The Legacy Chronicles follows the "Hero of Hogwarts" in the years after the Great Goblin Rebellion, exploring the consequences of ancient magic and the psychological toll of safeguarding world-altering secrets. As the protagonist transitions from student to seasoned operative, the series traces her evolving bonds against the weight of time, distance, and the isolating realities of adulthood.
After the tumultuous events of their fifth year, the "Hero of Hogwarts" returns for her sixth year only to find her connections with her closest friends fractured. Sebastian Sallow, still reeling from the devastating events in the catacombs, initially pushes her away, while Ominis Gaunt grapples with deep resentment over the dangerous path they walked.
The peace is short-lived when news breaks that Victor Rookwood is still alive and Theophilus Harlow has escaped Azkaban. This reignites Sebastianâs obsession with finding a cure for his sister, Anne, leading him back into the dark quest for vengance. As the school goes into lockdown, the protagonist finds an unexpected and grounding friendship with Garreth Weasley, who becomes her Potions partner and a source of normalcy amidst her growing nightmares and the burden of her ancient magic.
The story culminates in a high-stakes confrontation at Rookwood Castle, where the friends must unite. The aftermath leaves the group forever changed, forcing them to confront hard truths about loyalty, addiction to power, and the complicated nature of forgiveness as they look toward an uncertain future.
As their seventh year begins, the "Hero of Hogwarts" is torn between a relationship offering a "safe" future and a clandestine bond with her usual friends. This final year is defined by the weight of expectations and the shadows of the past, as one path promises stability while the other pulls her back into the dangerous magic she shares with Sebastian and Ominis.
While pursuing a high-stakes quest to undo an old injustice, she must navigate the tension between her public image and private loyalties. Amidst shifting romances and looming career decisions, the trio must decide what they are willing to sacrifice before the castle gates close for the last time.
The balance shatters when a harrowing accident leaves her unconscious for days. This crisis destroys her "perfect" relationship and triggers a wave of malicious rumors, while forcing Ominis to make a devastating choice regarding the Dark Arts and leaving Sebastian consumed by guilt.
Tension peaks when a secret ritual goes wrong, but the magic eventually takes hold and achieves its intended purpose. This victory is short-lived, however, as the group discovers the effects are slowly beginning to fade.
In the aftermath, the protagonist and Sebastian find themselves drawn into a complex, intimate bond, struggling to define their relationship amidst the shadows of their choices. Meanwhile, Garreth Weasley remains a loyal source of support as he looks toward a future beyond Hogwarts.
The series culminates in a rescue mission to save Sebastian from an Ashwinder trap just hours before graduation. The story concludes as the friends move into adulthood, forever bonded by their shared secrets and the difficult lessons of their final year.
The Auror Years:
After graduation, the "Hero of Hogwarts" pursues an grueling career as an international undercover Auror, frequently assisting MACUSA. The distance from her past grows as she maintains only sporadic contact with Poppy and Ominis, while her personal life is defined by transient relationships. However, a work-related injury leads her back to Hogsmade and an unexpected reunion with Sebastian Sallow, now an underground dark magic healer. During her recovery, she discovers her friendsâ new lives: Garreth Weasley experimenting as a mixologist at the Hog's Head, Leander Prewett leading a double life between the Ministry and illegal dueling, and Ominis Gaunt serving as a high-stakes diplomat. A rekindled spark with Sebastian is cut short when she is called away for a deep-cover assignment that will span years.
The Long Shadow:
The undercover mission leaves the protagonist mentally fractured, questioning her reality and the choices that led her away from home. Returning to Britain, after a mandatory health leave, she finds the world she left behind unrecognizable. Her former partner has moved on, and her friends have endured their own tragedies: Sebastian has survived one of the wizarding world's most severe punishments and a devastating betrayal, Leander has severed ties with his family legacy after walking away from an arranged future, and Ominis has made a heartbreaking personal sacrifice to shield an innocent life from the reach of the Gaunt family. Meanwhile, Garreth has achieved remarkable financial success through his innovative alchemical creations.
Ominis Gaunt: The Diplomat's Heart
Sebastian Sallow: The Shadowed Soul
Leander Prewett: The Forsworn Son
Poppy Sweeting: The Poacher's Daughter
Garreth Weasley: The Master Mixologist
Return to the Castle:
The protagonist returns to Hogwarts on a confidential undercover assignment to investigate the disappearance of her mentor, Professor Sharp. While the Ministry maintains a cover story that she is simply there to teach, her past and present collide as her entire former circleâSebastian, Garreth, Leander, Ominis, and Poppyâis also reunited within the castle walls.
NOTE: Weâve officially outgrown this post! I hit the 100-link maximum, so Iâm moving the stories into separate masterlists for each era.
Iâm still in the process of organizing and trying to make sure my writing (and my brain) makes sense! You might also notice some new visuals; I finally realized I could use my day-job skills as a graphic designer to Photoshop the game captures. While they don't always match exactly what I imagine, they at least help illustrate the settings and characters involved. Even though it's a work in progress, Iâm loving how itâs bringing the stories to life.
If youâve been following along, you've probably noticed by now that I havenât posted in a while. Things are not the best around here lately, and to be honest, it's been a while since I've felt like myselfâburnout, depression, anxiety, who knows. I just lost the joy I was feeling while writing, which sucks because there are a load more stories sitting in my drafts.
I've been feelling so lonely, and having to hide away just to cry makes it even heavier. In times like this, I wish I had a shoulder to cry on and could get a warm bear hug from Garreth to calm me and bring me back down to earth. Because let's be real, if you've been reading my fics, you know Sebastian is way too emotionally unstable to be any comfort. Iâll try to come back as soon as possible. Thank you for understanding.
Summary: Driven by a silent vow made at her bedside, Garreth decides to shed his "class clown" persona and embrace his Gryffindor fire. After publicly punching Leander for his vile rumors, Garreth is forced into a sanctioned, private duel supervised by Professor Sharp. Utilizing a "messy" but brilliant tactical arsenalâincluding Maxima and Edurus potions brewed in secret and aggressive Herbology provided by Professor GarlickâGarreth humbles the "Star Captain." Though penalized with a heavy point loss, Garreth gains the grim respect of Professor Sharp and the realization that his courage is far more potent than Leanderâs refined scripts.
Characters: Garreth Weasley, Leander Prewett, Professor Sharp.
Word Count: ~1450 words
Masterlist
The sterile air of the Hospital Wing felt cold against his skin, a sharp, clinical contrast to the boiling, messy anger still swirling in his chest. Garreth sat beside her bed, his hand gently covering hers. Her skin was unnervingly cool. The silence was a heavy, suffocating thing, broken only by the rhythmic, fragile rasp of her breathing and the occasional soft chime of a diagnostic charm.
He had promised himself he wouldn't cry. Not here. Not when she was the one fighting to come back. But as he looked at her still, pale faceâthe girl who was usually a blur of motion and sparksâa searing guilt burned through him.
His mind replayed the realization from his jog, the thoughts striking harder in the quiet of the ward. He didn't just regret losing her to another boy; he regretted failing her as a friend. He saw the red flags now with a clarity that felt like a physical sting. Heâd watched her smile less and less over the last few months, her usual playful spark retreating behind a strained, porcelain mask of propriety every time Leander entered a roomâas if she were slowly being edited into a version of herself he found acceptable. She had distanced herself from the group, drifting away from the Boathouse and the common room huddles, isolating herself in a way that had made everyone uneasy. He had seen the slow, agonizing dimming of her spirit, and he had done nothing but offer a joke and a shrug, too afraid to interfere.
If he had only been brave enough to make his move a year ago, things would be different. He would have shown her what a "normal" couple looked likeâone where they laughed at botched potions and soared over the lake without etiquette lessons or silk-scarf leashes.
If sheâd had a partner who embraced her fire instead of trying to douse it, she wouldn't have felt the desperate urge to escape into the dark with Sebastian just to feel like herself again. He would have gone with them. He would have been the extra wand, the one who watched their backs, the one who raised the odds and tipped the scales. But he had chosen the "safety" of the shadows while she was being slowly smothered by a "safe" boyfriend, and now she was paying the price for his hesitation.
He squeezed her hand, a silent, iron-clad vow passing between them. He wouldn't be afraid again. He would be the Gryffindor he was meant to be.
The break after lunch felt like marching toward a gallows. As Garreth entered the courtyard, the air was filled with the usual afternoon chatter, but his focus snapped to a group near the central fountain.
Leander was there, holding court. He was laughingâa cruel, high-pitched sound that made the hair on Garrethâs neck stand up. He was mid-sentence, his voice dripping with a calculated, public contempt as he recounted her "performance" in the forest to a group of fifth-years. He was twisting her trauma into a pathetic excuse for his own abandonment, painting himself as the victim of a "liar."
Garrethâs hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles popped. The white-hot fury heâd felt on the bridge flared up again, but this time, it had a fixed, undeniable target. He strode forward, his heart pounding a frantic, war-drum rhythm against his ribs.
Leander saw him approaching, and his smug smile widened, flashing his perfect teeth. "Ah, Weasley," he said, his voice loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. "Come to get a closer look at a real man? Or are you just looking for more hand-me-downs from your betters?"
Garreth didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He didn't go for his wand. He simply raised his hand and, with every ounce of the rage, guilt, and love he had been carrying, he punched Leander Prewett squarely in the mouth.
The sound was sickeningâa dull, wet thud of bone against skin. Leander staggered back, his heels catching on the stone edge of the fountain. His laughter was cut short by a strangled gasp of shock as blood began to bloom across his lips.
"You'll pay for that, Weasley!" Leander roared, his voice thick as he fumbled for his wand. He pointed it at Garrethâs chest, his eyes dilated with a murderous, wounded pride.
Garreth pulled out his own wand, his fingers trembling. He froze. He looked at the tip of Leanderâs wand and remembered the Duelling Clubâthe precise, flawless movements that had kept Leander in the top three.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The voice was like a whip-crack. Professor Sharp was hobbling toward them, his cane striking the stone with a rhythmic, ominous clack-clack. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes taking in the blood on Leanderâs face and the wands.
He stepped between them, his presence an unyielding wall of shadow.
"Put those wands away," Sharp commanded. His voice was low, but carried the weight of a former Auror. "Mr. Prewett, go to the infirmary and have Nurse Blainey fix that lip. Mr. Weasley, stay where you are."
Leander sneered, wiping blood onto his sleeve. "He attacked me! He should be expelled!"
"I am well aware of what happened, Mr. Prewett," Sharp said, his eyes narrowing. "Which is why both of you will meet me in Professor Hecatâs classroom after the final bell. No spectators. No excuses. If you wish to settle this like men, you will do so under my supervision. Now, move."
The hours following the confrontation after lunch were a blur of frantic preparation. Garreth felt the weight of Poppyâs absence more than ever; with her at St. Mungoâs, the castle felt strangely empty of its heart. He found himself wandering toward the greenhouses, his mind replaying conversations with the girl whose reputation he was now willing to defend at any cost. She had always talked about the tactical brilliance of Herbology, recounting how a well-placed Chinese Chomping Cabbage had saved her hide in more than one Ashwinder ambush.
He slipped into Greenhouse One, the air thick and humid. He moved toward the back, where the more aggressive specimens were kept. He was reaching for two small, dormant cabbages, his fingers trembling as he tried to untangle them from their soil, when a shadow fell over him.
"Sneaking through the seedlings, Mr. Weasley?"
Garreth nearly jumped out of his skin. Professor Garlick was standing by a nearby trestle, a watering can in hand and a look of gentle curiosity on her face.
"Professor! I... I was just..."
Garlick walked over, looking down at the small cabbages heâd been trying to pocket. She didn't scold him. Instead, she set her watering can down and moved to a separate, much larger plant in the corner. "If you're looking for help with a bit of a... pest problem... those little ones won't do much more than nip a finger."
She reached into the soil of the larger plant and expertly plucked two peculiarly aggressive, twitching cabbages. They snapped their jaws at the air, their leaves a deep, vibrant green. "These were planted by Poppy Sweeting," Garlick said with a fond smile. "She has a remarkable green thumb, you know. Theyâve been raised with a great deal of... spirit."
She handed them to Garreth, who quickly stuffed them into a burlap sack.
"Garreth?" she called out as he turned to leave. He stopped, looking back. "Iâm sorry about this, but I have to deduct one point from Gryffindor. Iâve always told you that you only need to ask for what you require. As long as Iâm the Herbology teacher, there is no need to steal from the garden."
Garreth gave a sheepish nod, the single point feeling like a fair trade for the secret weapons now thumping against his thigh. "Thank you, Professor."
The afternoon Potions period was a masterclass in focus and skill. Garreth sat at his usual station, but the stool beside him was hauntingly vacant, the air around it feeling unnervingly cold. He didn't ignore the day's assignmentâVeritaserumâbut he didn't stop there. Utilizing all three cauldrons at his station, he moved with a precision he usually reserved for his most dangerous "experiments." His hands were steady for the first time in days as he managed the heat of three separate fires.
Professor Sharp prowled the aisles, his gaze lingering on the granite-grey sludge forming in one cauldron and the shimmering red of the Maxima base in the second. In the third, he noted the crystalline, bubbling clarity of the Veritaserum. He didn't speak. He didn't dock points. Behind his iron-cold expression, Sharp felt a flicker of grim satisfaction. He recognized the smell of an Aurorâs field-prep happening alongside the curriculum. He knew exactly what the boy was doing, and for the first time, he found himself genuinely impressed by the Weasley boyâs initiative and sheer multitasking talent. He hid it well, his face remaining a thundercloud, but he adjusted his path to shield Garrethâs unauthorized brewing from the prying eyes of the rest of the class.
By the end of the class, Garreth had bottled three vials. He discreetly slipped the Edurus Potionâthick, dark, and smelling of graniteâand the Maxima Potionâwhich shimmered with a dangerous, red lightâinto his deep pockets. He then walked to the front of the classroom and presented the Veritaserum for inspection. It was a perfect brew: clear and colourless, as well as odourless and tasteless, almost indistinguishable from water. Sharp gave a short, perfunctory nod of approval, but reminded him that the potion was only half-complete; it had to mature for a full lunar cycle to be of any use. Garreth carried the crystal phial to the storage room, placing it in the cool, dark corner designated for long-term maturation, his mind already shifting to the more immediate tools of war tucked in his robes.
Professor Hecatâs classroom was draped in evening shadows. Professor Sharp stood at the center of the room, his arms crossed. Hecat stood by the desks, looking skeptical.
"Youâre certain about this, Aesop?" Hecat asked, her voice hushed. "Leander is in the top three of the whole school. Weasley is... well, Weasley. This won't be much of a release of tension if it's a slaughter."
"Tension isn't released through victory, Dinah," Sharp replied, his eyes fixed on the door. "Itâs released through the struggle. And Mr. Prewett has been more trouble than usual lately. He needs to realize that a refined tongue is no substitute for a grounded soul."
"Very well," Hecat sighed, a flicker of amusement crossing her face despite herself. "But if Black catches wind of this, Iâll tell him I was merely tidying my desk and didn't see a thing." She pointed her wand at the floor, and with a sharp flick, the stone slabs shifted and rose, forming a raised duelling platform in the center of the room. Without another word, she gathered her things and slipped into her office, leaving Sharp to the shadows.
