˖°.⊹ scriptumsempra ⊹.°₊ @scriptumsempra - Tumblr Blog

IGNORANT

Summary: Sebastian Sallow is great at two things: dueling, and saying the worst possible thing to the girl he likes. Now she’s not speaking to him (but everyone else suddenly is). And not even six apology letters, a box of Honeydukes chocolate, or a toast-bribed owl can fix it. Word Count: ~4,900 (I’m a minimalist. That’s basically 10k in my language.) Tags: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC, Sebastian is not brooding, Explicit Language, Canon Divergence, Sebastian says something stupid and regrets it for 3000 words, Teen angst, Bird bribery, Character growth (probably), Love that might work if he stops being a prat, Sebastian being Sebastian, MC is so DONE, Emotional Spiral & Mental Breakdance, Slow Burn (kinda)

A/N: Back with some Ominis sass, a traumatised owl, and a healthy dose of teenage spiraling. This time, I stepped a little out of my comfort zone — wrote something longer, didn’t make everything too angsty, and just let them be teenagers. As they should be. (Also attempted to sneak in some humor. I hope I’m funny.)

Honestly, I feel bad for the characters in Hogwarts Legacy — so many of them are burdened by trauma far too early, not to mention that they're only teenagers. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to the stories I write: to let them have the moments they deserve. To give them a break — a space to be young, reckless, ridiculous — to worry about crushes and quarrels instead of villains, curses, or saving the world.

Anyway, this fic is inspired by Sebastian Sallow and his half-assed, owled apology (which, in my mind, is the wizarding equivalent of breaking up over text). And truthfully? The only thing that kept me going was the need to finally sleep at night, knowing he properly apologized to the MC Enjoy ❤️

If there’s one thing Sebastian Sallow is good at — better than reading, better than duelling — it’s definitely taking a certain new fifth-year for granted. (Gold star. Full marks. Ten points to Slytherin.) Which is why Sebastian hadn’t expected her to walk away. Not really. She was always ready with a comeback. A lecture. A frowned pair of eyebrows (that and a half-judgmental look). But this time? After he called her ignorant — after she flinched, just barely — she just stared at him. Silent. Lips parted like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Then she sighed. Turned. Walked out of the Undercroft like he hadn’t just cracked something wide open between them. And now she wasn’t speaking to him. And worse — everyone else was. ... “Look at this. Sebastian Sallow — hearts in pieces. Did you two lovebirds finally part ways?” Imelda asked one afternoon, leaning far too casually against a training dummy like she hadn’t been watching him fail conjuring Protego three times in a row. Sebastian didn’t even glance at her. “What now, Imelda?” “While you’re over here sulking, Larson and Prewett have been very chatty with your girl.” She tilted her head toward the other side of the room, where a small knot of students had gathered around her. “Oh, look. Even Clopton’s joined them.” “She can do whatever she wants. Now, go bite someone else’s head off.” He scoffed, turning his back and attempting to cast something — anything — with actual success this time. “I’m just saying — now that you’ve stopped hogging her, other blokes are lining up.” She gave a low whistle. “She’s not my girl” He snapped, voice louder than he intended it to be. “Of course.” Imelda grinned. “Care to explain why you look like you’re going to hex someone every time they say hi to her, then?” Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t even look her way. He squared his stance, eyes locked on the training dummy like he hadn’t heard a word. Wand raised. Jinx ready. Across the room, her laughter bubbled out at something Andrew said. Quiet, really — just not to him. A blast — wide. Off target. Again. “Your loss, Sallow.” “OH—fuck off, Reyes.” She walked off laughing. Satisfied.

