

Owl delivery services

An economy with this degree of specialization requires thousands of consumers and enough income diversity to support luxury, artisan, and utility goods.

And it's not just about who's buying the goods, but who is making, sourcing, or importing them. For example, consider Madam Malkin’s Robes. Even if we assume that much of the tailoring and enchanting is done in-house, the materials must come from somewhere. Who harvests the acromantula silk? Who spins it? Who processes the dragonhide for protective gloves or boots? Even something as seemingly simple as standard Hogwarts robes likely requires inputs from weavers, dyers, and delivery couriers. And that's just one shop. Now multiply that by the dozens of boutiques in Diagon Alley, the merchants in Hogsmeade, and the countless magical goods required to support the average household, hospital, school, and Ministry office.

6. Decentralized Communities and Regional Infrastructure

So far, this entire model assumes that magical Britain is highly centralized, with everything flowing through Diagon Alley and London, but that assumption doesn’t hold up to scrutiny and and recent additions to the canon support a more distributed magical landscape. In Hogwarts Legacy, we’re introduced to several small magical hamlets throughout the Scottish Highlands, indicating that rural magical communities do exist and have their own localized economies. This aligns more with how real-world populations are distributed.

It also raises a practical question: are magical families in Wales or Scotland or Ireland really expected to travel to London just to purchase school supplies when they have their own major cities? The idea that there’s a single alleyway to serve the entire magical population of the British Isles is logistically absurd. Even if Diagon Alley is the largest and most famous commercial center, it cannot be the only one. There must be regional tailors, wandmakers, apothecaries, and general suppliers, especially for families that aren’t wealthy or well-connected.

This suggests the existence of dozens of small to mid-sized magical communities, each requiring their own economic base, service providers, and integration into the broader magical world. And that, in turn, implies a significantly larger national population to justify and sustain this decentralized infrastructure.

All in all, this implies a significant consumer base. However, an important consideration is that unlike Muggles, wizards can:

Automate household chores (e.g., cleaning, cooking)

Teleport instantly (no need for extensive infrastructure)

Heal injuries and illnesses faster

Use magic to farm, manufacture, and repair with fewer people

Reduce logistics and transportation burdens

Thus, while a Muggle society might need 250,000–300,000 people to support, let's assume a magical society could feasibly do it with half the number of people.

3. A Final Number

Taking the narrative, demographic, economic, and institutional factors together, a reasonable, grounded estimate for the population of the British and Irish wizarding world would fall between 100,000 and 150,000 witches and wizards.

While wizards benefit from magical efficiencies that reduce their reliance on large labor forces (e.g., using magic for transportation, food preparation, and household tasks), the complexity of their institutions still demands a much larger population than the original 4,000 estimate suggested by Hogwarts class sizes alone. Even assuming magical productivity multiplies output, the sheer diversity and durability of magical Britain’s institutions point to a minimum six-figure population.

At 100,000 individuals out of roughly 67 million total in the UK, that makes magical folk ~0.15% or roughly 1 in every 667. In a city the size of Manchester with 570,000 people, about 850 would be magical.

Now, in 2022, the UK had ~5.3 million people aged 11–17 out of ~67 million, giving us ~7.9%. If the total magical population is estimated at 100,000, then the number of Hogwarts aged children would be 100,000 × 0.079 = 7,900.

At this point, however, we begin to see the unavoidable tension between narrative design and realistic population modeling, as we certainly never see anything close to 8,000 students at Hogwarts in canon material. Class sizes are small. Dormitories are intimate. Teachers give individualized attention. There are no massive dining queues. J.K. Rowling herself has contradicted the books in interviews. So what do we do with this contradiction?

8. A Top-Heavy Age Pyramid

We know that Wizards live significantly longer than Muggles. Dumbledore was over 115 at his death. If wizards live ~120 years on average, then this would impact the age structure of the wizarding world. It’s possible the population is top-heavy, with a disproportionately large number of elderly witches and wizards and fewer magical children born each year.

This structure isn’t unprecedented. In the real world, countries like Japan face a similar demographic challenge. As of 2022, 29% of Japan’s population was aged 65 or older, and the national fertility rate was just 1.26 children per woman, far below the replacement level of 2.1.

Applying the same logic to the wizarding world, it’s reasonable to assume that even with a total population of around 100,000 witches and wizards, only a small fraction, perhaps just 3%, would fall within the 11 to 17 age range. That would yield approximately 3,000 school-aged children, translating to roughly 400 students per year at Hogwarts, or about 100 students per house per year.

While numbers like 400 students per year or 3,000 total may sound large compared to what we see in the books, it's important to remember we're talking about a massive, enchanted castle. Hogwarts is likely capable of adjusting itself to fit the needs of its population. We’ve seen magical spaces, like tents and suitcases, that are significantly larger on the inside than they appear from the outside, and it stands to reason that Hogwarts’ dormitories, classrooms, and common rooms function in much the same way. So even if the student body expands or contracts from year to year, the school is almost certainly built and enchanted to scale accordingly.

9. Final Thoughts

So, what does all of this actually mean?