The doors groaned open. Leander arrived first, his school uniform still crisp and his mended lip stretched into a wide, confident side-smile. He looked like he had already won. He had spent the afternoon bragging to his friends, and though Sharp had forbidden spectators, Leanderâs inner circle had managed to acquire a set of enchanted mirrors to broadcast the event. They had hidden one mirror behind a stack of crates at the edge of the classroom, positioned for a perfect, unobstructed view of the platform, while its twin sat propped up in the center of the Gryffindor common room. Bets had been flying all afternoon, and every Sickle in the house was stacked heavily against Garreth.
Garreth arrived moments later. He looked different. His sleeves were rolled up, his knuckles were bruised, and his pockets were heavy with the weight of his "un-proper" arsenal. His hands were tucked deep in his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.
"The rules are simple," Sharp announced, his voice echoing. "First to disarm or incapacitate. I trust it is obvious that I will not tolerate the use of Unforgivables. No permanent damage. Bow."
Leander bowed with a graceful, mocking flourish. Garreth gave a short, sharp nod.
"Begin!"
Leander didn't hesitate. "Expelliarmus!"
The red bolt flew with surgical precision. Garreth reacted just in time with a Protego, the shield shimmering briefly as the spell deflected, but instead of following up with a counter-spell, he dived to the side, his hand already reaching for his pocket. He uncorked the Edurus Potion in one fluid motion. As the liquid hit his tongue with the taste of wet slate and iron, a dull grey ripple surged across his skin, hardening his limbs until he felt as immovable as the castle walls themselves.
Leander laughed. "Drinking on the job, Weasley? Desperate." He followed up with a barrage of Stupefy and Confringo.
The spells hit Garreth, but the Edurus Potion had turned his skin to the consistency of stone. He barely flinched. He downed the Maxima Potion, feeling his magic surge until his veins felt like they were carrying fire. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to drown out the sound of the fight.
He didn't cast a spell. He threw the burlap sack.
The Chinese Chomping Cabbages hit the floor and immediately lunged for Leanderâs ankles, their leafy jaws snapping with a terrifying clack-clack.
"What isâget them off!" Leander shrieked, his refined posture shattering as he hopped around the platform, desperately trying to hex the plants. "That's not duelling! Thatâs... thatâs gardening!"
Garreth didn't waste his breath on a reply. His focus was narrowed to a single, desperate point as he watched for the opening.
While Leander was distracted, Garreth unleashed a Depulso fueled by the Maxima Potion. The force of the spell was massive, hitting Leander square in the chest and sending him flying backward off the platform. Just before he could strike the unforgiving stone, Sharp flicked his wand, catching Leander in mid-air and lowering him softly to the floor. His wand clattering into a corner, the duel clearly over.
The room went silent.
Leander lay on the floor, his hair disheveled, his "Star Captain" mask shattered. He looked up at Garreth, who was standing on the platform, his chest heaving, still radiating the red glow of the Maxima Potion.
In the common room mirrors, the sight of Leanderâs panicked shrieking about "gardening" faded into an embarrassing silence. The hero had been taken down by a vegetable.
Professor Sharp hobbled forward, his expression unreadable. He looked at Leander on the floor, then up at Garreth. He stayed silent for a long moment, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he lifted a single eyebrow.
Garreth exhaled, the stone-skin of the Edurus Potion slowly fading. He looked at Sharp, his knees finally starting to buckle from the fading adrenaline. "I won?" Garreth asked with disbelief. "I won!"
"Fifty points from Gryffindor, each." Sharp stated calmly.
Garrethâs jaw dropped. "What? Thatâs unfair! I won the duel!"
"Mr. Prewett, retrieve your wand and go to your dormitory," Sharp said, his voice flat, ignoring Garreth's complaints completely. "Mr. Weasley, a word."
Leander scrambled to his feet, his face a brilliant, humiliated red. He grabbed his wand and fled the room without a backward glance.
Sharp stepped closer, his gaze firm. "Mr. Weasley, this was never about who won. It was about discipline. You chose to resolve a dispute with a punch in a public courtyard. That requires a penalty. And as for the duel..." Sharp paused, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. "It served its purpose. The tension is released. You found your courage, and Mr. Prewett found his humility. But do not mistake a sanctioned duel for a lack of consequence."
Sharp turned to leave, his cane clicking against the floor. âAnd Mr. Weasley?â Sharp paused by the door, his shadow long against the stone. âNext time... grind the spider fangs into a fine dust before adding them to the Maxima base. It would have tempered that garish red luminescence. In a real fight, there is no sense in turning yourself into a glowing beacon for a marksman like Prewett.â
Garreth stood alone in the darkening classroom, the sting of the points lost balanced by the lightness in his chest. He had faced his fear, he had used his own "messy" magic, and for the first time in his life, he didn't feel like the class clown. He felt like a Gryffindor.
Summary: Returning from the station, Garreth finds Leander in the Gryffindor common room, holding court and publicly dismantling her reputation to save his own. When Garreth intervenes, Leander turns his venom on him. Stung by the precision of the insults, Garreth flees into the Highland night. Through a grueling, physical run around the castle perimeter, he processes the "Prewett failure" and realizes that his choice to be her anchorârather than her possessorâwasn't cowardice, but the ultimate form of loyalty.
Characters: Garreth Weasley, Leander Prewett.
Word Count: ~950 words
Masterlist
The walk back from Hogsmeade Station was a cold, lonely trek. Without Poppyâs quiet presence to ground him, the wind felt sharper, and the silence of the castle felt heavy with the weight of everyone he was failing to protect. Garreth made his way toward the Gryffindor common room, the phantom sensation of Poppyâs hand squeezing his arm still lingering on his sleeveâa quiet, ghostly warmth that felt like the only thing keeping the biting Highland wind at bay.
He was exhausted, his mind a messy cauldron of worry for Poppyâs grandmother and guilt for the girl still lying silent in the Hospital Wing. But the heavy, late-afternoon hush of the corridor was shattered as he approached the Fat Ladyâs portrait.
A group of students had gathered in a semi-circle, their faces a mix of morbid curiosity and shock. At the center of the orbit stood Leander Prewett.
He didn't look like a grieving boyfriend. He looked like a man who had just been vindicated. He was leaning against the stone wall, his arms crossed, a sharp, ugly sneer twisting his usually refined features.
"Honestly, itâs a blessing in disguise," Leanderâs voice rang out, loud and calculatedly confident. "Being a nursemaid to a liar sounds tiresome. Thank Merlin I found out about her little 'performance' before she woke up. All that talk about ancient magic and heroics... it was frankly exhausting. I don't think I could have stood another minute of the drama."
He let out a cold, humorless chuckle that made the younger students near him exchange nervous glances. "Even out cold, she manages to be a nuisance."
Garreth froze, his blood turning to ice. A nuisance. For days, she had been fighting for her life while Leander had been hiding behind his Quidditch practice and his familyâs letters. Now, the coward was standing in public, performing an autopsy on her reputation while she couldn't even breathe on her own.
A wave of white-hot fury, more potent than any botched potion, surged through Garreth. He strode forward, pushing through the crowd with a dark, unyielding intensity that made students scramble out of his path.
"What are you talking about, Prewett?" Garrethâs voice was low, vibrating with suppressed rage.
Leander turned, his smirk widening as he took in Garrethâs disheveled appearance. "Ah, Weasley. Just sharing my newfound freedom. Our little 'Hero' turns out to be quite the burden, doesn't she? Iâve decided to cut ties. For my own peace of mind, you understand. I won't have the Prewett name tied to someone who has proven to be as unstable and deceptive as the company she keeps."
"You broke up with her?" Garreth choked out, the words feeling like shards of glass. "While sheâs unconscious? While sheâs dying?"
Leander rolled his eyes, a gesture of profound boredom. "Sheâs not dying, Weasley; sheâs just being dramatic, as usual. Itâs high maintenance, and frankly, sheâs not much fun when she isn't... responsive."
He took a step closer to Garreth, his gaze hardening into a predatory gleam. Heâd seen the way Garreth looked at her. Heâd seen the way they laughed in the library. And in his paranoid, bruised pride, he saw an opportunity to offload his own shame onto a convenient target.
"Why? Jealous?" Leander asked, his voice dropping to a stinging whisper. "You had your chance last year, didn't you? But itâs not my fault you were such a coward that you never actually made a move. You stayed in the corner, playing the loyal puppy, hoping sheâd notice you."
He let out a sharp, mocking laugh that drew a few snickers from his audience. "Youâre just the class clown, Garreth. The joker she keeps around to be entertained when the real world gets too heavy. You were never the one sheâd actually choose. You're just... the help."
The words hit Garreth with the force of a physical blow, striking every raw, exposed nerve heâve been trying to hide for a year. The fury that had sustained him moments ago vanished, leaving behind a cold, sickening emptiness.
Coward. Joker. The help. Every insecurity heâve ever harboredâevery night heâve spent wondering why he wasn't the one she looked for in a crowded roomârose to the surface, fueled by the terrifying possibility that Leander was right.
Garreth opened his mouth to retort, to defend her, to hex the smirk right off Leanderâs face. But the words caught in his throat, tasting like ash. He looked at the students watching him, then at the sneering, triumphant boy who had supposedly 'loved' her, and he felt utterly defeated.
"You... you're a despicable git, Prewett," Garreth managed, his voice a ragged whisper that lacked any of its usual warmth. "You don't deserve a single moment of her memory."
He pushed blindly through the staring crowd, stumbling into the common room. The warmth of the fire and the chatter of his housemates felt suffocating, a localized pressure he couldn't breathe under. He needed to be gone. He needed to outrun the echoes of Leanderâs laughter.
Without a word to anyone, he crossed to the fireplace and threw a handful of Floo powder into the embers. "The Clock Tower!"
He stepped out onto the stone landing, the Highlands air striking him like a physical slap. He didn't think; he just started moving. He wasn't the star Chaser in that moment, and he wasn't the reckless brewer of experimental draughts. He was just a boy with too much noise in his head.
He began to run.
At first, it was clumsy and heavy. He wasn't used to the rhythmic strike of shoes against the earth, and his lungs burned almost immediately. Coward, his mind hissed with every step. Heâs right. You were too scared to lose the friendship, so you never gained the girl. Youâre just the joker.
He pushed harder, his pace increasing until his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He ran past the stone bridge, down toward the lake, and up the winding paths that hugged the castle walls. He didn't notice the distance. He didn't notice when he completed a full circuit of the Great Hallâs exterior. All he knew was the cold air and the way the physical pain in his legs was slowly beginning to drown out the stinging words of the "Star Captain."
By the time he reached the wooden bridge for the second time, his shirt was damp with sweat and his breathing was a ragged rasp. But the self-loathing had begun to cool into a sharp, clear-eyed realization.
Leander wasn't telling the truth; he was weaponizing it. He was trying to poison Garrethâs mind because he was a small man who needed to feel big by making others feel small.
Garreth slowed to a halt, leaning his hands on his knees as he fought for air, each exhale a plume of white mist that looked like thick smoke in the freezing Highland night. He looked up at the towering spires of Hogwarts, bathed in the bruised purple of twilight. He hadn't stayed in the shadows because he was a coward. He had stayed because he valued her. He had seen the way she looked when the world got heavy, and he had chosen to be the person who could make her laugh rather than the person who added more weight to her life.
If making a move meant risking the ease they sharedâthe effortless, unscripted joy of their friendshipâthen he would choose the friendship a thousand times over. He wasn't the "help." He was the anchor. And if Leander couldn't understand the difference between possession and protection, that was a Prewett failure, not a Weasley one.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt, feeling the cold breeze on his stomach, a tired but genuine smile finally touching his lips. He was exhausted, his muscles aching in a way he hadn't felt even after the most brutal Quidditch practices, but for the first time that day, the silence felt peaceful.
He turned back toward the castle, his stride steady. He had a lot of work to do, and he had a friend in the Hospital Wing who would need the "class clown" to be at his very best when she finally woke up.
Summary: As rumors continue to swirl through the Great Hall, Poppyâs manic optimism is shattered by an urgent owl from St. Mungoâs: her grandmother is dying. Fleeing the castle in a state of collapse, she is intercepted by Garreth, who sacrifices his own training to fly her to Hogsmeade Station on his broom. In the biting Highland chill, Garreth gives her his oversized Gryffindor sweaterâa scarlet refuge that smells of cedarwood and safety. In a fleeting, vulnerable moment before the train departs, an honest admission of affection breaks through their shared grief, leaving a quiet promise in the steam of the departing engine.
Characters: Garreth Weasley, Poppy Sweeting.
Word Count: ~880 words
Masterlist
The Great Hall was a cacophony of morning energyâthe clatter of silver against porcelain, the flutter of owls, and the low, persistent hum of the rumors Leander had set in motion.
Poppy and Garreth had recently tried to reach out to Sebastian, but he had retreated into a shell of uncommunicative silence. He insisted he had no desire to visit the ward, yet every dayâwhen he was certain he was unobservedâhe slipped into the Hospital Wing alone. He would lean his forehead against her mattress and close his eyes for a few stolen minutes, a silent vigil that lasted only until the next class or detention forced him back into the light. When pressed for details about the accident, he offered nothing but a hollow, clipped explanation: a trip to the Forbidden Forest had gone wrong. Poppy and Garreth didn't push him; they were well aware of her reckless history with the forest. She had always loved the thrill of the hunt and the pursuit of justice in the dark; they knew she courted danger as a fundamental part of her nature, not a trait born of Sebastianâs influence, and they couldn't bring themselves to blame him for a fire she had always been prone to lighting.
Poppy sat across from Garreth, her breakfast untouched. She was talking animatedly about her plans for the afternoonâwhich poultices she wanted to ask Nurse Blainey to apply, which book she thought their friend might like to hear read aloud. She was smiling, her eyes bright with a forced, manic optimism that Garreth had seen her maintain for three days straight.
A screech owl, grey and weary, banked low over the Gryffindor table and dropped an official-looking envelope directly onto Poppyâs plate.
The smile didn't fade instantly; it curdled. Her brow furrowed as she broke the heavy wax seal. As her eyes scanned the parchment, the blood drained from her face so completely she looked almost as translucent as the girl in the Hospital Wing.
"Poppy? What is it?" Garreth asked, his voice sharpening with immediate concern.
A single tear tracked a path through the light dusting of freckles on her cheek. Her hands began to tremble, the parchment rattling in her grip. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and drowning.
"Itâs my grandmother," she whispered, her voice a fragile, splintering thing. "Sheâs taken a turn. St. Mungoâs... I have to go."
Garreth watched as the dam finally broke. For days, Poppy had been the anchor for everyoneâholding Garreth through his rage, sitting with the unconscious girl for hours, being the "brave one." But as she stood up abruptly, moving the bench back with a harsh scrape against the stone, he realized she had been running on fumes.
She fled the Great Hall without another word.
Garreth reached across the table and snatched up the discarded letter.
ST. MUNGOâS HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES
To Ms. Poppy Sweeting,
It is with deep regret that we must inform you that Mrs. Sweeting has taken a turn for the worse. We believe her window for final visits is closing. We strongly urge you to make arrangements for travel to London at your earliest convenience.