He threw a tantrum that night. Not on purpose. It started with him stomping towards his room, scaring a pair of second-years along the way. Then it continued with his poorly written Transfiguration essay (and one quill that wouldn’t stop leaking). After that he’d tripped over his own shoes on the way to his trunk and stubbed his toe on the brass footboard. Next thing he knew, a downpour of profanities. The essay was in pieces. His robe was crumpled in one hand. He hurled it across the room like it had personally offended him. It landed in a sad heap beside his ink-splattered notes. From the other side of the room, Ominis groaned. “For Merlin’s sake — Sebastian, you’re being impossible.” “I’m not.” Sebastian snapped, voice cracking somewhere between protest and a whine. “Really?” Ominis sat up in bed, arms crossed over his night shirt. “Because it looks like you’re holding a personal vendetta against that robe.” Sebastian scowled. “I said I’m not angry, Ominis,” he repeated, half-screaming now. Ominis pointed toward the scattered essay pages. “Tell that to your Potions homework.” Sebastian didn’t even bother to correct him. He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s just — she’s ignoring me.” “As she should be.” “And Larson’s been following her around like a lost kneazle.” “You called her ignorant, Sebastian.” “How did you— … I didn’t mean it—!” “But you said it.” Ominis replied, infuriatingly calm. “And she told me.”

Then he proceeded to dust off his sheets, as if the string of profanities his best friend had just graced him with had somehow soiled his expensive duvet. Sebastian groaned again. “Why are you even angry at the first place? You’re the one who put yourself in this position.” Sebastian opened his mouth. Closed it. Picked up a boot and dropped it again with a thud. “I’m not angry.” “You’re brooding.” “I am NOT brooding.” “And I am not blind.” Ominis went back to his bed, set his wand aside, and pulled his blankets up. “Try not to let your emotional collapse stain my side of the room. Good night, Sebastian.” He muttered yet another profanity (which brought his nightly violation count to three) before finally flopping himself into his bed, surrounded by a field of emotional debris. Eventually, he dragged himself to his desk, picked up his ruined essay, and glared at it like it might start apologizing first.

Sebastian woke up cranky. Ominis was right. He was brooding. Not that he’d ever admit it — no, his teenage pride would sooner hex itself than confess to something that pathetic. He tried to fall back asleep (emphasis on tried), but the word ignorant echoed in his ears every time he closed his eyes. And her face — he’d never seen her look at him like that before. Not angry. Not upset. Just… disappointed. An expression he hadn’t even known she had. Which is how he ended up with one hour of sleep and two dark circles under his eyes. For the hundredth time this morning, he groaned. Failure wasn’t something Sebastian was familiar with — not in class, not in duels, not in anything that mattered — but lately it clung to him like a second skin. Like now — after counting 520 imaginary mooncalves (he was that desperate), he gave up. Might as well start the day. Sleep-deprived or not. He kicked off the blankets and got dressed. Didn’t need a calendar to know it was Saturday. Ominis was nowhere in sight — breakfast, probably — and his bed was, of course, immaculately made. By the time Sebastian finished lacing his boots, he spotted an enchanted parchment and quill bobbing smugly over his desk, clearly Ominis’s handiwork — no doubt. It hovered like a nagging thought, practically vibrating with self-righteous energy. Go write her an apology. He squinted at it.

Piss Off. He’d already written five. Five bloody letters — and not a single reply. Sebastian stormed out of his room — no longer hungry for breakfast. So he turned on his heel and redirected his steps.