Well, it means the Wizarding World is bigger than we’re led to believe. Not just in terms of geography or magic, but in terms of sheer numbers. If we take the books at face value, we get tiny class sizes and a population that feels more like a close-knit village. But when you start looking at the complexity of the institutions, the economy, the Ministry, the infrastructure... it just doesn’t add up unless the population is much, much larger.

That doesn’t mean the books are wrong, they just show us one very specific lens: the extraordinary life of a teenager who isn’t particularly concerned with census figures or economic modeling. But if you zoom out and think about what it would really take to make that world function? In my opinion, you end up somewhere around 100,000 to 150,000 witches and wizards, maybe more.

Anyway, I had to work it out. And now maybe you don’t have to.

Or maybe you will. Because once you start thinking about this stuff… you kind of can’t stop.

#hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fandom #fanfiction #hogwarts houses #harry potter #fan theory

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 21 days ago

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Almost, Always | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter Four

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

Words: ~3,300

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

Chapter Track: Cigarette Daydreams, Cage the Elephant

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

Sebastian, Age 21

The pub was loud. Someone had spelled the overhead lights to cycle through colors, and a jukebox in the corner was struggling through a bastardized remix of some Adele song. Garreth was dramatically recounting a patrol incident involving a kelpie and a broken wand while Leander was losing a bet to one of the younger Aurors over whether dragons could be tamed with song.

Sebastian took a long drink from his pint. It had been a long week. A body found in Knockturn. Another sleepless shift. The beginnings of a war brewing between departments over jurisdiction. He’d needed out of the Ministry walls, and a drink with the lads had seemed easier than staying in and thinking too much.

Ominis was next to him, as always, quiet but listening. Sebastian leaned back in his chair and let the half-buzz from his drink dull the edge of his thoughts.

And then, like clockwork, your name came up.

“She was fit as hell,” said Tom Greaves, one of the lads a year younger than Sebastian, “And clever too."

Sebastian felt it immediately, that sharp flicker in his gut. He didn’t look up. Just took another drink.

Garreth glanced at him sideways but nodded along. "A legend, she is. Showed up in fifth year, dismantled the goblin rebellion, and beat our lad Sebastian in every Crossed Wands duel they ever had."

Sebastian couldn't help but smile at that. "I let her win."

Leander laughed. “Sure you did.”

“Didn’t she go into field work or something?” Tom asked.

“She’s a Cursebreaker,” Ominis said before Sebastian could. “Ministry's archaeology division."

Another one of the younger guys, Evan, hummed. “Think she’s still single?”

"Probably," James, the youngest in the group, snorted. "She didn’t date anyone in school. Turned down every bloke who asked, no matter how persistent.”

Garreth made a noise into his drink. “Yeah, that was half the fun of watching it happen.”

Leander chuckled. “Didn’t matter who it was. She’d give ’em this flat look and then absolutely gut them with one line.”

“I remember,” Evan said, grinning. “She shut down Alfred Rowle so hard he dropped out of Arithmancy just to avoid seeing her again.”

“Did us all a favor,” Garreth muttered.

"She was a bloody knockout,” Evan continued, all wide-eyed innocence and cocky undertone. “Always was. I remember in Crossed Wands, Lucan had her duel two people at once and she didn't even blink. Wiped the floor with them and barely broke a sweat.��

“She could’ve been top brass by now,” James agreed. “If she’d joined the Aurors, I mean. Fast-track material for sure. Dunno why she didn’t.”

Tom smirked over his pint. “And she had that look, too. A bit of attitude, bit of mystery. Fucking sharp, that one. I swear she could cut you in half with a sentence and you'd thank her for it.”

"And the thighs on her," Evan grinned. "She could’ve cracked a Bludger with them.”

Leander and Garreth exchanged a glance. Sebastian’s jaw flexed.

“Big eyes too,” Tom said dreamily. “And the tits—sorry, but it’s true—proper hourglass. Never wore anything tight, but you could still tell.”

"Alright," Ominis cut in smoothly. "She's not a bloody calendar girl."

“Okay, okay,” Evan said, holding up his hands like he was innocent. “I know you lot were friends with her. Still are, yeah? Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Leander shrugged, tone light but his eyes not quite. “Look, lads. Talk like that’s gonna get you hexed. Probably by her, if she ever hears half of it.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t look up. He just traced a slow line down the condensation of his glass with his thumb, jaw locked so tight it ached.

Evan looked back at him. “Seriously though, Sallow, you two were joined at the bloody hip. You mean to tell me you never—?”

Sebastian looked up then. The smile he gave was paper-thin. “Nah,” he said. “We were just friends.”

Garreth’s smile faltered slightly. Ominis didn’t move. Leander gave a pointed cough and reached for the drinks menu like it might distract from the sudden shift in air pressure.

“Pity,” Tom went on, swirling the last of his drink. “She always seemed your type.”

Evan leaned back, grinning. “Yeah, and curvy as hell. I mean, Merlin, have you seen her lately? Those pictures floating around, one from that summit in Cairo? She’s hotter now than she was at school.”