With sincerest regards,
Healer H. J. Pye
Garreth didn't think. He sprinted.
He caught up to her near the basement barrels. She was already coming out, a small travel bag slung haphazardly over her shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed and frantic.
"Poppy! Wait!"
"Garreth, Iâm so sorry, I can't stayâI have to get to the station, I have toâ" She tried to push past him, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps.
He caught her arms gently, grounding her. "I know. But the carriages aren't running for another hour, and the next train is heading out in around 10 minutes. Let me take you. It'll be faster on my broom."
Poppy looked at him, her expression a mix of desperation and sudden, profound gratitude. A small, weak sob escaped her. "Really? Youâd miss your training... for me?"
"Of course I would," he said simply.
They ran for the grounds. Minutes later, they were soaring over the snow-dusted hills toward Hogsmeade. Poppy wrapped her arms tightly around Garrethâs waist, burying her face into the space between his shoulder blades. The wind bit at them, cold and unforgiving, but Garreth pushed the broom to its limit, the whistle of the air drowning out everything but the sound of his own thudding heart.
They landed near the bridge of Hogsmeade Station just as the distant whistle of the train echoed through the valley. The Highland air was brutal, and Poppy stood shivering, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as the adrenaline began to fade into a bone-deep chill.
"Here," Garreth said, already pulling his thick, scarlet Gryffindor sweater over his head.
"No, Garreth, itâs freezing, youâll catch a coldâ"
"Sweetie, please," he said, his voice firm in a way that brooked no argument. "Iâm fine. Take it."
She hesitated, then took the heavy wool. As she pulled it over her head, she vanished into it. The sweater was far too large, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips and the hem reaching her mid-thigh. It smelled of himâcedarwood, faint traces of potion ingredients, and the warmth of a fireplace.
She looked up at him from within the depths of the oversized collar, her small face framed by the scarlet wool.
Garreth let out a small, unintentional chuckle. It was a soft, genuine soundâthe first real laugh heâd felt in days.
Poppy flushed, partially hiding her face in the collar. "What?"
"Nothing," Garreth said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming softer, more vulnerable. "You just... you look cute. Really cute."
He said it before he could stop himself. The words hung in the cold air, honest and unvarnished. A deep blush crept up his neck, and he suddenly found the metal rails of the station very interesting.
They stood there in the heavy silence, the air thick with everything they hadn't said over the last few months. The train rumbled into the station, hissing steam that clouded around them.
Poppy reached out, her hand disappearing into the long sleeve of the sweater, and squeezed his arm. She didn't say anythingâshe couldn'tâbut the look in her eyes was a quiet promise.
She turned and ran for the carriage. Garreth watched until the train was nothing more than a smudge of smoke on the horizon, feeling the bite of the cold against his skin and the strange, new ache of her absence in his chest.
Summary: While Poppy and Garreth maintain a loyal, heartbroken vigil in the Hospital Wing, Ominis retreats into the silence of the music room, unable to face the weight of his guilt. The peace of the ward stands in stark contrast to the Gryffindor common room, where Leander has launched a calculated smear campaign. Exploiting his "betrayed hero" status, Leander spreads vile rumors about her role in Professor Figâs death, her "volatile" magic, and her alleged infidelity. Witnessing the systematic destruction of her reputation while she lies helpless, Garrethâs usual jovial nature vanishes, replaced by a white-hot, vengeful rage.
The air in the Hospital Wing was a stagnant weight, thick with the sharp, medicinal tang of Wiggenweld potion and the cloying scent of sterile linen. Behind the white curtains, the world had slowed to a rhythmic, fragile rasp.
Poppy had tried to convince Ominis to join them, her hand resting on his arm as she pleaded with him to face the ward, but he had pulled away with a sharp, final jerk of his shoulder. He hadn't dared to cross the threshold again. His guilt had turned into a physical barrier, and despite Poppy's insistence that their friend needed them all, he had turned his back on them and left. He sought refuge a world away in the music room, where the silence was at least honest. In his absence, it was Poppy and Garreth who kept the watch, their presence a quiet, stubborn defiance against the clinical coldness of the ward.
Poppy sat on the edge of the chair, her fingers moving in a gentle, soothing motion as she caressed her friendâs hair. She wore a brave smileâthe kind of look she gave to a wounded beast that was too frightened to understand it was being helped.
"Sheâs going to be fine, Garreth," Poppy whispered, her voice a fraction too bright, sounding like it might shatter if the room grew any quieter. "Nurse Blainey says the internal mending is already starting. Sheâs just... sheâs just resting. Sheâll wake up and tell us some ridiculous story about a dragon she saw in the dark, and weâll laugh."
Garreth didn't answer. He couldn't. He sat slumped in the chair nest to her, his jaw clenched so tight the bone seemed to sharpen beneath his skin. His eyes never left her still form, tracing the pale, serene mask of her face as if searching for a flicker of the girl who had laughed with him in the library only days ago. The grief was a palpable weight on his shoulders, but it was the angerâcold, jagged, and directed inwardâthat made his breath hitch.
Seeing the raw vulnerability in the boy who was usually the castleâs source of chaos, Poppy leaned over. She didn't say anything; she just pulled him into a side hug, her hand rubbing his arm in a steady, grounding rhythm. Garreth leaned into the embrace, he leaned his head over hers, finding more strength in that silent contact than any platitude could have offered.
Hours later, the moon was high, casting skeletal shadows across the grounds. Garreth finally left the infirmary, his steps heavy and echoing as he made his way back to the Gryffindor common room.
He expected the usual late-night hushâthe soft crackle of the fire and the low murmur of students finishing essays. But as he stepped through the portrait hole, the atmosphere hit him like a physical blow. It was a hive of whispers.
Garreth moved toward the dormitory stairs, his senses heightened by the long hours heâd spent submerged in the heavy silence of the hospital wing. He began to catch snippets of conversation that chilled his blood.
"He says she practically led them into a trap," a third-year whispered to a friend near the hearth. "That Fig's death wasn't an accidentâit was her fault."
"I heard the Ministry actually had to... well, spay her," another student added, their voice dripping with a false, sickly kind of sympathy. "The reports say her magic is too volatile. It shouldn't be reproduced. It's for the best, really."
A pair of sixth-year girls huddled by the window, their voices low and sharp. "Poor Leander. He said she was seeing half the Slytherin house behind his back. Sallow, Gaunt... Can you imagine the nerve? Playing the hero while acting like a common flirt."
A cold, white-hot rage erupted in Garrethâs chestâa bitterness he hadn't known he was capable of feeling. He stopped on the stairs, his hands curling into fists until his nails bit into his palms.
He knew exactly where these words were coming from. He knew who was spinning this vile, ugly web.
Leander Prewett was sitting in the center of a group of older students, looking every bit the tragic, betrayed hero. He was nursing a mug of tea, his head bowed, occasionally offering a "reluctant" confirmation to the questions being hurled at him.
While she lay unconscious, fighting for her next breath, Leander had begun his campaign of erasure. He was painting her as a liability, a cheat, and a murderer, all to ensure that when she finally woke up, there would be no world left for her to return to.
It was poison from a well Garreth didn't know how to stop. He looked at the "Star Captain," the golden boy who was currently murdering a girlâs soul with a few well-placed lies, and for the first time in his life, Garreth Weasley didn't want to brew a potion or tell a joke.
Summary: Sebastian returns to the Hospital Wing, a "walking ghost" burdened by physical injury and a crushing sense of personal curse. After Nurse Blainey tends to his wounds, he finally finds the courage to sit with her. Discovering Leanderâs cruel breakup note by her bedside, Sebastianâs grief turns into a cold, protective fury; he incinerates the evidence of Leander's cowardice, sparing her the pain of the betrayal. In the quiet of the ward, he offers his long-overdue apology and makes a silent, tragic vow: to never love again, believing his affection is the very thing that invites disaster upon those he holds dear.
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Nurse Blainey, Her (OC)
Word Count: ~880 words
Masterlist
Sebastian arrived at the Hospital Wing as the evening shadows stretched long and skeletal across the stone floors. He was a walking ghost. His left sleeve, once merely stained, was now a stiff, dark crust of dried blood that had seeped through every layer of his uniform over the course of a day spent in a catatonic trance of classes and detention.
The heavy doors groaned as he pushed them open. He didn't look at the rows of empty beds. He didn't look at the weak, amber light of the setting sun beginning to bleed through the high windows. He only saw the white curtains at the end of the ward.
"Nurse BlaineyâŠ"
His voice was a rusted hinge, the first words he had spoken since heâd whispered those ragged, desperate thanks to Ominis in this very ward the night before.
Noreen Blainey was hunched over her desk, the frantic scratch of her quill the only sound in the ward until she looked up. Her face was initially tight with the lingering fury of the night before. But as her gaze fell upon himâthe gaunt hollows of his cheeks, the soot still smeared into his hairline, and the shredded, blood-soaked fabric of his armâher expression buckled into the protective, weary dedication she had always held for the Sallow boy. She had watched him get into trouble for seven years, usually with a smirk or a witty retort; to see him this silent was far more alarming than any hex.
"Sit," she commanded, her voice softening.
She didn't use a numbing charm. She didn't have time. The fabric of his shirt had dried into the jagged canyon of the wound on his arm. As she began to peel the linen away, the sound was sickeningâa wet, tearing noise that should have made him scream.
Sebastian didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stared at the white curtains, his body a map of misery that had long since surpassed the capacity for physical sensation. To Sebastian, the stinging of the antiseptic and the pull of the skin were mere whispers compared to the screaming silence in his head.
"She is still in a coma," Noreen whispered as she wrapped his arm in fresh, dittany-soaked gauze. "But she is stable. The mending is taking hold."
Sebastian simply nodded, a mechanical movement.
"You can see her if you want, Mr. Sallow," she murmured, securing the final fold of the gauze.
Sebastian finally lifted his gaze from the floor, looking back at Nurse Blainey with an expression so haunted it made her breath hitch.
"Go, sit with her," the nurse urged softly, her hand lingering on his good shoulder with a brief, supportive squeeze. "Go."
Sebastian stood and walked toward the curtains. Every step felt like he was wading through deep, freezing water. He was terrified of what he would find, but even more terrified of the realization that had been hardening in his chest all day.
He was cursed.
It was the only logical conclusion. Everyone he dared to love was eventually stripped away from him by the same hand of fate. His parents, lost to a lamp and a puff of smoke. Solomonâa man heâd hated, yet the only mirror he had left of his fatherâdead by his own wand. Anne, his twin, his soul, now a ghost he only reach through monthly owls and potions she might never drink. And now her.
He had spent weeks building a barrier of distractionsâGrace, Nerida, Sacharissaâtrying to convince himself he didn't need her, all because heâve been afraid of this very moment. Heâve finally been ready to open up, to apologize for the North Hall incident, to tell her that the "bad influence" was just a boy who was drowning in his own feelings for her. But the moment heâd let the thought in, the world had set her on fire.
He crept behind the curtain.
The sight of her made his heart feel as though it were being crushed by an invisible hand. She was impossibly pale, her skin almost translucent against the white linen. Her breathing was shallow and rhythmic, a fragile, artificial thing maintained by the coma.
He spotted the medical clipboard at the foot of the bed. His eyes scanned it with a desperate, clinical hunger, searching for a riddle he could solve, a curse he could break.
He saw the list of allergies. He saw the word Infertile scrawled in the diagnostic notes. He didn't pause. He didn't care. He kept reading until he found the indictment: âMagical core critically depleted (Level III). Dark spell impact to the chest. Aura heavily scarred.â
He looked at her hands, resting limp on the sheets. She was empty. He had brought the "Hero of Hogwarts" to a place where her own magic had tried to consume her just to keep her alive.
The bedside table was clutteredâa bouquet of yellow tulips, a few letters of encouragement from friends. And then, he saw it.
A small piece of parchment, folded neatly, sitting on the edge of the wood. The handwriting was unmistakable: Leanderâs elegant, arrogant script.
Sebastian took it, his fingers fumbling with a fresh surge of bitter jealousy. He expected a poem. He expected a plea for her to wake up. Instead, as he read the words, his heart didn't just go coldâit turned to ash.
âDo not look for me when you wake...â
The cold fury that washed over him was more potent than any Firewhisky. He looked at the girl who had lied to her boyfriend, risked her standing with the Ministry, and nearly burnt out her very soul just to explore a reckless lead he and Ominis had found about her ancient magic, and then he looked at the note from the man who had supposedly "loved" her.
Leander hadn't just left her. He had insulted her while she was too broken to defend herself.
"Coward," Sebastian hissed, his voice a low, vibrating snarl.
He drew his wand, his motion sharp and predatory. With a silent, focused intent, he let a small spark of magic jump from the tip of the wood to the corner of the parchment. He watched the flame catch, the parchment curling and blackening, the words turning into gray flakes that drifted onto the stone floor. It was a small, defiant act of mercy; she would never have to know how quickly the safety sheâd traded her spark for had turned its back on her.
"I'm sorry," Sebastian whispered, the words finally breaking through.
He pulled a chair to the bedside, his movements heavy. He took her limp hand in hisâthe skin cold, the pulse faintâand rested his forehead against the edge of the mattress. The tears heâd been holding back since the forest finally spilled, hot and silent, soaking into the white fabric.
"I'm so sorry. I should have said it a thousand times. I'm sorryâŠ"
He stayed there in the silence, the only sound the rhythmic tick of the ward's clock. For a few minutes, the "curse" didn't matter. The detentions didn't matter. There was only the weight of her hand and the crushing truth of his own failures.
The loud, discordant chime of the castle bell shattered the peace, signaling the change of hour. Detention.
Sebastian sat up, drying his eyes with the rough wool of his sleeve. He looked at her one last time, a dark, protective resolve hardening behind his grief. If the world was going to take everyone he loved, he would simply have to stop providing it with victims. He would never allow himself to love againânot because he was cold, but because it was the only way to keep the world safe from the rot of his own life.
He leaned down, pressed a lingering, ghost-light kiss to the back of her hand, and stepped out from behind the curtain. He didn't look back as he left the ward, his face setting into the hard, unyielding mask of a man who would never let anyone close enough to be destroyed by him again.
Summary: The illusion of the "proper girl" shatters when Leander confronts the jagged reality of the Slytherins' injuries. Realizing the "fever" was a ruse to slip away with Sebastian, Leander rushes to the Hospital Wing. His initial desire to protect herâeven after discovering the devastating clinical news of her infertilityâis instantly poisoned by the realization of her "betrayal." Viewing her choice of the forest over the victory party as a personal humiliation, Leander abandons his "investment," leaving a cold, final note that severs their future forever.
Characters: Leander Prewett, Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt (cameo).
Word Count: ~950 words
Masterlist
Leander noticed the cracks in the world first during Herbology.
Professor Garlick was discussing the temperament of Venomous Tentacula, but Leander wasnât listening. His gaze was fixed on the workstation across the greenhouse. Sebastian Sallow was a walking wreckage; an angry, jagged scratch bisected his cheek, and the left sleeve of his school shirt was darkened with fresh blood. Beside him, Ominis Gaunt was even worse, his skin mottled with strange, ink-black bruises that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
But it was her absence that turned the dread in Leanderâs stomach into a cold, heavy stone.