If there was one other thing Sebastian despised about being sorted into Slytherin, it was the distance from their common room to the Owlery — a fact he cursed under his breath, panting halfway up the foul-smelling tower. He had owled her. Not once. Not twice. Five times. (To which no single correspondence was ever received.) By the time he reached the top, he squinted through the rafters, eyes scanning for a familiar scops owl — the one with feathers as brown as his curls and eyes almost as big as Anne’s. A detail he remembered from when they’d first picked him out together. Didn’t take long. Their owl was perched there, nonchalant as ever, like it had absolutely nothing better to do. “What’ve you got, Nibbles?” he called. A peculiar name — if one must ask — but since he’d had the honor of choosing the owl, the naming rights had gone straight to Anne. If it had been up to him, he’d have picked something like Trouble. He found it completely ludicrous (and maybe a little bit brilliant) to imagine the reactions when people heard, ‘Trouble is here with your letter.’ The owl turned its head slowly. Let out a low trill. “Nothing? At all?” Nibbles blinked. Then hooted. One claw lifted — just enough to highlight the utter absence of mail. “Anything?” Sebastian thought he’d lost his mind, but he could’ve sworn Nibbles was judging him. As if it were saying: Do you see me with a bloody mail? Sebastian scratched his head. Having exhausted his own means, he resorted now to seeking out her owl instead. He didn’t spend long to spot the thing — small, white, and built like a snow-dusted paperweight with wings. Perched smugly just outside the window. Clearly, he was getting better at this whole owl-stalking business. “Hey, Cotton,” he murmured. It reminded him of the day she’d adopted her — that first trip to Hogsmeade, all wide eyes and cold fingers. He’d thought Chalk suited the owl better, but she’d insisted on Cotton. Something about wanting to be a seamstress as a child — a dream swiftly abandoned the moment she learned you could conjure fabric with a flick of a wand. (You can actually make them out of thin air? she’d gasped, completely scandalized, watching enchanted scissors float mid-air.) The owl didn’t even nudge. Like pet, like master. He muttered under his breath. “Can you help me deliver this?” He held out a neatly folded letter — his sixth one; faintly perfumed with florals. (Ugh. But Ominis had insisted.) No reply. Not even a glance. Sebastian was losing his mind. Academics? No problem. Curses? Easy. But girls? A completely different breed. (Witches and pets alike). Where was Anne when he needed her most? “Cotton, come on.. I’m trying here.” Sebastian groveled. “…Please?” he extended his other hand. A small piece of fresh toast laid on top of his palm. Sebastian never came unprepared, after all. The owl swiveled its head almost fully around, staring him down with its judgmental, marble eyes. Bribery won’t get you anywhere — He could’ve sworn the bloody owl had just spoken. With one single motion, it snatched the letter from one hand, pecked the toast from the other, and soared into the sky. Damned owl. Ominis might’ve been blessed with Parseltongue — Sebastian, it seemed, was cursed to negotiate with birds.

It was quiet in the library.

Not quiet quiet. Quiet enough to hear Madam Scribner’s boots echoing down the corridor — loud enough to make his headache throb like a cursed kettle. At some point, Sebastian briefly considered slamming his head into the nearest tome, if only to drown it all out. Sleep deprivation had a way of making everything too loud.

That place had always been his sanctuary.

Before the Undercroft, before the secrets, before he made a mess of everything — it was books, parchment, and peace. It fed his curiosity. Gave him silence. And most importantly — she never came here alone. So of course, now she did. (Sebastian was starting to think fate had a cruel sense of humour.)

He had come to borrow one bloody book. Not that he’d be reading it now. She sat on the same table near the Restricted Section. Same posture — back straight, eyes narrowed, quill tapping out some rhythm only she understood. She looked fine. Like she wasn’t having a spectacularly miserable morning. Like he hadn’t said something vile. Like her world hadn’t been tilted sideways by the boy who, for some reason, couldn’t keep his ego down or his bloody mouth shut. He hovered by the shelf for a beat too long, pretending to read the spine of Magical Theory. It might as well have been Magic and Misdemeanors: A Slytherin’s Guide to Self-Sabotage. He dared a glance. She didn’t look up. Didn’t pause. Didn’t frown. Didn’t shift the way she normally would if she felt someone watching her. She kept writing — head down, quill moving, completely undisturbed by his presence. A familiar envelope sat beside her books, dusted with crumbs from what looked suspiciously like his breakfast toast.

He made a mental note to return to the Owlery. Cotton had earned it — toast toll and all. Sebastian sighed. He thought about what he’d done — said — to her. Finally admitted (to himself, anyway) that Ominis was right. Again. He had been an arse, and he did deserve the silence. Another sigh. He was just about ready to walk over — maybe not to fix it, but to try — when: Everett Fucking Clopton. “Is that the new translation of Gamp’s Theorem?” he asked, sliding into the seat beside her like it was his by right. “Didn’t know Weasley mentioned it’d be in our test next week.” She gave him a small, non-committal hum. The audacity. Sebastian’s jaw tightened. That smug, know-it-all Ravenclaw sitting right there. Clopton — of all people — parked in his seat like he belonged there. His? Since when has it been his? Sebastian shoved the thought aside. But he noticed how Everett leaned in. How her grip around her quill tightened. Clearly uncomfortable — too polite to say anything.