Tom laughed. “Fieldwork’s done her good. She looks like she could still knock a bloke flat. Just, you know, maybe in a more creative position now.”

Sebastian’s chair scraped back. He stood, slid his nearly empty glass toward the middle of the table, and reached for his coat without a word.

Ominis shifted, like he might say something, but then just exhaled through his nose and turned his head away.

“Where you off to?” Evan asked, not unkindly, still half-laughing.

Sebastian slung on his coat, jaw tight. “Air.”

Then he pushed through the door and out into the cold, the noise of the pub trailing after him like static.

The night was cool, damp, and blessedly quiet. Sebastian stepped off the stoop, away from the windows and the voices still bleeding out through the warped old glass, and into the dark.

He dug into his coat pocket, pulled out the crumpled packet, and tapped a cigarette free. It wasn’t even his brand, just whatever he’d grabbed last time he said he was “quitting” and then didn’t.

He lit it and took a long drag, head tipped back toward the sky, and let the smoke bleed out through his nose.

He didn’t even like the taste. Hated the smell, if he was honest. It clung to everything. His clothes, his fingertips, the lining of his throat. You’d have hated it. Would’ve wrinkled your nose and called him disgusting, probably stolen the cigarette out of his mouth and hexed it to ash before he could get a second puff.

He hadn’t told you about it. He told himself he’d quit before the next time he saw you. That you’d never have to know he’d picked up a habit that made him feel more like his Uncle than himself.

He took another drag then dug out his phone out of his pocket.

[1 Missed Call – You]

His heart lurched in his chest, a quiet, traitorous thud. You hadn’t called in nearly two weeks.

His thumb moved to tap Call Back, but before he had the chance—

"Sebastian?"

He turned, pulse still thrumming, to find Samantha Dale standing just a few feet away.

Of course.

She had that same practiced ease she’d always carried—hips tilted, a hand on her hip, dark hair tucked behind one ear in a way that made it look effortless. She wore a fitted coat and sleek boots, all charm and polish, like the past three years had been nothing more than a seasonal break.

“Been awhile,” she said, stepping closer, her voice was all honeyed casualness.

Sebastian dropped his hand to his side, screen still glowing faintly before it dimmed.

"Yeah," he said, bringing his cigarette back to his mouth. It had been three years since he dumped her for the last time.

"How've you been?" He asked.

“Better now, apparently,” Samantha said, flashing a smile as smooth as her tone. She fished around in her coat pocket before producing her own pack of lights. She tugged one free. "D'you mind?"

Sebastian stepped forward and snapped his fingers, lighting her cigarette with a flick of flame. The tip caught, glowing ember-red as she took a slow drag.

“Always liked that trick,” she murmured, exhaling smoke from the corner of her mouth. “Used to do it for me between classes.”

Sebastian gave a noncommittal grunt, turning slightly so they weren’t standing so close, though it didn’t seem to register with her.

“Still with the Aurors?” she asked after a beat, eyes sliding over him in that way that always felt more evaluative than curious.

“Yeah.”

She smirked. “Figures."

Sebastian returned the question. "What about you?”

“Oh, bouncing around,” she said breezily. “Consulting. Project management. You know me, never could stand getting dirty. Not like your lot.”

Another puff of smoke. Another too-familiar look. She leaned her shoulder against the brick wall beside them, one boot crossed over the other.

“You look good, by the way.” Her eyes dragged slowly up from his boots to his mouth.

Sebastian looked away, jaw tight. The compliment didn’t land the way she meant it.

"Thanks."

“I saw you with Ominis earlier,” she continued. “Still joined at the hip?”

Sebastian smirked faintly. “He’d hex me if I said otherwise.”

Samantha smiled too, but there was something edged in it. “And what about her?”

That stopped him cold. His body didn’t move, but something in his jaw twitched.

“You know who I mean,” she went on, tone carefully casual.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We talk. She's busy.”

“Sure.” Samantha’s voice was lighter now, flippant. “Cursebreaking, right? I’ve seen the photos. All desert dust and ancient tombs. Looks good on her.”

Sebastian looked down at his boots, then back at her. “Guess she knew what she wanted.”

Samantha reached out, hand brushing his sleeve like it was an accident. “So did I.”

He didn’t pull away but he didn’t lean in, either.

“Funny,” she said, a touch softer. “How we always end up here.”

Sebastian took another drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled from his lips into the night.

“Yeah. Funny.”

But there was no humor in it. Only the quiet, gnawing truth that he shouldn’t be here. Not with her.

Sebastian turned slightly and looked at Samantha properly. She was beautiful. Objectively, he knew it to be true. Long, shiny black hair, with a tall, lithe figure and skin like porcelain—she looked like every witch in a fashion spread and carried herself like she knew it.

But for Sebastian, none of it mattered.

It had never worked. She had never worked. Not even back in school when he'd shagged her to get you out of his head. But he'd kept going back anyway, like a bad habit, something to sink into when the ache of you got too loud in his chest.

And god, he could already feel it happening again. The pull. The stupid, slippery slide back into something he knew would feel good for five minutes and hollow him out for a week.