He remembered the "fever" from the night beforeâthe way she had looked so small and fragile when sheâd told him she needed to rest. He had believed her. He had spent the victory party making excuses for her, playing the part of the concerned, devoted partner while his teammates toasted to his success. Now, looking at the bruised and silent Slytherins, the realization hit him like a physical blow: she hadn't been in bed.
The moment class was dismissed, Leander didn't head for the Great Hall. He intercepted Sebastian in the connecting corridor, his movements aggressive and fast.
He shoved Sebastian hard against the stone wall, the impact echoing through the hallway. He didn't use a wand; he used his hands, gripping Sebastianâs robes and shaking him with a strength fueled by pure, survivalist rage. The physical pain of the impact did nothing to Sebastian; it was a distant, insignificant sting compared to the crushing weight of the image burned into his mindâthe sight of her, pale and broken, on that hospital bed.
"Where is she?" Leander hissed, his face inches from Sebastianâs.
Sebastian didn't resist. He didn't even sneer. He looked at Leander with eyes so sunken and exhausted they looked like hollowed-out sockets. He was a dead weight in Leanderâs grip, his silence the loudest admission of guilt Leander had ever heard.
"WHERE IS SHE?" Leander roared, his voice cracking, shoving him again against the walls.
"Hospital Wing," Sebastian whispered, the words sounding like they were being dragged over broken glass.
Leander let go as if the fabric of Sebastianâs robes had suddenly turned to fire, shoving him aggressively one last time against the stone wall. "Youâll pay for this, Sallow," he spat, his voice trembling with a dark promise. He didn't wait for a response. He ran.
The Hospital Wing was a tomb of white linen and the sharp, clinical scent of dittany. He pushed past the heavy doors and found her behind the white curtains at the far end of the ward. She was unconscious, her face a deathly, translucent white. Her breathing was a rhythmic, fragile rasp that made his own lungs ache.
Panic seized him. He needed to know the damage. He needed to know if she was still the future he had staked his reputation on. He spotted the Healerâs clipboard resting on the nightstand. With trembling fingers, he snatched it up, his eyes scanning past a routine list of minor allergies and underlying conditions, only to stop when they snagged on a single, clinical word: Infertile.
A wave of visceral nausea washed over him, followed immediately by a frantic, calculating sort of grief.
He thought of his motherâs letterâthe demand for "big numbers" and "healthy grandchildren." But as he looked at the girl on the bed, he didn't immediately feel hate. He felt a desperate need to protect his investment. I can make this work, he thought, his mind racing through a dozen different lies he could tell the manor. He could claim the report was a mistake, or better yet, use her status as the 'Hero of Hogwarts' to shame his parents into silence. She was a legend; surely that was worth more than a few heirs? He could shield her. He could keep this secret for her, becoming her only ally against the weight of the Prewett name. For a moment, his love for herâdistorted as it was by his need for controlâsurged, and he reached out to touch her hand.
But then his eyes drifted to the timestamp of the admissionârecorded barely hours after she had pleaded for rest and slipped away to her dormitory. The timeline was an indictment. And the nature of the injuries was a checklist of horrors: deep lacerations, critical loss of blood, magical core critically depleted (level III), impact of a direct dark spell to the chest, severe magical backlash, prolonged exposure to Forbidden Forest spores, and a status of medically induced coma to manage internal hemorrhaging.
The "fever" was a lie. The "rest" was a ruse. She hadn't been sick; she had acted that fever so well he had truly believed her, laughing at his concern while she slipped away into the dark with the one person she knew he hated.
The realization turned his blood to ice. He hadn't been her protector; he had been her fool. While he was standing in the Common Room defending her absence to his cousins and teammates, she was in a cave with Sallow, risking the very legacy he was prepared to lie to his parents to save.
His paranoia sparked into a white-hot flame. He imagined them togetherâSebastianâs hands on her, their shared whispers about the "Star Captain" who was too stupid to see through a simple act. He saw her silence not as a symptom of a coma, but as the final, ultimate defiance. She had chosen the mud over the silk. She had chosen the orphan over the Prewett.
The love he had felt moments ago curdled into a cold, permanent resentment. She wasn't a victim; she was a traitor.
He grabbed a scrap of parchment and a quill, his hand shaking so violently the ink splattered across the wood. He didn't write a plea. He wrote a sentence that felt like a sentence of death.
âI will not be the punchline to a joke you and Sallow share. Do not look for me when you wake; there is nothing left to save.â
He didn't sign it. He placed the note on her bedside table, his eyes lingering on her pale face one last timeânot with love, but with the clinical disgust of a man looking at a wasted investment.
He fled the Hospital Wing, his heart heavy with a bitterness that would define him for years. The dream of the Prewett bride was dead, and as he stepped out into the sunlight of the corridor, he began the process of erasing her from his history, convinced that every kindness he had ever shown her had been a weapon sheâd used against him.
Summary: Dragged from the trauma of the Hospital Wing to the cold heights of the Headmasterâs Tower, Sebastian and Ominis face the combined fury of Professors Weasley and Black. While Blackâs traditionalist biases spare Ominis from his direct venom, he makes Sebastian the scapegoat for the "PR nightmare" of a dying hero. Sentenced to a crushing, year-long confinement under the watchful eye of the Slytherin Prefect, Marcus, the boys return to a dormitory fractured by guilt and silent resentment. Sebastian begins his new life as a "ghost in a uniform," haunted by the literal blood he washed down the drain.
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Professor Weasley, Headmaster Black, Marcus (Slytherin Prefect), Deek (briefly).
Word Count: ~1150 words
Masterlist
"Not talking?" Professor Weasleyâs voice was a low vibration of disappointment, stripped of the warmth that usually defined her. "Both of youâstand up. Follow me."
She didn't wait for them to find their balance. She turned on her heel and marched out of the Hospital Wing, her footsteps a furious, staccato rhythm against the stone floor. Sebastian and Ominis followed like Inferi, their movements clumsy and stiff with a pain that was both physical and spiritual. Sebastianâs arm throbbed with every heartbeat, and Ominis moved with a heavy, pained hitch in his stride, his body visibly yielding to the weight of those deep, unyielding bruises that had stubbornly resisted even Nurse Blaineyâs most potent restorative charms.
"So," Weasley began, her voice echoing through the silent, torch-lit corridors. "It seems the two of you have a very large, very dangerous secret. Perhaps a conversation with your Headmaster will loosen your tongues."
With a sharp snap of her fingers, a house-elf Sebastian recognized instantlyâDeekâmaterialized in a soft flurry of magic. Matilda didn't offer her usual warm greeting; instead, she looked down at him with a weary, urgent gravity. "Deek, find Scrope. Tell him we are on our way to the Headmasterâs office with students. Tell him to wake Professor Black at once; this is a matter that cannot wait for dawn."
They were led toward the Headmaster's Tower. The massive enchanted gargoyle at the base of the stairs moved with an audible groan of reluctance, as if even the castle itself resented being disturbed at such an hour.
Inside the circular office, the air was stagnant and cold. They were instructed to sit in the high-backed chairs before the massive desk. The minutes they spent waiting were an agony of silence, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the various silver instruments on the shelves.
When Phineas Nigellus Black finally arrived, he was a study in controlled, sleepy malice. He had clearly dressed in haste; his hair was combed back with a hurried hand, and his thick, velvet robes were cinched tight against the nightâs chill. Matilda Weasley stepped forward, leaning down to whisper into Blackâs ear. As she spoke, the Headmasterâs expression shifted from irritation to a cold, burning fury.
He didn't sit immediately. He stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight, before turning to fix them with a sneer that only deepened as his gaze lingered on Sebastian. The disdain was a palpable, freezing force.
He sat down, the leather of his chair creaking. "What will the Ministry think of this?" he asked, the question directed at the ceiling rather than the boys.
He pointedly ignored Ominis. Even in his rage, Black was a man of tradition; the Gaunts were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Despite their "eccentricities," they carried a weight of blood that Black was programmed to respect. Sebastian, however, was the perfect targetâan orphan, a troublemaker, a boy of "unknown stock."
"I have heard you have a knack for finding trouble, Mr. Sallow," Black said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "But it seems you have decided to bring my finest studentâour dearest school heroâalong for the ride."
He spat the word 'hero' with a reluctant edge. He didn't like herâher lineage was a mystery and her power was an anomalyâbut her victory over Rookwood had made her a political necessity. To have her dying in a school bed was a PR nightmare he couldn't afford.
"What happened tonight?" he interrogated, leaning over the desk until he was inches from Sebastian's face.
Sebastianâs jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He looked at the Headmaster, but the words were stuck in his throat. The fear that had been building since the forestâthe terror of her pale face and the slow-motion memory of her collapseâhad paralyzed his tongue. He was a statue of guilt.
Matilda Weasley watched them, her brows drawn together in surprise. It was rare for Sebastian Sallow to be silenced by authority; his lack of defiance was the loudest admission of guilt he could have offered.
"No answers, then?" Black said, his voice rising. "Fine. If you cannot speak, you shall serve. You will both serve a ridiculous amount of detention for the remainder of the school year. Your curfew will be more aggressive than any student has seen in a century. If you are not in class or detention, you will be in your dormitory. You are confined, do you understand?"
He looked at them with pure contempt. "And the second the beloved 'Hero of Hogwarts' is safe and out of that hospital, there will be a massive house point deduction for each of you. For her to be put in danger because of your recklessness is absurd. And don't get me started on what awaits the two of you if she does not recover."
He said 'the two of you,' but his eyes stayed locked on Sebastian. To Sebastian, it felt like a personal vow of destruction.
The walk back to the Slytherin dungeons was a funeral procession. Professor Weasley escorted them herself. On the way, she stopped to wake Marcus, the Slytherin Prefect. Marcus sat up in his bed, looking disarmingly unpolished as he clutched his sheets to his chest in a daze, but he went dead serious the moment Weasley whispered her orders to him.
She led the boys to their room and closed the door without a word.
The silence of the dorm was worse than the shouting. Ominis lay on his bed, his back turned to Sebastian. He was a storm of silent fury. He was angry at his own foolishness, but the worry he felt for her was too vast to process. Instead, he channeled it all into a cold, sharp resentment toward Sebastianâthe one who had pushed for the mission, the one who had brought them to the cave.
Sebastian lay on his own bed, still in his soot-stained, blood-crusted robes. He didn't even have the energy to undress. Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness of the room became the darkness of the forest. He saw her fall in slow motion. He heard the wet, painful gasp of her last breath before the blackout. He lay there, staring at the underside of his bed canopy, until the green light of the lake through the windows began to pale into the grey of morning.
A sharp, rhythmic knocking at the door startled him. He sat up, his body screaming in protest. Ominis was already gone.
The door opened and Marcus stepped in. The Prefect was usually cool and friendly, but today his face was a flat mask of duty.
"I don't know what you did this time, Sallow," Marcus said, his voice level. "But Black is beyond livid. He's put me in charge of your shadow. Strict curfew. Class, detention, dorm. That's it. No tea in the Hall, no Hogsmeade. I don't even know if he'll let you finish the Quidditch season."
Sebastian didn't say a word. He sat on the edge of the bed, a ghost in a torn school uniform.
"Get ready for class," Marcus added, turning to leave. "You don't want to give them an excuse for more."
One minute passed. Then five. Sebastian didn't move. His lips were parched, his limbs felt like lead, and the world felt miles away. A second, sharper rap on the door brought him back. Marcus was standing there again, his expression softening with a flicker of genuine concern.
"Wow," Marcus muttered. "You really messed up this time, didn't you?"
He walked over, grabbed the front of Sebastianâs dusty shirt, and hauled him to his feet. "Showers. Now," he commanded, his voice hard but not unkind. He looked Sebastian in the eye, making sure the boy was actually present. "Then class. Then detention. Then back here."
Sebastian obeyed mechanically. He stood under the spray of the shower for a long time. The water was icy cold, but he didn't even feel the chill; instead, his focus was consumed by the sharp, agonizing sting that erupted in his wounds the moment the water touched his skin. He didn't flinch. He simply watched the Highland mud and the dark smears of her blood swirl down the drain, leaving his skin raw and pale.
He dressed in a clean uniform, the fabric feeling like a shroud. He made his way to History of Magic, arriving late. Professor Binns didn't even pause his lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289 to acknowledge him.
Sebastian slid into his seat next to Ominis. His friend didn't look at him. He sat perfectly still, a wall of ice between them. Sebastian tried to focus on Binnsâs monotone voice, but the silence of the room was filled with images: the pale curve of her neck, the bruises on Ominisâs arms, and the terrifying, hollow weight of a world where she might never wake up.
Summary: In the cold, clinical shadow of the Hospital Wing, the cost of the Forbidden Forest becomes clear. Under the icy, furious gaze of Professor Weasley, Sebastian and Ominis are forced into a paralyzing vigil. While Nurse Blainey and Weasley fight to stabilize her through a magical coma, the boys are left to drown in their own physical and emotional wreckage. Sebastian is consumed by the "poison" of his unsaid apologies, while Ominis bears the literal purple ruptures of the dark magic he unleashed to save them.
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Professor Weasley, Nurse Blainey.
Word Count: ~1050 words
Masterlist
The heavy oak doors of the Hospital Wing swung open with a violent, echoing bang as Sebastian attempted to stumble out into the corridor. He didn't make it two steps before he collided with a solid, formidable figure.
"Professor Weasley?" the name tore from his throat in a ragged, desperate rush.
Matilda Weasley stood at the threshold, her traveling cloak still fastened, suggesting she had been alerted the moment the wards were tripped. Her gaze, usually sharp with a maternal kind of sternness, fell upon him and froze. Sebastian was a nightmare in the flickering torchlightâhis face was a map of soot and tear-stains, his school robes were shredded at the shoulder, and his left arm was slicked with a dark, terrifying amount of blood.
Behind him, Ominis stood in the middle of the room, his face a ghostly, translucent white. He was gasping for air, his sightless eyes wide and unfocused, his fingers digging into his own arms as if trying to anchor himself against the waves of pain and shock.
Professor Weasleyâs expression hardened into a mask of pure, icy fury. Before she could speak, a frantic, high-pitched voice called from deep within the ward.
"Matilda? Is that you? A hand, pleaseânow! I can't keep the internal hemorrhaging under control and maintain the stabilization charm at the same time!"
It was Nurse Blainey. Her voice, usually a soothing balm of professional calm, was raw with a panic that made Sebastianâs knees buckle.
Professor Weasleyâs eyes flickered between the two boysâone bleeding, one breakingâand the closed white curtains at the end of the ward. "Inside. Both of you," she commanded, her voice vibrating with a low, dangerous frequency. "Take a seat on those chairs. Do not move. Do not speak. You have a great many things to explain, and Merlin help you both if those explanations aren't sufficient."
The minutes that followed didn't feel like time; they felt like a slow, rhythmic drowning.
Behind the closed curtains, the silence was a lie, filled with the hushed, frantic murmurs of incantations and the sharp, clinical clink of glass phials. Every few seconds, a pulse of silver or white light would spill out from beneath the fabric, illuminating the dust motes in the air like tiny, mocking stars.
Ominis sat motionless, his head bowed so low his chin touched his chest. His mind was a traitorous loop, replaying the snap of the branches, the scream he hadn't been fast enough to stop, and the way every step of his solo trek back to the castle had felt like bone grinding against bone, a solitary, agonizing crawl through the dark while his body buckled under the backlash of the magic heâd unleashed.