Typical. That was all it took. He stalked forward, each step louder than it should’ve been. “Ah, Sallow — we were just talking about—” “Move.” Not a request. Not a question. A threat. Everett blinked. Mouth open. Words floundering. Sebastian didn’t wait. His eyes cut to the empty space across from her — his spot — and he dropped into it without permission. Clopton hovered awkwardly, still half-seated beside her. “Right. Well, I suppose I’ll—” “I said, Move,” Sebastian repeated. Flat. Final. Everett finally took the hint, muttered something about needing a book from Ancient Runes, and fled. Silence settled between them. Not tense. Not hostile. Just — careful. Like the quiet after an explosion, when the dust hasn’t fully cleared. She didn’t look up. Sebastian did. Studied the way her eyes tracked the page. The deliberate flick of her wrist as she underlined a sentence with her quill. The way she ignored him so completely, it might’ve been an art form. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Sebastian cleared his throat. No response. He leaned forward, trying again. “I know you’re angry. I get it—well, maybe not get it, but—look, I’m trying.” No answer. He sighed. “I was an idiot. More than usual. Just… talk to me, will you?” Still Nothing. “Please.” That made her look up. Not all the way. Just enough that her eyes met his over the top of the parchment. “Actually, I should thank you.” She said quietly. A pause — light, but deliberate. “...For teaching me something I hadn’t realised — that I’m actually quite… dim-witted.” Sebastian quickly opened his mouth, but she didn’t miss a beat. “—I suppose that’s what you really think of me.” Sebastian felt it — a knife to his gut. She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even sound upset — but it landed like a curse. “What’s the word? … Oh — ignorant.” And just like that, the knife twisted. Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t know how.

A minute passed. Then another. She didn’t cry. She never did. And that, somehow, made it worse.

…Fuck. “You don’t say that word by accident, Sebastian.” Her voice was quiet, but unwavering. She’d never said his name like that before — like it meant something broken. “You say it when you want to wound.” Fuck. Then she blinked, once — slow. Her eyes were glassy, but nothing fell. Didn’t need to. “Congratulations, Sebastian. You managed.”

Her words sank in slow — like poison. No antidote in sight. Completely fucked. And in that moment, Sebastian felt like he was going to be sick. Or die. Maybe both.

Sebastian returned to the dorm that night. No shouting. No slammed doors. Just silence — the complete opposite of the tantrum he’d thrown the night before. Quiet. Heavy. Like something had been carved out of him. Ominis tilted his head slightly. “Everything alright?” No answer. Not even a groan. Sebastian just stood there, eyes vacant — staring at the canopy like an Inferius that had just lost its soul. “Sebastian?” A beat. Then… “I’m fucked, Ominis.” Ominis calmly raised his wand, red light casting shadows over Sebastian’s face — as if checking to confirm whether he was, in Sebastian’s own terms, well and truly fucked. “Yes, well,” Ominis muttered, frowning. “I didn’t want to be the one to say it. But here we are.” Sebastian dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “I know that sound. You’re breathing like someone who’s either heartbroken… or hexed — Possibly both.”

“Brilliant, Gaunt. Really helpful.” He rolled his eyes as if Ominis could see him. “Well, you started.” Ominis crossed his arms. “And frankly, I’ve never seen you look more pathetic — and I’ve seen you lose a duel to a fourth-year.” “That was one time—” “And this is worse.” Sebastian groaned, collapsing into his bed like the weight of the day had finally flattened him. “She hates me.” “I’d say you earned it.” He groaned louder. Ominis leaned back, looking far too satisfied for someone not even trying to hide his I-told-you-so. “You’ll need to do better than just talk to her. Apologizing isn’t a one-time spell, Sebastian. It’s not Reparo.” Sebastian grumbled something about Ominis being utterly insufferable — but then his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled, defeated. “What should I do, Ominis?” He hated asking. But he hated not knowing more. “I could tell you to write her another letter,” Ominis offered flatly, “but we both know how well that went last time — or the other four times.” At this rate, Sebastian’s groans were starting to rival a banshee’s — tragic, high-pitched, and very hard to ignore. “Merlin, just kill me.” “No, no.” Ominis sat up with a grin. “I’d rather see you suffer. Much more entertaining.” Sebastian dragged the pillow over his head. “I didn’t mean it, you know. The word.” Ominis’s voice softened — just a little. “Then tell her that. Not with parchment. Not through Clopton’s seat in the library. Properly.” “I did, Ominis. I’m telling you, I did everything.” Sebastian flopped in his bed, dramatically. “And she’s still mad?” Didn’t need a pair of working eyes to know Sebastian nodded into his pillow. Ominis sighed. “Then you’re right. You’re completely fucked. There, I said it.”