Still, he didn’t stop it.

When she leaned in, he let her.

Their lips met, practiced. Familiar. She tasted like smoke and something overly sweet. It felt wrong.

But he kissed her anyway.

And when he pulled back, he smiled like nothing inside him had recoiled.

“I’ll catch up with you inside,” he said, voice low and charming and smooth. “Go warm us a booth.”

Samantha grinned, all teeth and lipstick, and gave his chest a playful pat. “Don’t take too long.”

She disappeared through the door.

Sebastian waited until it swung shut behind her.

Then he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering just a second. Tapped your name. Hit Call Back.

It rang once. Twice.

Then your voice, sleepy, warm, and real, answered on the other end. “Bas?”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

"Hey, did I wake you?"

“Bit,” you said through a yawn.

Sebastian leaned back against the wall, the brick cool through his coat. He could still taste Samantha’s lip gloss—artificial and cloying—but your voice cut through it like a balm. Groggy and soft with sleep, like you’d just rolled over and answered without thinking.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

"Was having a weird dream anyway," You said. "I was being chased by a cursed chamber pot.”

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds horrifying.”

“It was. It had six legs.”

“That’s worse.”

You laughed softly. It hit him in the chest like a well-aimed stupefy. He could almost see you, curled under some too-thin camp blanket, hair a mess, voice husky with sleep and sand.

“Where are you?” he asked, "Still near Sicily?

“Mhm. It’s dry as hell and the Kneazles here have been cursed by the ruins, but the view’s nice.”

Sebastian smiled faintly. “Of course they’re cursed. You’ve got a real talent for finding the worst places on Earth.”

“I think they do it on purpose now,” you said, with that familiar wryness that always tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Like, ‘oh, let’s send her, she won’t complain, she’s practically feral.’”

He laughed again, quieter this time. “Yeah, well. You always did thrive in chaos.”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the background on your end; maybe the rustle of your blanket, or the wind pushing against the canvas of your tent.

Then, quieter, you said, “you sound tired.”

“I am,” he admitted. “Long week.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Sebastian sighed. "Just a bunch of bureaucratic nonsense, CB."

There was a pause, then your amused scoff filtered through the line. “Are you seriously going to call me that?”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t act like it wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn't.”

“You said you started signing your notes that way. During that job in Marrakesh, remember? You didn’t want to waste ink writing Cursebreaker every time.”

“That was shorthand for the field team!” you protested, though he could hear the smile in your voice. “Not a nickname!"

“Well,” he drawled, “you should’ve thought of that before giving me something that fits in two syllables and makes you sound like a rogue agent.”

You made a noncommittal noise, the kind you only gave when you didn’t want to admit he was right. “Fine, alright. CB it is. Now, go on. Tell me about this bureaucratic nonsense."

Sebastian smile faded and he sighed. “They’ve got us tangled in a three-way jurisdiction pissing match over one body. One. Found in Knockturn. Some poor bastard who ran afoul of the wrong smuggler. Should be simple, right?”

You stayed quiet. He went on.

“Except now Reclamation wants it because the bloke had a cursed medallion on him, Domestic Enforcement says it’s theirs because it might be tied to a local crew, and Magical Threat Management sent some absolute knob from Geneva who keeps calling me ‘chap’.” His voice sharpened. “Chap, CB. Like we’re on a bloody cricket team.”

You snorted gently into the receiver. He loved that sound. You didn’t even have to say anything yet it always made him feel like someone was on his side.

“I’ve written three reports on the same corpse,” he muttered. “Got yelled at twice. One of the juniors filed the evidence ledger wrong and now the entire chain of custody’s fucked. And the kicker? The cursed medallion’s gone missing.”

That made you gasp. “Vanished?”

“It was lifted, for sure. No one will say it. But everyone knows it.”

Another pause. He could hear the way your breathing shifted, more awake now, more alert.

“You think it’s internal?”

“I don’t know what I think. I just know I’m one more late night away from hexing a filing cabinet.”

You chuckled again. “At least tell me you’re drinking something decent.”

Sebastian huffed. "How'd you know I was at a pub?" He paused. "Actually, forget it. Of course you knew. Point is, Garreth ordered for the table and picked some godawful lager that tastes like mop water.”

“Poor thing.”

“Pity me harder.”

“I’m too tired to conjure sympathy.”

“Liar.”

You laughed, and the sound settled into his bones, loosening something he didn’t know had been clenched.

“So," you continued casually. "You out with the usual suspects?"

Sebastian looked through the fogged glass of the door. "Yeah, yeah. Ominis, Garreth, and Leander. Then some blokes that were a year behind us in school. Tom Greaves, James Hendricks, and Evan Kline."

You hummed softly in thought, the sound crackling through the receiver. “I remember them. Tom was the one with the nosebleeds, right?”

Sebastian laughed, short and surprised. “Still gets them every time it’s cold. You’d think someone would have taught him a charm by now.”

There was another pause and before he quite realized what he was doing, he kept going. “They were, uh… talking about you, actually. Earlier. All three of them. Asking if you were still single. Going on about how you used to turn every guy down in school. Calling you fit.”