The question of why he had ever agreed to go haunted him, a heavy, suffocating cloak. He had let himself be influenced again. He had allowed the thrill of being useful and the reckless pull of Sebastianâs addiction for trouble to lead him away from the safety of the castle. He was a Gaunt; he knew the cost of darkness better than anyone, yet he had walked right into it, and now the girl who had become his sight in a world of shadows was fading behind a piece of linen.
Sebastian sat opposite him, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, his hands buried deep in his hair. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear the stone floor up with his bare hands just to feel something other than the crushing vacuum in his chest.
Only one image played behind his eyelids: her pale, unconscious face, and the thin, jagged trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth.
The guilt was a physical poison. He remembered the North Hallâthe way heâd called her darling with such condescending venom, the way heâd mocked her for wanting safety. He had been so busy being jealous, so busy being a "managed" prototype for Sacharissa, that he hadn't apologized. He hadn't told her the truth. Heâd let her walk into a death trap thinking he hated her choice, when all heâd ever wanted was for her to choose him.
His heart pounded against his ribs with a frantic, animalistic rhythmâa drumbeat of too late, too late, too late. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and his vision began to swim with black spots, the hospital wing shrinking into a long, suffocating tunnel of stone and shadow. He felt a deep, chilling sense of unreality, as if he were a ghost watching his own destruction.
Finally, the rustle of fabric signaled the end of the immediate crisis. Professor Weasley emerged from behind the curtains.
She looked ten years older. Her hair was coming loose from its pins, and her face was set in a hard, unyielding line that brooked no mercy. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her anger a palpable, vibrating force in the quiet room.
"She is stable," Weasley whispered, the words cutting through the air like a blade. "For now. Nurse Blainey has induced a magical coma to allow the internal mending to take hold without the interference of her own magic."
She stepped closer, her shadow looming over them. "Now," she said, her tone as cold as winter frost, "care to tell me what kind of madness possessed the three of you to navigate out of this school and into the depths of the Forbidden Forest after curfew? To seek out such dangers that have left her in a state that has nearly cost her her life?"
Neither boy could speak. They were frozen in a state of emotional paralysis, the weight of the "stable for now" hanging over them like a guillotine.
Nurse Blainey finally emerged from the cubicle, her apron stained and her forehead beaded with sweat. She carried a tray of supplies, her hands still trembling slightly. While Professor Weasley continued her silent, burning interrogation, Noreen moved to the boys.
Compared to the girl behind the curtain, their wounds were an insult. She began to tend to them with a rough, efficient silence. Ominisâs robes were pulled back to reveal skin mottled with deep, angry purple bruises that looked more like internal ruptures than impact marks. When questioned, he offered no explanation, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line that discouraged further inquiry, but Sebastian watched out of the corner of his eye, the chilling suspicion taking root that the force of the curse Ominis had unleashed to save them had been too much for his own body to contain.
When the nurse reached Sebastian, she hissed through her teeth. The cut on his arm was deep, a jagged canyon through the muscle that was still sluggishly weeping blood. She pressed a pad of dittany-soaked gauze into the wound with unnecessary force, making him flinch, but he didn't make a sound. Noreen assumed his deathly pallor was a logical consequence of either the significant blood loss or the trauma of seeing the girl behind the curtain in such a state. To Sebastian the physical pain was a mercy; it was the only thing that made him feel like he was still alive.
"The three of you," Noreen muttered, her voice thick with exhaustion as she wrapped Sebastian's arm. "You're lucky to be breathing."
Sebastian looked at the white curtain, the heavy silence of the ward pressing against his eardrums like a physical weight. The adrenaline that had carried him through the forest was gone, leaving only a cold, hollow terror in its wake. He looked down at his trembling hands, still stained with the dark, drying proof of his own recklessness, and realized that while she fought for her life behind a piece of linen, the silence was the loudest accusation he had ever heard.
Summary: The midnight excursion to the Forbidden Forest turns into a nightmare when the trio is ambushed by a dark witch at the caveâs entrance. After a brutal magical exchange, she is struck by a devastating necrotic curse that leaves her clinging to life. In a desperate, self-sacrificing display of power, Ominis unleashes an ancient Gaunt incantation to end the threat, leaving himself physically broken. Sebastian is forced to carry her through the forest in a frantic race against time, delivering her to the hospital wing while drowning in the guilt of their unspoken apologies.
Characters: Her (OC), Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt, Dark Witch, Nurse Blainey.
Word Count: ~950 words
Masterlist
The Forbidden Forest didn't just feel cold; it felt alive, the shadows breathing against the back of her neck like a predator scenting a trail.
As they moved deeper into the undergrowth, the suffocating memory of Leanderâs "proper" expectationsâthe silk scarves, the etiquette lessons, the promise of a big house with gnomesâbegan to peel away like dead skin. The weight of being a Prewett bride-in-training was replaced by the familiar, electric hum of her own power. Tonight, she wasn't a doll. She wasn't manageable. She was the witch who had survived the trials, who had fought one of the most feared wizards of their century twice, and the darkness of the forest felt more like home than the Gryffindor boy's arms ever could.
They reached the cliffside where the cave yawned open, a jagged, ink-black maw in the stone. There, etched into the lintel, was the symbol: a swirling, ancient script that vibrated with a low, silver frequency only she could truly perceive.
"It's here," Sebastian whispered, his wand out, the tip glowing with a sharp, steady light. His messy hair was windswept, and his eyes were alight with a reckless hunger that matched her own. "I told you it wasn't just a rumor."
But the cave was not empty.
Before she could reach for the symbol, the shadows at the entrance curdled. A dark witch, her robes tattered and infused with a sickly, necrotic energy, stepped into the light. Her eyes burned with a malevolent green fire that had nothing to do with House pride and everything to do with madness.
The air snapped.
"Bombarda!" she cried, the spell erupting from her wand with the force of a thunderclap. The ground beneath the witchâs feet disintegrated into a spray of shale and dust.
Sebastian moved with a predator's grace, sliding into a flanking position. "Confringo!" he roared. His blast hit the witch's shield with a blinding explosion of orange sparks, the heat of the impact singeing the air.
They moved as a single unit, a dance they had perfected in the shadows of the Undercroft. There were no scripts here, no masksâonly the raw, jagged rhythm of survival.
But the witch was faster than she looked. She twisted through the air, her movement a blur of smoke, and unleashed a jagged, purple arc of magic.
Her shield faltered for a fraction of a heartbeatâa second of hesitation born from weeks of being told to "restrain" herself. It was enough.
The curse hit her square in the chest.
It didn't feel like a spell; it felt like a thousand rusted needles being driven through her skin at once, followed by a liquid fire that raced through her veins toward her heart. Her knees buckled. The world tilted, the canopy of the forest spinning into a dizzying, dark whirlpool. She hit the stone floor, her vision fraying at the edges.
"Ominis!" Sebastianâs scream sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Ominis, who had been a silent anchor in the shadows, moved. He didn't shout. He didn't boast. He became a silent storm of pure, unadulterated power. His wand movements were miniscule, precise, and utterly terrifying. Silent bursts of energy ripped through the chamberâmagic that didn't glow, but instead seemed to swallow the light around it.
She tried to call out to them, to tell them to run, but all that escaped her was a wet, painful gasp. The world began to fade to a cold, clinical black.
In his desperation, Ominis unleashed something ancient and forbiddenâa Gaunt incantation that hissed through the air like a serpentâs breath. The dark witch screamed as the spell tore through her; threads of a dark, thick black liquid started dripping through the place in the middle of her stomach where the spell impacted, turning into small, writhing snakes the moment they touched the ground, draining her form until she shrivelled like a raisin, completely dried out. But the cost was immediate. Ominis collapsed to his knees, his breath coming in ragged, broken sobs, his skin already beginning to mottle with the deep, internal bruising of a body that had been used as a conduit for a curse it wasn't meant to hold.
Sebastian, his own arm sliced open and weeping blood, didn't look at the defeated enemy. He saw only herâmotionless, her skin turning a deathly, translucent white.
A wave of pure, animalistic terror washed over him. He scrambled across the stone, scooping her into his arms. She felt impossibly light, like a bird with broken wings.
"Ominis!" Sebastian yelled, his voice a raw, jagged edge of panic.
"I'm fine!" Ominis choked out, his breath coming in shallow, agonizing hitches as he fought to find his footing. He gestured toward the girl with a trembling hand, his sightless eyes wide with horror. "Don't worry about me... help her! Go!"
Sebastianâs frantic nod was as much for his own fading resolve as it was for his friend. He looked at Ominis, who was swaying and clutching his chest in shock, the bruises already blooming like dark, poisonous flowers across his skin.
Sebastian made a split-second decision. He couldn't apparateânot with her magic flickering like a dying candle. A splinch would kill her instantly. He had to run.
He surged to his feet, her head lolling against his shoulder. He ran through the Forbidden Forest, the cold October air cutting into his lungs like glass. He ignored the burning agony in his arm, the wood chips embedded in his skin from the explosions, and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
The realization that he had never apologized hammered against his skull with every jarring step. He had mocked her and pushed her away, allowing her to walk into this nightmare believing that the bridge between them was finally broken.
He ran past the school gates, through the silent, echoing hallways of the castle, a ghost carrying a corpse. He didn't stop until he reached the closest Floo, his voice a desperate, guttural howl: "Hospital Wing!"
The green flames deposited him into the ward, the smell of antiseptics and clean linen a jarring contrast to the scent of blood and damp earth.
"Nurse Blainey! Please! Help her!" he screamed, his knees finally giving out. He stayed upright only by the sheer force of his grip on her.
Noreen Blainey rushed from her office, her face a mask of initial fury at the curfew break that dissolved the moment she saw the girl in Sebastianâs arms. "Lay her on the bed! What are you waiting for, boy? Move!"
Sebastian obeyed, laying her down with hands that shook so violently he could barely release her. He stepped back, covered in her blood and his own, his chest heaving as the adrenaline began to sour into a crushing, paralyzing guilt.
"Curtains!" the nurse barked.
With a sharp snap of magic, the white fabric closed around the bed, severing his connection to the only person who mattered.
A moment later, Ominis stumbled into the ward, his robes shredded and his face the color of ash. He walked toward Sebastian, his hand finding his friend's shoulder with unerring accuracy. Sebastian flinched, his body rigid as a board.
He looked at Ominisâat the bruises already darkening his friend's neck and armsâand felt a surge of helpless, sickening gratitude. But he couldn't stay. He couldn't look at the curtains.
"Thanks, Ominis," Sebastian whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "Whatever you did... you saved us."
He pulled away before Ominis could respond, turning and fleeing toward the door, desperate to hide the wreckage of his face before the worldâor Professor Weasleyâfound him.
Summary: Under a proprietary midday sun, Leander outlines a suffocating future of Ministry desks and domesticity, forcing her to trade her Auror ambitions for a "safe" lie. To escape the stifling Gryffindor victory party and Leander's "Star Captain" ego, she utilizes a potent Fever-Fudge derivative from Garreth Weasley to stage a convincing medical emergency. With Ominis acting as her cynical accomplice and Poppy safely sent off to the Hufflepuff wake, she sheds the "proper girl" persona and prepares to head into the Forbidden Forest.
Characters: Her (OC), Leander Prewett, Ominis Gaunt, Poppy Sweeting.
Word Count: ~1100 words
Masterlist
The midday sun cast dancing reflections on the water of the Transfiguration Courtyard fountain, the dragon statue at its center spouting a jet of sparkling water that sounded like a constant, rhythmic shush.
Leander stood against the cool stone edge of the fountain, already armored in his crimson-and-gold Quidditch robes. The leather padding made him look broader, more like the "Star Captain" the school expected him to be. He held her close, his fingers tracing a path along her jawline with a proprietary slowness. The crimson silk scarf heâd gifted her was knotted perfectly around her neckâa splash of his house colors against her own robes.
Even amidst the warmth of the sun, a faint unease prickled at her. The past months had been a masterclass in survival; she had learned that the quickest way to end a lecture on her "singular habits" was to simply agree. Compliance was the only currency that bought her peace.
"Promise me something," Leander murmured, his voice a low rumble. He looked at her with that practiced, heavy-hearted vulnerability she now recognized as a precursor to a demand. "Promise me that when we leave Hogwarts, we'll have a proper family. A big house, with a garden full of gnomes and a gaggle of children running around."
She blinked, the image of a nursery clashing violently with her vision of an Aurorâs uniform. "Kids? You've never talked about wanting a family before, Leander. You always seemed⊠so focused on your career track at the Ministry."
He shifted, his expression softening into a look of studied earnestness. "I know. My parents have high expectations for the Prewett name, and a house full of healthy children is... essential. But with you, it feels real. It feels like a legacy worth protecting." He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "I want to see you in a home where youâre safe, not out in the mud chasing Dark wizards."
"Of course, Leander," she whispered, the lie tasting like dust. "That's all I've ever wanted."
She had learned to say the words he needed to hear, hoping that one day he might actually see her, rather than the "doll" he was trying to paint over her. She wanted the career. She wanted the adrenaline. She wasn't even sure if she wanted the gnomes, let alone the children, but she couldn't bear to see the mask of "Tyrant" return if she disagreed.
"And promise me you'll be careful," Leander continued, his tone turning instructional. "No more sneaking off to those hidden corridors or practicing those dangerous spells with Sallow. A proper wife and mother needs to be⊠well, proper. You don't want my parents thinking I've chosen a liability, do you?."
She nodded, her heart sinking. She was a sacrifice she was making in the name of a safety that felt more like a burial.
The Quidditch stands were a roar of sound as Gryffindor took on Hufflepuff. She sat nestled between Poppy and Ominis, her eyes fixed on the blur of red and yellow circling the pitch.
Sebastian was nowhere to be seen in the stands. He wasn't "Leander approved," and despite being a beater for the Slytherin team, he had no desire to sit through a game that didn't involve his own house. Heâd made up some flimsy excuse about needing to finish his assignments to skip it, but she knew he was likely already preparing for the night, waiting for the signal.
"Heâs looking at you again, isnât he?" Ominis noted, his sightless eyes directed toward the pitch where Leander had just completed a spectacular dive. "I can feel the weight of his ego from here. Itâs a wonder the broom stays level."
Poppy giggled, clutching her bag of seeds. "He does look very heroic today, though. Gryffindor is up by fifty points."
"Heroism is easy when you have an audience," Ominis countered dryly.
She didn't join the banter. Her hand was tucked deep into her pocket, fingers curling around a small glass vial Garreth had given her days ago. Heâd pressed it into her hand as a "just in case" gift for when she might want to skip a particularly tedious class. Sheâd never seriously intended to use itâshe prided herself on her work, and skipping a lecture usually just meant an exhausting mountain of catch-up work and tutoring sessions later to get back up to date. But tonight, the price of academic arrears felt trivial compared to the suffocation of another "Star Captain" victory celebration.
The vial contained one Garreths famous "Fever-Fudge" derivativesâa potent little brew that would induce a sudden, convincing pallor and a spike in body temperature for just enought time to get a note from nurse Blainey for mandatory rest, that of course garreth in his genious manged to give it a recently baked Fudge flavor.