He winced the second it was out of his mouth.

Too late.

A low laugh bloomed on your end. “Merlin’s sake. If they saw me now, they’d shut up fast. I’m covered in dirt half the time and smell like a troll’s armpit the other half. Trust me, the fantasy dies fast when your hair’s matted and you’ve got hex scarring down your left leg.” Then you added, “And anyway… I swore off relationships years ago. You know that, Bas.”

He did. And yet he hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear you say it again. Relief curled through his chest, immediate and stupid and unfair.

You were quiet for a second, then asked, voice softer, “Any other updates on your end?”

His mind stuttered. He glanced at his cigarette butt on the pavement. Could still taste Samantha’s lipstick still clinging to his mouth.

“Nothing else worth reporting,” he lied.

You yawned on the other end, soft and slow. He could hear the shift of fabric, the creak of whatever cot you were curled up on.

“I should let you sleep,” Sebastian said, quieter now.

“I don’t mind,” you murmured. “Been a while since I heard your voice.”

His throat tightened.

“Yeah,” he said. “Same.”

There was a pause, long enough to stretch.

“I miss you,” you said finally. It wasn’t wistful or dramatic, just matter-of-fact, like it had been sitting on your tongue for weeks.

Sebastian swallowed hard. “I miss you too.”

You hummed again, tired and fond. “Talk soon?”

“Always.”

The call ended with a soft click.

Sebastian stared at the black screen for a long moment after it went dark. Then he tucked the phone into his pocket and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Why didn’t I tell her about Samantha? Why did it feel like I couldn’t?

The questions came fast and sharp. His hands were cold now, his jaw still tight. The warmth of your voice was gone, and all that was left was the weight of realization.

It goes both ways.

All while he kept his lips sealed about Samantha, you could have been doing the same damn thing. Sure, you said you’d sworn off relationships, but that didn’t mean you weren’t seeing anyone. It didn’t mean you weren’t shagging someone. Didn’t mean there wasn’t someone else hearing your groggy laughter, or seeing you curled under a blanket after a long day of ruins and dust, brushing a hand through your tangled hair and kissing your temple while you muttered something sarcastic just before bed.

The thought lodged hard Sebastian’s chest, bitter and breathless. He didn’t even know what it was, exactly. Jealousy? Shame? Some cursed cocktail of both?

He swallowed it down.

It didn’t matter. You were allowed to do whatever you wanted. You had been for years.

And then, like he was 17 again, reckless and aching and too cowardly to do anything real about his feelings, Sebastian turned on his heel and headed back into the bar.

He knew where this ended. Knew what it would cost. But still, when Samantha looked up and smiled at him from the booth, her fingers curled around a fresh drink, he walked toward her anyway.

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Banner Credit

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 22 days ago

Note

Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 22 days ago

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How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fuck you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 22 days ago

Text

“Now I'm glad I get forever to see where you end” - Forever, Noah Kahan

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 23 days ago

Text

Cure on the Run | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Part Two

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Words: ~3,600

Tags: No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Auror!Sebastian, Modern AU, Female Reader Insert, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Eventual Smut

Sebastian's POV

Sebastian woke at 7:30 on the dot. He always did. No alarm. No spell. His body didn’t care if he’d gone to sleep on stone or silk, in a field tent or a Ministry suite. The schedule had been drilled into him—hardwired through fieldwork, instinct, and the knowledge that sometimes the extra three seconds between waking and reacting were the difference between walking out and being buried.

His eyes blinked open, slow and groggy, the early light slanting through the windows of the safe house. For a few seconds, his mind was blank, just warmth and weight and breath. The kind of peace that made him suspicious by default.

It took him another full second to realize what, exactly, he was feeling.

An arm draped across his chest, fingers curled loose in his skin. A knee nudged between his. A thigh pressed warm along his leg. Breath ghosted the curve of his collarbone, slow and steady. And—

Oh, fuck.

His other hand was on the small of your back, his palm splayed flat against your shirt—the one he’d conjured, the one that had hung off you like a nightdress last night. You were curled in against him like you belonged there, your cheek resting just beneath his jaw, the slope of your nose tucked close to his throat.

Sebastian froze. He didn’t even breathe.

The memory of last night returned in brutal, clear detail: the blast. The bunker. The emergency Apparition. Your towel hitting the floor.

He’d looked. Of course he had. Not on purpose, not intentionally, but the moment had caught him off guard—split-second, instinctual—and it had burned itself into the back of his skull: the curve of your hips. The soft slope of your stomach. The shape of your breasts.

He swallowed hard, hand twitching at the small of your back. He could feel the rise and fall of your breathing. Every inhale pressed your breasts lightly—obscenely—against his sternum. Then you just shifted slightly, nose brushing against the edge of his neck, and let out a sound that could only be described as a sigh of contentment.

Sebastian was far from content.

This was a catastrophic breach of professional protocol. He never should have agreed to share the bed. He should have taken the floor or slept in a chair, or hell, he should’ve slept outside in the grass like a dog if it meant waking up with a clear conscience.