The game ended in a deafening explosion of cheers. Gryffindor had won. As the players descended, she saw Leander being hoisted onto his teammates' shoulders. He looked radiant, the golden boy in his element.
When he finally reached her at the edge of the pitch, he was breathless and triumphant. "Did you see that? The final goal?"
"You were amazing, Leander," she said, though she kept her voice weak. She had already taken the potion. Within seconds, her skin felt clammy, and a genuine, dizzying heat began to radiate from her chest.
Leanderâs smile faltered, replaced by a look of studied concern. "Sweetheart? You're white as a sheet."
"I... I think the excitement was too much," she lied, leaning against Poppy for support. "I feel a terrible fever coming on. I should probably go to the infirmary... or just sleep it off."
Leanderâs jaw tightened. "But the victory party? Everyone is expecting us. My cousins are coming up from the village."
"Iâm so sorry, Leander," she whispered, her eyes fluttering with faked exhaustion.
He let out a long, theatrical sigh, looking at his teammates who were already calling his name. "I suppose I'll have to make your excuses. Itâs a shameâI really wanted you by my side tonight. But go. Rest. Iâll check on you tomorrow."
He leaned in to kiss her forehead, but his eyes were already darting back to the celebration. He was "sad," but the hype of the win was a far more powerful drug.
She watched him walk away, the "Star Captain" returning to his kingdom to claim his crown. Poppy remained by her side, hovering with a fretful, motherly concern as they began the slow trek back toward the castle. They hadn't gone ten paces before they ran into Ominis, who was leaning against a stone balustrade, looking entirely bored by the surrounding jubilance.
"You're missing the Hufflepuff wake, Poppy," Ominis noted, his head tilting toward the sounds of the dispersing crowd. "I imagine your house is currently in a state of mourning that can only be cured by those non-refundable butterbeer barrels."
Poppy bit her lip, looking torn. "We... we did have a plan for if we won. But as the barrels are already tapped, the Badger's sett is going to be a madhouse regardless of the score. But I can't leave her like this," she added, squeezing her hand. "Are you both sure you'll be alright?"
"Yes!" Ominis and she replied in perfect, jagged unison.
She felt a prickle of sweat on her brow, but it wasn't from the potionâit was the mounting panic that the effects were already beginning to wane. If Poppy stayed a minute longer, the "fever" would vanish right before her eyes.
"Don't worry about me, Poppy," she managed, injecting a fresh tremor into her voice. "Ominis will see me to the common room. Go. Enjoy the party. I'll be fine once I've slept."
Ominis let out a soft, dry snort. "I certainly don't enjoy those celebrations; they are always full of excessive noise and even more excessive egos. I'd much rather escort a 'sick' friend than endure another Gryffindor victory toast. Go, Poppy. Before the butterbeer gets warm."
With one last lingering look of concern, Poppy finally relented and turned back toward the pitch. The second she crossed the threshold into the castle's shadows and disappeared from view, she let out a long, explosive breath. She straightened her spine, the faked exhaustion vanishing instantly.
"The fever broke just in time," Ominis noted, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Garreth is a genius," she whispered, rubbing her cheeks to bring the color back.
"Well then," Ominis said, his wand's red pulse pointing toward the castle. "Letâs get moving. Sebastian is waiting, and Iâd hate to keep the 'bad influence' from his favorite activity."
She felt a rush of pure, honest adrenaline. The crimson scarf felt loose around her neck for the first time in weeks. The proper girl was going to bed; the witch was going to the forest.
Summary: Returning to the Undercroft to escape the stifling expectations of her life with Leander, she finds Sebastian and Ominis exactly where they belongâin the shadows. Sebastian has shed his "rebranded" persona, returning to his jagged, authentic self, while Ominis revels in the high-voltage tension between his two friends. The trio uncovers a lead on a dormant Ancient Magic site in the Forbidden Forest, sparking a reckless plan for Saturday night that forces her to choose between Gryffindor "safety" and the dangerous pull of the forbidden.
Masterlist
Characters: Her (OC), Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt.
Word Count: ~1150 words
The stone archway of the Undercroft felt less like a secret entrance and more like a welcome home. As the mechanism groaned shut, sealing out the stifling propriety of the castle, the air hit herâa heavy, cool draught of ozone, damp stone, and the vanilla-rot of old parchment. It was a scent that didn't ask her to be anything other than what she was. It had been weeks since she had stepped foot in this darkness without a curated excuse or a time limit, and she felt a small, rebellious thrill in the center of her chest. She hadn't told Leander she was coming here. She hadn't told him anything at all.
Sebastian and Ominis were already there.
Sebastian sat perched on the edge of the heavy oak table, his boot heels drumming a restless, irregular beat against the wood. The rhythm snapped the second she stepped into the light. He didn't stand, but the stillness that took him was more profound than any greetingâa raw, unpolished version of the boy sheâd watched lately, parading through the castle with Sacharissa on his arm. The stiff, high-collared shirts were gone, replaced by his usual, slightly rumpled shirts. His hair, which Sacharissa had forced into a sharp, elite part, was shorter than it had been at the start of term, but the neatness was entirely gone. He had clearly spent the last hour running his fingers through it, returning it to its natural, jagged messiness.
As he turned his head, the flickering torchlight caught a faint, sickly yellow mark on the side of his neckâthe dying shadow of a bruise that had once been a dark purple brand of ownership. It was nearly faded, a ghost of a distraction that no longer had a hold on him.
Ominis, sensing her presence, turned his head slightly in her direction. "Itâs been a while," he said, his voice flat and unreadable.
"I know," she replied, her voice echoing softly against the vaulted ceiling.
âDoes Prewett know youâve wandered so far off your leash?â Sebastian asked. His voice was a dangerous blend of silk and gravel, the kind of tone that dared her to defend a man he knew she was growing to resent. He didn't look up from the floor, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable.
She stiffened, a flash of defensiveness running through her. "Yeah. Why?" she said, trying to sound as though it were the oddest question he could have possibly asked, despite the lie tasting like copper in her mouth.
"Just rumors," Sebastian said with a careless shrug, finally meeting her eyes. "I heard he thinks weâre a bad influence on you."
"Well," she said, leaning against a stone pillar and crossing her arms, "I heard Sacharissa thinks the same about me. I suppose weâre all someoneâs bad influence."
A muscle in Sebastianâs jaw jumped at the mention of the nameâa brief, sharp flicker of the sting heâd confessed only to Ominis. He seemed genuinely annoyed, though she merely assumed he was tired of his friends criticizing his choice in a girlfriend. She had no way of knowing that the 'rebranding' had already met its bitter end within the lace-curtained walls of a Hogsmeade tea shop, or that she had unknowingly presided over its final, cold collapse as she passed by the window. Or that the girl heâd actually started to like had only ever seen him as a prop for her own obsession. The air between them felt heavy, charged with the static of the things they hadn't saidâthe "darling" insult, the pink dresses, the near-kiss in the half-light.
After a few awkward seconds of silence, she pushed herself away from the wall. The hollowness sheâd been carrying lately suddenly felt twice as heavy. She wondered what she was even doing there. Sebastian was right in a way; she couldn't just keep jumping away into a "safe" life and then jumping back into the shadows of their lives whenever she felt suffocated. She turned slightly, her hand drifting toward the exit.
Ominisâs head tilted in her direction, breaking the heavy silence with the precision of a master duelist. He could practically hear the static electricity crackling between the two of themâthe rapid, syncopated rhythm of her heartbeat clashing against the jagged, heavy thrum of Sebastianâs. To his heightened senses, the air in the Undercroft tasted of ozone and unresolved irritation, a sensory cocktail he found far more refreshing than a lecture on Muggle toasters. A small, knowing smile touched his lips; his sassy side was quietly thrilled by the sheer, awkward weight of the tension. It was a beautiful, chaotic mess, and he intended to savor every second of their shared discomfort.
"Well, since you are here," Ominis said, his voice grounding the room as he adjusted his position to "listen" more intently to the fallout, "Sebastian found something that perhaps only you can interact with. And goodness knows we could all use a distraction from the... domestic bliss of the golden boy."
She paused, her curiosity winning out over her guilt. She turned back, leaning in. "Tell me more."
Sebastianâs facade of nonchalance fell away instantly. The bored Slytherin vanished, replaced by the boy who lived for the thrill of the forbidden. He scrambled off the table and gestured to a map he had scrawled out on a piece of stained parchment.
"I found a reference to a hidden cave in the Forbidden Forest," Sebastian said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made the hair on her arms stand up. "The text said the entrance has a symbol etched into the stoneâsomething that looks exactly like the descriptions of your Ancient Magic. Itâs been dormant for centuries, hidden by a series of wards that respond to 'the source.'" He looked at her, his eyes blazing with a familiar, reckless energy. "We think youâre the only one who can get us inside."
The mention of the forest and the magic sent a rush of adrenaline through her veinsâa thrill she hadn't felt in weeks of etiquette and "restraint."
"So," she said, her own heart beginning to race. "When do we go?"
âSaturday night,â Sebastian said. He didn't just step closer; he closed the distance until the scent of old ink and sharp cloves crowded out the lingering memory of Leanderâs expensive bergamot. âAfter the game. When the rest of the castle is busy drowning in butterbeer and self-congratulation.â He paused, a teasing, challenging smirk cutting across his face as he pushed her, testing the strength of her new "safe" life. "Unless, of course, thereâs no way you can skip the celebrations if Gryffindor happens to win."
"OhâŠ" Ominis chimed in, his voice light and dripping with a subtle, gossipy edge. "It would be a crime to deprive Gryffindorâs Star Captain of your company during the victory toast, wouldn't it?"
She looked directly into Sebastians eyes, the electricity in the air snapping between them. The choice was clear: the golden circle of the Gryffindor common room, or the dark, dangerous reality of the forest.
"I'll find a way," she said defiantly.
Sebastianâs smirk widened, and for the first time in a long time, the Undercroft felt exactly the way it was supposed to.
"Well," Ominis announced, his wand's red pulse flickering toward the exit. "The board is set. Now, letâs return to our respective dormitories before the prefects decide our presence is a personal insult to their authority. We don't want to be in detention when Saturday arrives."
He moved toward the stone archway with practiced grace, slipping through the mechanism and into the shadows of the passage first.
Sebastian followed, but at the threshold, his pace faltered. He stopped, his hand catching the rough edge of the stone arch as he turned back to look at her. The reckless, challenging mask heâd been wearing all evening didn't just slip; it dissolved. He looked at her, his teeth catching his lower lip, his expression clouded by a sudden, agonizingly raw vulnerability.
"What?" she asked, her voice soft in the damp quiet of the room.
"I... I need to tell you something," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough register. The silence of the Undercroft was suddenly filled with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his own pulse, a sound so loud in his ears he was certain she could hear it too. He looked as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to apologize for the North Hall, for the "darling" insult, and for the weeks heâd spent pretending he didn't need her.
She stayed where she was, her curiosity warring with the sudden, sharp skip of her own heart as she waited for the words.
"I..." he started, his fingers tightening against the stone until his knuckles turned white.
"Sebastian?" Ominisâs voice echoed back through the stone passage, sharp and impatient. "Are you coming, or has the damp finally turned your brain to moss? Iâd rather not get caught because you were busy brooding."
The spell broke instantly. Sebastian blinked, the vulnerability shuttering behind a quick, defensive mask of composure. He let out a short, breathy laugh that didn't reach his eyes and straightened his robes.
"What was it?" she asked again, taking a small step toward the exit.
"Never mind," Sebastian said, his voice regaining its practiced, nonchalant edge. "Itâs nothing. Just... don't be late on Saturday."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving her alone with the echoing silence and the feeling that something essential had just been left unsaid.
Summary: Returning to the Slytherin common room after his public break-up with Sacharissa, Sebastian is forced to confront the stinging reality of his "rebranding." In a rare moment of raw honesty with Ominisâwho provides a much-needed distraction involving Professor Ronen and a Muggle applianceâSebastian admits that he wasn't a boyfriend, but a prop used to capture another boy's attention. Finally shedding the pomade and the pretense, he officially ends the "Sallow Speed-Dating Tour," choosing the quiet of the dark over the noise of a curated lie.
Masterlist
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt.
Word Count: ~950 words
The walk back from Hogsmeade was a blur of cold wind and crushing self-reflection. Sebastian didn't take the main path; he stuck to the shadows of the stone viaducts, his boots clicking a hollow, rhythmic beat against the frost-slicked earth.
He felt physically ill. The memory of the tea shop windowâthe way Sacharissaâs eyes had drifted past him to the street every time he tried to speakâwas a jagged glass shard in his mind. For weeks, he had told himself she was just another stop on a tour, a high-voltage distraction to keep his mind off the girl in the crimson scarf. He had lied to himself, claiming he was the one in control.
But as he walked through the freezing dark, he couldn't deny the truth anymore. He hadn't just been using her. He had actually started to enjoy the "fixing." He had started to look forward to her bossy commands and the way sheâd adjust his collar with that focused, clinical intensity. He had let himself believe that for once, someone saw him as more than a "troubled orphan." He had fallen for her, and that was the part that made the bile rise in his throat. He hadn't been a boyfriend. He had been a stage. A piece of performance art designed for an audience of one.
The Slytherin common room was quiet, bathed in the undulating, emerald light of the Black Lake. He had hoped to slip straight to the dorms, to crawl into the darkness of his four-poster and stay there until the smell of lemongrass faded from his skin. But as he crossed the threshold, a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"You're back early. Though, given your recent fondness for... inappropriate public displays, I suppose I should be grateful you've returned at all. Did the Headmaster finally run out of points to deduct for your latest spectacle?"
Ominis was seated in his high-backed chair, his wand's red pulse illuminating the sharp angles of his face.
Sebastian stopped, his jaw tight. "I thought you were in Muggle Studies."
"I was," Ominis replied, his head tilting toward the sound of Sebastian's ragged breathing. "But Professor Ronen managed to get his favorite silk bowtie caught in a Muggle egg-beater during a demonstration. He refused to let anyone cut the fabric, and the more he squirmed, the more the mechanism devoured it. He eventually dismissed the class in a panic and fled to the hospital wing, still attached to the whisk. So, Iâve had the distinct pleasure of sitting here in the silence, wondering why you sound as though youâve just run from an angry Graphorn."
Sebastian didn't answer. He started toward the stairs, his movements stiff and jerky.
"Sit down, Sebastian," Ominis commanded, his voice losing its teasing lilt. "Youâre pacing like a trapped Hippogriff."
Sebastian scoffed at the creature referenceâheâd only ever heard Sweeting use so many in a single conversationâbut dropped into the sofa opposite him. He slumped back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, his chest heaving.
"What's the matter?" Ominis asked, sensing the heavy, static-charged silence. "Did Sacharissa finally bite your tongue?"
"Shut up, Ominis," Sebastian muttered, his voice raspy.
He expected the sass to continue, but Ominis went still. He leaned forward, his sightless eyes fixed with uncanny accuracy on Sebastianâs position. "Your heartbeat... Itâs erratic. Even for you." He paused, a ghost of a smirk returning. "Don't tell me you've raised the 'Sallow Shield' victim count to three? Is it officially over?"
"You are right, Ominis, itâs over," Sebastian said, the words feeling like lead. He stood up abruptly, the movement jerky. "Now, Iâm going to bed."
"Sebastian, wait. It's way too early for going to bed, it's before 6 p.m." Ominisâs voice was firm, a hand reaching out as if to catch him. "What happened? You didn't just get bored this time. I can hear the bitterness from here. Itâs... different."
Sebastian looked down at his best friend. He wanted to lie. He wanted to tell him he was just tired of the clothes, tired of the bossy attitude that in reality turned him on, or whatever excuse he could think of. But the weight of the eveningâthe realization that he had actually offered his heart to someone who was only using it as a propâwas too much to carry alone.
"I wasn't a boyfriend, Ominis," Sebastian whispered, the truth finally breaking through his pride. He sat back down, his shoulders slumping with a sudden, exhausted honesty.
Ominis frowned. "What do you mean?"
A bitter, mirthless laugh escaping Sebastians mouth. "She wasn't looking at me. Not once. Every kiss, every clothing choice, every public display... it wasn't because she liked me. She was using me to catch another guy's eye."
"Another boy?" Ominis asked softly. "Who?"
Sebastianâs jaw tightened. He remembered the raw, hungry way Sacharissaâs gaze had tracked Prewett through the tea shop window, looking right through Sebastian as if he were made of glass. He remembered her sudden, bruising kissesâalways timed for when a group of red-and-gold robes was within line of sight. Every suggestive whisper, every 'filthy' proposal, had been a calculated broadcast in the places Gryffindors were known to haunt: the hidden Herbology corridor, beneath the Quidditch stands mid-game, or the humid shadows of the changing rooms during a Gryffindor practice. He hadn't been a lover; heâd been a weaponized exhibit of what she could do to a man.
The realization was a jagged blade twisting in his gut: Prewett had already stolen his best friend, and now the one girl Sebastian had actually dared to open his heart to was just another pawn obsessed with the Prewett name. Admitting it was himâadmitting that he had been used as a mere prop, a low-rent decoy to bait the boy he utterly loathedâwas a humiliation he could never bring himself to voice.
"It doesn't matter who," Sebastian lied, his voice turning cold. "Just some... some other bloke. Someone she actually wants." He rubbed his face with his hands, his voice dropping to a pained murmur. "The worst part is... I actually liked her. I thought Iâd found something real."
"So," Ominis said, his voice turning serious. "She used the most 'troubled' boy in school to stage a rebellion for her real target..."
"Precisely," Sebastian said, reaching up to run his fingers aggressively through his hair, destroying the last of the neat part. "I thought we had something real, Ominis. I let myself believe that for once, I was finally being seenânot as a problem to be solved, but as someone worth choosing. But I was just a mannequin being dressed in silk for a girl who was looking right through me the entire time."
The silence that followed was long and heavy. Sebastianâs jaw tightened, thinking of Leander through that glass window. But before he could sink further into his self-pity, Ominis broke the quiet with a voice that was suddenly, brutally clear.
"And how does it feel, Sebastian?"
Sebastian blinked, confused. "How does what feel?"
"Being on the other side," Ominis said, his head tilting with a clinical, aristocratic sharpness. "Being the 'shield' for once. Does it sting? Being treated like a convenient bandage for someone elseâs ego?"
Sebastian stiffened. "I don'tâ"
"Grace Pinch-Smedley," Ominis interrupted, counting off on his fingers with a dismissive elegance. "Nerida Roberts. Sound familiar? And now youâre sitting here, profoundly wounded, because Sacharissa had the audacity to do to you exactly what you've been doing to everyone else?"
The hit landed with a sickening accuracy. "Sod off, Ominis," Sebastian snapped, the words coming out cold and jagged with a hurt he couldn't quite hide. He remembered the cold way heâd walked away from Grace in the courtyard, and the clinical detachment heâd felt while kissing Nerida in the boathouse.
The red pulse of Ominis's wand went still. He took a long, slow breath, the sharp edge of his posture softening. In the sudden, heavy silenceâdevoid of its usual defiant heatâOminis seemed to recoil from his own words, as if the sound of Sebastianâs breaking pride had finally reached him. He knew how rarely Sebastian allowed anyone to see the wreckage beneath the smirks, and sensing him this truly wounded was more than Ominis could use for another lecture.
"You weren't the only one being used, Sebastian," Ominis noted, his voice losing its biting edge. "The school is full of people trying to turn others into things they aren't. Itâs a plague of performance."
Sebastian watched the dark, undulating water of the lake pressing against the glass, the green light casting sickly shadows across his hands. The sharp, clinical sting of Sacharissa's betrayal was no longer the only thing cutting through him; it was the realization that Ominis had reached behind his mask and found the rot.
Sebastian felt a sudden, sharp sting behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, throat working as he stared at the vaulted shadows of the ceiling. He squeezed his eyes shut with a desperate, trembling rigidity, fighting to keep the moisture trapped against his lids until it burned, refusing to let even a single drop escape his control. He raised his hands, rubbing his face with an aggressive, punishing force, trying to mask the tremor in his fingers by acting as though he were merely rubbing away the dregs of a bone-deep exhaustion.
"I feel like a fool," he whispered, his voice fracturing on the final word as the last of his armor finally crumbled. "A complete and utter fool."
"Good," Ominis said, though his tone was kind. "Being a fool is the first step toward being yourself again. Now, for the love of Merlin, go wash that pomade out of your hair. Tugwoodâs fragrances are far too invasive; they try entirely too hard to dominate the air."
Sebastian looked at Ominis and an exhausted but honest smile touched his lips. It wasn't the polished, practiced grin heâd worn for Sacharissa, nor the defiant smirk he used as a shield. It was just Sebastian.
"Thanks, Ominis."
"Don't thank me," Ominis grumbled, turning back to his book. "Just don't come back tomorrow with plans for victim number four. I think the castle's population of single witches is starting to dwindle."
Sebastian laughedâa short, quiet soundâand headed for the dorms. He still felt raw, and the image of the crimson scarf still stung, but as he climbed the stairs, he felt the suffocating weight of his own performance finally beginning to lift. The "Sallow Speed-Dating Tour" was dead, and for the first time in an age, he was content to be alone in the dark; he couldn't care less for the noise of his own overthinking.
Summary: While sitting in the suffocating, lace-curtained atmosphere of Steepley and Sons, Sebastian finally sees through Sacharissaâs "rebranding" project. A jarring realization in the tea shop window reveals that he hasn't been being "fixed"âheâs been meticulously molded into a carbon copy of Leander Prewett. Reclaiming his identity in a final, public outburst, Sebastian shreds the silk and pomade of his curated persona, choosing the jagged honesty of his own shadows over being a high-society placeholder.
Masterlist
Characters: Her (OC), Leander Prewett, Sebastian Sallow, Sacharissa Tugwood.
Word Count: ~950 words
Hogsmeade was bustling with the frantic energy of afternoon crowds, the central square a sea of heavy wool cloaks and the colorful bursts of exploding bonbons from Honeydukes. The transition from the wind-swept Quidditch pitch had been a calculated costume change; Leander had shed his padded training uniform from earlier, trading the crimson-and-gold gear for a tailored charcoal coat and a high collar more appropriate for a village stroll.
Walking beside Leander, she felt like a ghost inhabiting a very expensive suit of armor. He had his arm looped through hers, his stride confident and rhythmic. He looked at her every few paces with a beam of pure, proprietary pride.
"You look exceptional today," Leander noted, his voice smooth and carrying that familiar, instructional lilt. "The way you carried yourself in the village square... my parents will be very pleased. You've truly transformed yourself into what you always wanted to be, haven't you? Refined. Poised. A proper witch of standing."
She nodded, the words feeling like heavy stones in her mouth. "I suppose so," she whispered. She was in another dimension entirely, her mind a traitorous loop of the fight in the North Hall. She missed himânot the version of him she saw in the gossip, but the boy who smelled of ozone and Highlands woods. She missed the sharp, honest bite of their arguments. Lately, she had only seen Sebastian from a distance, usually with Sacharissa Tugwood on his arm. He looked happy, she told herself. He looked... manageable. Maybe this distance was good for both of them.
As they stopped briefly near the frilly, lace-curtained windows of Steepley and Sons Tea Shop, a sudden, violent gust of Highland wind swept through the narrow street. It snatched the stiff, high-crowned hat from Leanderâs head, sending it tumbling toward a muddy puddle near the drainage grate. Without thinking, she flicked her wand from her sleeve and performed a quick Accio, catching the hat mid-air just inches before it hit the muck. She handed it back to him, expecting a smile of thanks, but Leanderâs expression remained tight as he adjusted the brim with clinical precision.
âThatâs exactly the kind of thing we need to work on, sweetheart,â Leander noted, his voice dropping to that instructional, disappointed low. âUsing magic for every minor inconvenience is... well, itâs common. If you truly want to become that better version of yourselfâthe one you always say you want to beâyou have to stop that kind of thing. A proper lady doesn't need a wand to handle a bit of weather; she handles it with grace and restraint.â
She kept her eyes fixed on the cobblestones, the weight of the "better version" of herself feeling like iron manacles around her wrists as Leander guided her onward.
Inside the shop, the air was thick with the cloying scent of dried roses and the humid steam of over-steeped Earl Grey. Sebastian sat at a cramped, circular table, feeling like a specimen pinned to a board.
He was wearing a stiff, high-collared shirt of fine linenâanother part of the "rebranding" heâd funded with his inheritance money, and a very expensive rebranding in full honesty. His hair had been ruthlessly parted and slicked down with a pomade that smelled of clinical lemongrass. He looked "presentable." He looked "elite." He felt like he was suffocating.
"Hold still," Sacharissa commanded, dabbing a silk napkin at the corner of his mouth with aggressive precision. "Youâre fidgeting like a First Year. Itâs unbecoming."
"This collar is strangling me, Sacharissa," Sebastian muttered, his voice raspy.
"Itâs giving you posture, Sebastian," she countered, not looking at him, but instead peering through the lace curtains at the street outside. Her eyes narrowed as they landed on a familiar pair walking by. "Something you desperately need."
She scoured the figures outside with a clinical, hungry gaze. "Look at her," Sacharissa sniffed, gesturing toward the window. "Hair a mess, that common scarf... she looks like sheâve been dragged through a Graphorn den. Youâre lucky I saved you from that sort of... jagged lifestyle. Iâm making you better."
Sebastian looked out the window. He didn't see a mess. He saw a girl whose hair was wind-swept and real, whose eyes looked haunted even as she smiled at Prewett's script.
Sacharissa scoffed, her gaze lingering on Leander with an intensity that had nothing to do with Sebastian. "I honestly don't know what Leander sees in her. Heâs a Prewett, for heavenâs sake. High status, good breeding. He deserves someone who understands the importance of presentation. Someone who would look good on his arm at a Ministry gala. Not... that."
Sebastian didn't hear a word she said. Sacharissa's voice was nothing but a dull, rhythmic buzzing in his ears, completely drowned out by the static of his own thoughts. He couldn't understand why she was with him. He feared what Leander was doing to her, what "evil purposes" required her to be so sanitized and silent.
Her gaze flickered back and forthâfrom the sharp, aristocratic silhouette of Leander through the lace curtains to the boy sitting inches from her. She was measuring him, her eyes narrowing as she performed a silent, visual audit of his features against the original. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, fine-toothed comb, and leaned across the table.
"Itâs almost insulting, really," she murmured, her voice distracted as she watched Leander adjust his cloak outside. She turned back to Sebastian, her eyes searching his forehead as if he were a puzzle missing a piece. "That heâd choose a wild animal when he could have had someone refined. Heâs just throwing his potential away."
Her eyes darted to the street once more, capturing the precise angle of Leanderâs slicked fringe, then snapped back to Sebastian. A single, rebellious lock had drifted onto his forehead, a flaw in her design. Without breaking her visual tether to the man outside, she caught the stray hair with the teeth of her comb, dragging it back with a forceful, surgical stroke into the sharp style she had enforced. She adjusted him again and again, her gaze jumping from window to model, refining the image until the two outlines were a perfect match.
Sebastian didn't speak. He stared at her hand, then looked back to the window, only to catch his own reflection in the darkened tea shop window.
His breath hitched.
The sharp, clinical part in his hair. The specific, forced angle of the fringe, slicked back until it felt like a mask. The suffocating height of the stiff linen collar. Even the exact double-breasted cut of the coat.
His gaze flicked back to Leander, who stood just beyond the glass, adjusting his own cloak with the effortless grace of a man who owned the world.
It wasn't just a resemblance. It was a mirror.
The realization hit him like a physical blow to the stomach, a cold, oily wave of nausea that made his skin crawl with a sudden, violent need to be out of his own flesh. She hadn't been "refining" him. She hadn't been "saving" his reputation. She had been dressing a doll. She had been meticulously crafting a carbon copy of the man she actually wanted, using Sebastian as the clay for her obsession.
The truly devastating partâthe jagged edge that carved a hollow, aching hole through his chestâwas that he had actually begun to like her. For the first time, he had let his guard down. He had mistaken her controlling hand for a comforting one, her obsession with his appearance for a genuine interest in his soul. He had leaned into the "fixing" because, for a brief, delusional moment, he believed that if he could just look the part, he might finally be someone worth loving.
He felt profoundly, humiliatingly stupid. He had misinterpreted the sudden, raw intensity of her public affectionâthe way she would sit on his lap in the Great Hall or claim him with an aggressive, bruising kiss in front of a dozen witnesses. He had allowed himself to believe she wanted everyone to know he was hers, that she was staking a claim on him because he mattered. But as he watched her eyes track Prewett through the lace curtains with a raw, hungry desperation, he realized every smile, every touch, every word of "affection" had been a hollow performance staged for a specific audience. She wasn't holding his hand because she wanted him; she was using him as a high-status shield to mask her own intentions, and a low-rent decoy to bait the attention of the man she truly desired. She had been parading her handiwork in public, showing Leander exactly what she could do to a manâhow she could take the "troubled" Sallow and mold him into a proper, polished Prewett clone.
He wasn't a boyfriend. He was a decoy. He was a placeholder for Leander Prewett.
Sebastian stood up abruptly. The heavy chair screeched loudly against the stone floor, the sound like a dying bird, drawing the startled stares of every couple in the shop.
"Sebastian?" Sacharissa asked, her hand still frozen in mid-air with the comb. "What are you doing? We haven't finished our tea."
Sebastian didn't look at her. He couldn't. He felt a visceral, violent need to be out of his own skin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of goldâGalleons from the Sallow inheritance, far more than the price of ten tea servicesâand let them clatter noisily onto the table. Some rolled into the saucers; one splashed into Sacharissaâs tea.
He turned toward the door.
"Sebastian!" Sacharissaâs voice rose, a mixture of panic and sharp, social embarrassment. "Where are you going?"
"We are done, Sacharissa," he said, his voice flat and dangerous as he reached the handle. "Goodbye."
"You are not leaving me!" Sacharissa shrieked, standing up as the gold shimmered mockingly on the table. "I am breaking up with you! Do you hear me, Sallow? Youâre ungrateful! You're a project I'm glad to be rid of!"
Sebastian paused at the threshold, his hand on the brass handle. He turned his head just enough to catch her eye, a cold, jagged smirk cutting across his face.