But he hadn’t and now you were here, wrapped around him, and it was the most physical contact he’d had with another person in… Merlin, how long?

Months? No. Longer. He didn’t do this. Didn’t let people close because it always ended in pain. Loss. Guilt. Grief. He’d learned that lesson early, and relearned it over and over and over again. With his parents. With Solomon. With partners he couldn’t save. With friends he couldn’t keep.

Sebastian closed his eyes, jaw tight, heartbeat loud in his ears. Of all the people he could have ended up tangled with in a Ministry safe house bed, it had to be you.

You, with your sharp tongue and sharper mind. You, who challenged everything he said with that maddening mix of logic and nerve. You, who treated Ministry red tape like it was an inconvenience rather than an authority.

You, who had no idea how much danger you were really in.

He had liked you from the start.

Your supervisor had introduced you in the Ministry atrium, all brisk handshakes and clipped protocol, and you’d barely spared Sebastian a glance before launching into an argument about whether this kind of escort was really necessary.

"It’s a conference, not a war zone," you’d said. “I’m a researcher, not a target.”

Naive, Sebastian thought. But bold.

There’d been grit in you from the beginning—unexpected, sharp-edged resolve beneath your lab coat and doctorate degree. You weren’t just clever, you had fight in you. Conviction. And, unfortunately for Sebastian’s sanity, you were absolutely gorgeous.

And then there was the part you didn’t know. One of the people who might benefit from your research, your cure, was Anne. His sister.

That was why he’d said yes to this assignment without hesitation.

You were the first glimmer of real hope. Something that wasn’t snake oil or desperate prayer. And instead of hiding behind Ministry glass, you were out here in the world, presenting trial data with a target on your back and too much hope in your voice. It scared him how much he wanted it to work, how much he needed you to be right.

And now here you were, warm and pliant and draped over him in a way that was absolutely, unequivocally not approved by the Auror Code of Conduct.

Your knee shifted slightly against his thigh as you breathed in, dragging the hem of his oversized shirt an inch higher up your—

Fuck. No.

This was not the time to notice how the cotton of his shirt had bunched up around your hips, or how the smooth skin of your thigh brushed dangerously close to his pelvis.

He swallowed hard, trying to focus on anything else—the faint crackle of the fireplace, the tick of the clock on the far wall, the fact that he’d nearly died last night and so had you. That you’d come out of the shower in nothing but a towel and—

His cock twitched.

No, no, no, no, no.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, willing the heat in his groin to abate. Willed his body to remember the mission. The danger. The goddamn professional line he was not supposed to cross.

Then you shifted into the slow start of a stretch. You were waking up.

Shit.

Sebastian could disarm a dark wizard in three seconds flat. He’d fought blood mages in the backstreets of Marseilles. Escaped hex-rigged ruins. He’d interrogated suspects, navigated diplomatic negotiations, dodged cursed bullets and literal fire. But nothing in his training had prepared him for waking up in bed with a half-naked woman pressed against his chest and realizing, in that precise moment, that if you opened your eyes and saw him holding you like this, you'd think he was a fucking creep.

He could see it now: the way you'd freeze, the slow, dawning horror on your face as you registered just how entangled you were. Your leg slung over his. His hand on your back. Your chest against his. Your lack of underthings.

And he was awake. Alert. Aware. Holding you.

Nope. Absolutely not.

Sebastian closed his eyes immediately, arms still frozen where they were, heart hammering like he’d just sprinted uphill in full gear.

If you woke up now, you’d just assume he was still asleep. That he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes mentally cataloguing the shape of your thighs and the precise curve of your—

He gritted his teeth harder. He was going to hell. And not the vague metaphorical kind. The real, cauldron-boiling, wand-snapping, Ministry-sanctioned disgrace kind. The kind where they stamp your badge and wand core with a flaming Conduct Breach sigil and send you straight to the Department of Internal Review to explain how, exactly, your hand ended up on a scientist’s arse in the middle of a field mission.

It wasn’t on your arse. Yet.

That helpful voice could fuck off, too.

You stirred again, this time for real, and Sebastian felt it instantly.

The subtle shift of your arm pulling back. The slow, bleary inhale through your nose. The soft sound of your yawn muffled into his chest followed by the gentle stretch of your leg against his.

He felt your moment of realization too. It was a sudden jolt beneath his arm, a sharp inhale, followed by total, rigid stillness. You were awake now, very awake and very, very aware of where you were.

You began to move.

Slow, deliberate, like you were trying not to wake him. Sebastian could feel the way your fingers uncurled from his skin like you were setting down something fragile. The breath you didn’t quite exhale. The shift of your leg as you began to slide it back from where it had been slung across his.

Which, of course, was what any rational, professional, emotionally stable person would do. Untangle. Get some distance. Remove yourself from a wildly compromising situation.

You were doing exactly what he should’ve done.

But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed wrapped around you like a bloody blanket. Had spent the last twenty minutes enjoying the way you felt—warm and soft and clinging—and he’d just soaked in it like a touch-starved idiot. Which… was exactly what he was.

Pathetic.