"Splendid," Sebastian drawled, the word dripping with a lethal, quiet contempt. "Go weep on Prewettâs shoulder then; Iâm sure heâll enjoy playing the hero to your victim."
He watched as Sacharissaâs jaw fell slack, a vivid, guilty crimson blooming across her face. A small, startled smileâthe unmistakable look of a performer caught behind the curtainâflickered on her lips. She offered no denial, her silence acting as the final, damning confirmation of his fears. Sebastian didnât wait for her to recover her poise. He pushed through the door, the bell chiming a mocking little tune as the cool, honest air of the Highlands hit his face. He stopped on the cobblestones, his chest heaving.
He reached for the top button of the stiff, high collar. He didn't bother unlooping it. He gripped the fabric and yanked.
The thread snapped with a satisfying, sharp pop. The button bounced off the cobblestones and vanished into a drain. The shirt fell open at his neck, the cold wind finally reaching his skin.
He lifted a hand and aggressively ran his fingers through his hair. He clawed at the pomade, destroying the neat, artificial part, shaking his head until the strands fell messily over his forehead againâback to being his hair. Back to the "jagged" boy he actually was.
He took a long, shuddering breath. He looked across the square, catching sight of the crimson scarf as her and Leander disappeared around a corner. A surge of bitter, localized anger flared in his gutânot just at them, but at himself for letting a "shield" turn into a cage.
He turned on his heel, walking rapidly in the completely opposite direction. Alone.
So, I originally wrote this to happen at Madam Puddifootâs (even though we didn't have it in the game), but I changed my mind at the last minute. Sorry if there are still any lingering references! I really wanted to use itâwhat other place would Sacharissa love to take her man? Steepley and Sons? I don't think so, it's not nearly pink enough! But when I was working on the image for the chapter, I realized it would take me way longer than the time I had to make random game buildings look like Madam Puddifootâs. So, I went with the more game-accurate Steepley and Sons.
Summary: While attempting to lose himself in academic study, Sebastian is forced to witness the "curated" image of his best friend in Leanderâs shadow. Sensing his lingering fixation, Sacharissa utilizes a high-stakes bribe and a theatrical display of affection to pull his focus away. Despite a growing suspicion that their public trysts always seem to coincide with a Gryffindor audience, Sebastian finds the physical lure too intoxicating to resist, choosing a reckless thrill at the Quidditch pitch over the growing suspicion.
Masterlist
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Sacharissa Tugwood.
Word Count: ~950 words
The late October sun was a pale, heatless coin hanging over the Bell Tower, casting long, skeletal shadows across the lawn. Sebastian sat with his back against a stone pillar, a heavy volume on trans-species linguistics balanced on his knees. Beside him, Sacharissa was meticulously filing her nails, the rhythmic scritch-scritch of the emery board a sharp contrast to the quiet rustle of the wind.
He was trying to focus, but his mind had become a traitorous, unruly thing. He found himself staring at the same paragraph until the ink began to swim, his thoughts inevitably drifting toward the bridge, the boathouse, and the sharp, icy wreckage of his last fight with the girl who used to be his shadow. He wondered if she still had the stomach for another adventureâif the ancient magic in her blood would still sing for the forest. He was desperate for a word with her, a moment of unscripted honesty, but his mental energy was currently consumed by the logistical nightmare of her new shadow. He was constantly scanning for a weakness, trying to calculate the exact moment he could separate her from Leander Prewettâs vigilant, proprietary eyes.
The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him look up.
Leander was walking toward the castle, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. She was wearing that crimson scarf again, the silk catching the light as she tilted her head to listen to something Leander was saying. They looked like a portrait of "proper" wizarding societyâstable, polished, and utterly distant.
Sacharissa stopped filing her nails. She didn't look away; she leaned back, watching them with a calculating gaze.
"Sheâs certainly quite the celebrity, isn't she?" Sacharissa noted, her voice smooth and devoid of its usual performative trill. "The girl who saved us all. I often forget you two were such a pair, Sebastian. You were always... inseparable. Are the two of you still in speaking terms?"
Sebastian didn't look up from his book. "Yeah. Kinda. Why?"
"I don't know," Sacharissa said, tilting her head as if considering a difficult puzzle. "Itâs just... itâs a bit jarring to see her so curated. She never quite seemed like the type for Prewettâs world. Thereâs a certain... unpolished quality to her that silk canât entirely hide. Itâs almost as if sheâs trying too hard to fit a mold she wasn't built for."
Sebastian didn't argue. In a twisted, purely analytical sense, he actually agreedâbut for reasons Sacharissa could never fathom. She was right; the girl in the crimson scarf didn't fit Prewettâs world. But it wasn't because she lacked "class"; it was because she was too good for it. She was a storm being forced into a teacup, the smartest and most powerful witch heâd ever known, now being dressed in silk like a prize doll. He looked at Sacharissa, with all her meticulous ointments and artificial polish, and felt a surge of quiet, bitter conviction. Sacharissa was a masterpiece of cosmetics, but the girl walking away was a masterpiece of nature, and no amount of Tugwood vanity could ever touch her raw, effortless beauty.
Sacharissa continued, her words more carefully chosen now, as if testing the weight of his silence. "I always worried she was a bit of a burden on you. All those late nights and dangerous excursions... it never seemed to do your reputation any favors. Iâm glad youâve had the chance to focus on yourself lately. You look much more... presentable... now."
Sebastianâs jaw tightened. Presentable. He wondered what she would say if she could see them now. He imagined a conversation with herâone where theyâd trade barbs about Sacharissaâs vanity and Leanderâs stiff collar. He wondered if sheâd laugh at the absurdity of his "rebranding" or if sheâd look at him with that same wounded shock from the North Hall.
He watched her pause in the distance, her gaze flicking toward Leander before her teeth caught her lower lipâthat telltale habit sheâd never been able to break when she was anxious. It was a small, sharp motion that drew his eyes directly to the soft, dangerously pink curve of her mouth, and he wondered, with a sudden, localized heat in his chest, if heâd ever know what they tasted like. He still carried the phantom scent of herânot the clinical, curated lemongrass Sacharissa wore like armor, but the raw, honest smell of wild berries and frost-dusted grass. It was a scent that lived in his marrow, making his lungs feel too small for the hunger he couldn't name.
At the distance, Leander paused. He began to turn around, his gaze sweeping the grounds as if checking for threats.
The moment Leanderâs eyes landed on them, Sacharissa acted.
She dropped the nail file and lunged forward, throwing herself onto Sebastianâs lap. Her hands found his hair, pulling him down with a sudden, needy intensity. She kissed himânot softly, but with a bruising, theatrical passion that was impossible to ignore.
Sebastian jolted, his book sliding to the grass, but he didn't pull away. He leaned into the friction, the high-voltage distraction doing its job of drowning out the image of the crimson scarf.
Suddenly, Sacharissa pulled back, her breathing shallow, her eyes bright with a strange, frantic excitement. She didn't look at Sebastian; she glanced briefly over his shoulder toward the path before fixing him with a wide, dazzling smile.
"Letâs go to the Quidditch field," she whispered, her fingers tracing the marks on his neck.
Sebastian blinked, his brain finally catching up. "The field? But the Gryffindors are going to be practicing there. Imelda said they have the pitch until dusk."
He paused, a flicker of genuine suspicion crossing his mind. It wasn't the first time. The Great Hall, the bridge, the old greenhouses, the stands... it felt like every time they had a display of "romance," a group of Gryffindors happened to be casually around.
"The dressing rooms. Theyâll be empty," she whispered, her teeth catching his earlobe in a sharp, punishing nip that was just a fraction too hard. Sebastian let out a low hissâa sharp intake of breath that vibrated between pain and an involuntary surge of heatâbut he remained silent, his mind still tracing the suspicious timing of her proposal.
"Come on!" she insisted, giving a few insistent little bounces on his lap as she tugged at his hands. "Itâll be fun. Don't you like the thrill of maybe getting caught? Of being heard?"
Sebastianâs gaze drifted toward the distant pitch, watching the first few sparks of Gryffindor red take to the air, before snapping back to the girl in his lap. "I don't know," he countered, his voice dropping to a skeptical murmur. "We could find somewhere actually private. Ominis is busy with an elective in Muggle Studiesâweâd have the room to ourselves." He watched her closely, his mind still tracing the jagged lines of the Gryffindor pattern, wondering if his suspicion was just a phantom of his own paranoia.
Sacharissa leaned in, her lips ghosting over his ear, her voice dropping to a vibrating, suggestive purr.
"Come on, Sebastian," she whispered, the promise she made next causing his breath to hitch. "If you take me there right now... I'll let you do that thing with the silk tie you've been asking about. All of it."
The suspicion didn't vanish, but it was instantly buried under a tidal wave of adrenaline. The physical hook landed with surgical precision.
"Right," Sebastian said, a dark, reckless smirk returning to his face. He stood up in one powerful motion, lifting the weight of both of them still holding her firmly in his arms. "If itâs a thrill you want, Tugwood..."
Without another word, he shifted his hold and hoisted her over his shoulder in one fluid motion. Sacharissa let out a delighted, high-pitched squealâloud enough to echo across the lawnâas Sebastian began striding toward the Quidditch pitch, his movements confident and aggressive.
Summary: Returning to the common room with the "purple brands" of his relationship with Sacharissa on full display, Sebastian engages in a sharp-edged battle of wits with Ominis. While Ominis attempts to scold Sebastian for his "total lack of restraint," the tables turn when Sebastian teases him about his growing closeness with Poppy Sweeting. A spectacular, involuntary blush betrays Ominisâs "partnership of quiet interests," before the conversation shifts back to the shadows as Sebastian reveals a new lead on a mysterious sigil near the Forbidden Forest.
Masterlist
Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Ominis Gaunt.
Mentioned: Sacharissa Tugwood, Poppy Sweeting.
Word Count: ~620 words
Sebastian was "make-out high," his movements fluid and relaxed as he entered the Slytherin common room. He liked the weight of Sacharissaâs skirt under his fingers and the way she claimed him in publicâa territorial display that made him feel anchored, even if, at times, it felt a fraction too performative.
He found Ominis in his usual high-backed chair, the emerald glow of the lake illuminating the Braille volume in his lap. Sebastian dropped into the chair opposite him, a smug, genuine grin playing on his lips.
"You smell like a clinical garden again," Ominis noted without looking up, his voice tight with an unmistakable, sharp-edged annoyance. "And I can hear your heartbeat from here. I assume youâve been⊠busy with that exhibitionist girl? Honestly, Sebastian, the continuous displays around the castle are distasteful even for you. I donât know how a girl with her familyâs reputation manages such a spectacle. Must the entire school be subjected to your total lack of restraint?"
"Oh, hush, Ominis," Sebastian chuckled, leaning back with a smug, unbothered grace. "You make a bit of public devotion sound like a criminal offense. Since when did you become the schoolâs self-appointed chaperone of decency?"
"I know the two of you went under the Quidditch stands during the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff game," Ominis said, his voice dripping with sass.Â
Sebastian smirked, "How would you know? You're blind."
"I was with Poppy," Ominis countered, a small smirk playing on his lips. "She has eyes, Sebastian. And from what Iâve heard, the entire school saw you. You weren't exactly being subtle."
"I don't care," Sebastian said, his voice firm and unburdened. "She's my girlfriend. We're both grown-ups. What does it matter?"
"I donât know, Sebastian⊠Thereâs just something about SacharissaâŠ" Ominis admitted, his tone turning serious for a split second. "She must definitely like you to endure all those things the two of you do togetherâŠ" He paused, his voice sharpening with annoyance. "Though, I must say, Sebastian... the marks on your neck are a bit much. You look like youâve been attacked by a particularly aggressive Niffler."
"Let me guess⊠Sweeting is a very detailed narrator?" Sebastian joked, leaning back with a smug grin. "I suppose she didn't spare a single purple detail."
"Well, she didn'tâŠ" Ominis started.
"Well, just so you know, Sacharissa is a very thorough girl. She likes to leave a lasting impression." Sebastian paused, his eyes narrowing with a wicked, playful light as he leaned into Ominisâs space. "But enough about my 'trail.' Youâve been spending a remarkable amount of time in the company of the Sweeting girl lately. Is there a particular chapter of bird-watching youâd like to share?"
Ominis went perfectly still. He attempted to smooth his features into his usual mask of aristocratic indifference, but the physical betrayal was instantaneous. A deep, prickling heat crawled up his throat and bloomed across his cheeks, turning his normally pale complexion a spectacular, vivid shade of crimson. Since he couldn't see his own reflection, he remained blissfully, tragically unaware of how loudly his skin was shouting.
"Don't be absurd," Ominis said, his voice clipped and retreating into a shield of formal haughtiness. "Poppy and I share a... mutual appreciation for the castle's more tranquil corners. It is a partnership of quiet interests, hardly the scandalous affair you seem determined to project onto me."
Sebastian watched him, biting back a sharp bark of laughter as Ominis sat rigid, fighting a war he didn't even know he was losing. "Is that so? Because I have a distinct feeling, Ominis... that while your voice is reciting a script, your face is telling me a very different story right now."
"I have no idea what you are talking about, Sebastian," Ominis countered, acting as if nothing were happening even as the heat intensified. "Itâs trauma that unites us, nothing more. She is a normal, innocent person who doesn't spend her Tuesday nights dragging me into damp caves or risking my expulsion for the sake of a 'lead'."
"Pfft... Sweeting? Innocent?" Sebastian let out a dry, amused huff. "Iâve seen her face down a whole camp of poachers without blinking, Ominis. Your 'normal' is anyone else's terrifying." His expression shifted then, the mockery bleeding away into a sharp, intellectual hunger as he leaned back into the shadows. "But we have more pressing matters than your floral daydreams, talking about caves..."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I found a book today. Tucked behind some first-year herbology texts. It mentioned a slight mark on the groundâa specific sigil etched into the stone near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The directions sound incredibly specific, Ominis. From what it describes, it sounds exactly like one of those Ancient Magic hotspotsâthe kind only she can actually interact with."
"And do you actually intend to speak with her about this?" Ominis asked, his voice dropping to a dry, sassy drawl. "Or is your schedule already too full of 'aesthetic supervision'? I imagine Sacharissa would find it a grave insult to her handiwork if you went seeking out the one person who actually prefers you when you look like youâve been dragged through a hedge."
"Iâm less concerned with Sacharissaâs opinions on my tailoring," Sebastian muttered, his jaw tightening as he looked back toward the dark water beyond the glass. "Iâm more worried about whether Prewett would actually leave her unguarded for more than a heartbeat. Heâs practically keeping her under a Bell Jar."
Ominis stayed silent for a long moment. He cherished his peaceful gardens and his afternoon teas with Poppy, but as Sebastian spoke, he felt a familiar, jagged pull in his chest. The adventurous lifeâthe part where he was useful and capable of exploring things others couldn't senseâwas starting to feel less like a burden and more like the only place where he truly felt alive.
"Well then," Ominis drawled, his voice losing its icy edge to a more familiar, inquisitive sharpness. "Tell me more about these directions. Iâd hate to get lost because your memory was clouded by 'aesthetic supervision.' And while you explain the geography, we can figure out how to approach our hero without her precious Prewett dousing the spark before it even lands."