And now you were slowly, carefully extracting yourself from the tangle like someone backing away from a sleeping bear.

He kept his eyes shut.

In any other situation, he would’ve woken up the second you moved. His body was trained for it. Light sleep. One foot always in a dream and the other on a battlefield. The crack of a floorboard could pull him to his feet wand-first. Honestly, he didn’t understand how he could have ended up so deeply asleep with you wrapped around him.

Fucking idiot.

He heard the mattress shift as your weight left it completely followed by the quiet scuff of bare feet across the wooden floor and the click of the bathroom door.

He stared at the back of his eyelids and let out a long, slow exhale.

It was going to be a long morning.

And Merlin help him, the first words out of your mouth when you came back better not be kind. Because if they were, he wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t kiss you just to shut you up.

Get it together, Sallow.

Once he was sure you were busy in the bathroom, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his wand, casting a perimeter diagnostic. Everything came back clean. No wards breached. No magical residue. No scrying signatures. Which didn’t mean you were safe, just that if someone was watching, they were better at hiding it than most.

His eyes flicked to the satchel in the corner, the one he'd snatched mid-blast from your suite.

Inside was everything.

Your research. Your trial data. The Zurich logs. The external drive. The last five years of your life. And Anne. Anne was written into all of it, even if you didn’t know it.

Sebastian crossed to the kitchenette, wand still in hand. It was the kind found in most Ministry safehouses—barebones and impersonal, stocked just enough to keep someone alive for a few days without losing their mind. The cabinets creaked when he opened them. Inside: powdered creamer, instant coffee, two chipped mugs, and plain crackers.

The kettle responded to a lazy flick of his wand, beginning its low, rumbling boil while he scooped out too much instant coffee and shook in an arbitrary amount of creamer. The powder clung to the sides of the mug like ash. He stirred the water in slowly, watching it swirl.

He didn’t hear you re-enter the room so much as feel it. A shift in the air. A subtle awareness along the back of his neck, a pull like gravity.

Sebastian didn’t turn right away. He just took a long drink from his mug, wondering if you’d say something. If you’d mention the bed. The position you’d woken up in.

But you didn’t.

You just moved toward the kitchenette and reached for the second mug.

“Morning,” you greeted him, voice gravelly.

Sebastian nodded once without looking at you. “Coffee’s shit.”

You huffed a dry breath. “Better than nothing.”

He didn’t disagree. Just watched your hands move from the corner of his vision, grabbing the powdered creamer, mimicking his earlier movements.

Sebastian took another long sip. “I’ll get a message out to one of the Ministry drivers,” he said, voice flat. “We can’t use the train or any public transit to get back into the city, it’s too exposed.”

You didn’t look up. “No apparition?”

“They’ll be watching for magical travel.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of his mug. “If Calvenne’s running surveillance out of Vienna, any spike in apparition will flag every detection grid between here and Brno.”

“...Can I call my supervisor?”

Sebastian set the mug down, slow and deliberate. “Only if you’re absolutely sure the line’s secure.”

Your expression said enough—tight around the mouth, brows furrowed just slightly. You were weighing options, calculating risk, and Sebastian could practically see the moment you decided against it.

“I—no,” you said finally, voice low. “You’re right. It’s probably not safe.”

Sebastian nodded once. “Alright. I’ll ask the driver to route a message through internal. Just something short. Let Dr. Proulx know you’re alive.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one. “He’ll appreciate that. He probably thinks I’m buried under the hotel rubble right now.”

“Thinks that little of me, does he?” Sebastian replied dryly, still not meeting your eyes.

He kept his gaze trained on the mug in his hands like it might hold the secret to professional restraint. Like if he stared hard enough, he could drown in the coffee and not in the memory of your bare skin, still burned behind his eyelids.

You shifted slightly beside him, leaning your hip against the counter. “He’s just notorious for worrying,” you said simply. “Nothing against you.”

Sebastian hummed low in his throat. A noncommittal sound. He could still feel the warmth of your body on his skin, like his nerve endings hadn’t gotten the message that you’d left the bed. Like some part of him thought you were still there, pressed against him, tangled and soft and draped across his bare chest.

He needed to get his shit together.

Fast.

“Soon as the driver confirms,” he said, standing straighter. “We’ll move.”

You nodded, quiet for a beat, fingers tapping once against your mug. Then you lifted it to your lips and took a cautious sip. Grimaced.

“Yeah, that’s awful.”

“Told you,” he muttered, already heading across the room, eager for the excuse to put space between you.

A Ministry locker was built into the far wall, spelled shut with layered wards and a recognition charm keyed to authorized agents. He muttered the override phrase and the locks released with a soft, mechanical click. Inside he found two spare uniforms, an emergency port key, and a secure satellite phone.

Sebastian activated the phone, cycling through the scrambled frequencies until he landed on the encrypted line reserved for transport requests.

“This is Sallow. Echo-Seven location confirmed secure. Requesting overland evac—non-magical transport, fallback route Bravo-Two. Civilian attached.”

He paused, jaw twitching.

“And send a relay to Dr. Jean Proulx.” He hesitated again. “Tell him she’s alive. In transit. That’s all.”

A beat. The automated tone chirped Acknowledged. The screen dimmed to standby.

Sebastian set the phone down and reached for one of the uniforms, grateful for something clean to wear. The standard Ministry blacks were a little too crisp, a little too stiff, but at least they didn’t smell like smoke and bunker dust.

He turned the fabric over in his hands, then glanced back at the locker, where the second uniform hung neatly on its hanger.

Technically, civilians weren’t supposed to wear Auror gear. Ministry policy was clear: uniforms carried implicit authority, and misuse could compromise jurisdiction. But he couldn’t very well ask you to climb into a ministry van in nothing but his old gym shirt and bare legs, even if part of him—some deeply repressed, shamefully possessive part—liked how you looked in it.

Sebastian blinked hard and made for the bathroom.

“I’m getting changed,” he said over his shoulder. “You can take the other one. Should fit close enough.”

You looked up from where you’d been leaning against the counter. Your brow lifted. “Isn’t that against some kind of official regulation?”

“It is,” he muttered. “So try not to look too smug about it.”

You didn’t reply, but he caught the faint twitch of your mouth before he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Forty minutes later, you were both crammed into the back of an unmarked Ministry van barreling down a forest access road somewhere between the Czech border and god knew where. The driver hadn’t spoken a word beyond a clipped greeting and Sebastian wasn’t saying much either.

You were seated across from him on the narrow bench, one leg propped up, fingers curled loosely around a canteen the driver had offered. The uniform hung wrong on you in all the right ways—too tight through the shoulders, snug through the waist, and practically painted across your thighs. The top two buttons of the jacket had come undone somewhere between the safehouse and here, gaping slightly when you shifted.

Sebastian tried very hard to look out the window. He hadn’t realized he was grinding his teeth until the muscle in his jaw started to ache.

And then finally, your voice broke the silence.

“So,” you said, tone light but probing, “you never actually said where we’re going.”

He turned his head just enough to glance at you, then back to the window. “British embassy in Vienna.”

Your brows lifted faintly.

“We need intel on Calvenne,” he continued, voice low and measured. “And confirmation of where the conference was relocated. The hotel’s a pile of rubble, so unless they plan on hosting you in a crater, they’ll need a new venue.”

You gave a small, wry huff. “Well. At least I won’t have to sit through the keynote lunch with the Magical Agriculture panel.”

Sebastian didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he might’ve considered it.

You took another sip from the canteen, then let your head thunk softly against the metal paneling behind you.

“Okay,” you said after a moment, eyes sliding toward him. “I’ll admit it. The Auror escort thing might not have been Dr. Proulx’s worst idea.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to you again, this time more directly. “High praise.”

You tilted your head, catching the faint edge of sarcasm. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” he said dryly. “I’m far too busy trying not to get us both killed.”

“Comforting.”

He could feel your eyes on him now, but he didn’t dare meet them.

“Is this how most of your missions go?” you asked after a beat, tone casual, but curious. “With explosions and stuff?”

“No.”

“Pity,” you leaned back with a faint smirk. “Must’ve been boring before I showed up.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close.

You glanced at him sidelong, lips quirking. “Do you ever laugh, Sallow?”

“Only when I’m off the clock.”

“Merlin. What do you do for fun then? Practice scowling in the mirror?”

That earned a ghost of a grin, quick and reluctant. “And here I thought you were finally warming up to me.”

You shrugged, the motion easy, casual. “I’m not un-warming.”

Sebastian swallowed hard, unsure what to do with the half-compliment, and tugged at the collar of his uniform. “ETA’s about twenty minutes.”

You nodded, then tapped your fingers lightly against the canteen. “You think they’ll try again?”

“To kill you?”

You nodded.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “Definitely.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You don’t sugar-coat things, do you?”

“Don’t see the point,” he replied flatly. “False hope gets people killed.”

You huffed a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Charming.”

“Realistic,” he said, glancing at you. “Which is what you need if you’re going to make it through the next few days.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “So you do think I’m going to make it.”

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. Just studied you for a long moment—your face, your posture, the way you were still treating all of this like some minor inconvenience instead of a targeted assassination attempt that left a crater where your hotel used to be.

It was dangerous. And it was… impressive.

“I think,” he said finally, voice low, “that if you keep listening to me, your odds go up significantly.”

You snorted. “So modest.”

“It’s just math," he muttered.

You smiled, the expression quick and crooked, like you couldn’t help it. “You must be terrific at parties.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “Wouldn’t know. I don’t go to them.”

You raised a brow. “Not even Ministry ones? End-of-year, post-mission drinks, mandatory Christmas mixers?”

His expression didn’t change. “Especially not those.”

You made a thoughtful noise and took another sip from the canteen.

“You know,” you said, “I’m starting to think you might be the most emotionally repressed man I’ve ever met.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. “Good. Maybe it’ll keep you alive longer.”

You laughed—genuinely this time—and it startled him enough that his eyes cut toward you. It wasn’t a loud sound, but it was real, and it wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire.

He looked away before it could mean something.

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