Sebastian nearly cried. At this point, even ancient magic couldn’t save him.

Sebastian had spent the day circling corridors, half-expecting her to step from behind a stone pillar or breeze past him on the stairs with that unreadable look she wore so well. She hadn’t. Not in the common room. Not in Charms. Not even the Undercroft.

(And he didn’t miss the way she’d stopped calling it “ours.”)

He told himself — as he always did — that it wasn’t about her. That Anne was still slipping away, and everything else was just noise in the background: a blurry chorus of things that didn’t matter as much.

But then she looked at someone else the way she used to look at him.

And the noise became unbearable. ... “Violet, please,” he muttered under his breath in Herbology, elbow-deep in damp mulch.

“For the umpteenth time: No, Sebastian.” Violet pinched her lips. “She told me she’d hex my eyebrows off if I even tried to interfere.” “She wouldn’t,” he said, though he wasn’t sure — but he pretended he was. Had to. Asking her roommate for help felt like a low move, but he was desperate. “She would,” said Poppy next to her, pale and wide-eyed. “She made Imelda flinch. Imelda, Sebastian.” He blinked. “What did Imelda say?” Violet gave him a look. “Imelda said you were a ‘disgrace to the male species’ and that maybe next time, don’t insult someone you want to snog.” Sebastian blinked. Twice. “Snog—?” he echoed, already regretting opening his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then let his head drop onto the table with a dramatic thud. Fine. Let them think that. Let the whole castle whisper about it over breakfast, lunch, and Astronomy Tower detentions. If everyone was so intent on believing he fancied her— ...well. Maybe he did. (But in the name of Salazar, he was far too exhausted to argue the semantics of it.)

Damned be the whole world.

“She didn’t like that either,” Poppy added helpfully. “Almost blasted her off behind the Quidditch pitch.”

Sebastian groaned into his hands. He was losing allies fast. ... By the end of the day, he’d made it through the classes — barely. Words floated past him like fog, lessons sinking in like water on stone. The chatter, the spells, the dull drone of professors’ voices all blurred into a dull hum. Nothing truly reached him; his mind was tangled elsewhere, still circling the same thought over and over, a loop he couldn’t break. By the time he reached the dormitory, exhaustion weighed him down so thoroughly he barely noticed Ominis sitting cross-legged on his bed. “Rough day?” Ominis asked, arching an eyebrow. Sebastian dropped onto his bed with a hollow sigh. “You think?” Ominis might be entertained by Sebastian’s foolery, but he wasn’t blind to how fast things were falling apart—his relationships unraveling, Anne slipping further out of reach, and the whole Slytherin girls’ dorm convinced he was a laughingstock. Though, to be fair, he’d earned every bit of it. For the millionth time, Sebastian groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m a disgrace.” “More like a disaster,” Ominis said with a smirk before leaning forward. “But there’s something you need to know.” Sebastian looked up, wary. “She wants to see you — Undercroft.” His heart thudded, surprise jolting through him. “Are you sure? How did she look? Was she angry?” he asked, scrambling off the bed in a hurry. Ominis held up a hand. “Sebastian, might I remind you — I’m blind.” Sebastian froze mid-step, eyes wide. “Right. Of course. I forgot you navigate the world without sight and can’t see the utter mess I’m in. Lucky you.” The words slipped out easily — more habit than insult at this point in their friendship. Ominis snorted. “Precisely. So stop asking me what she looked like. You want an opinion, you’ll have to ask someone with eyeballs.” Sebastian flopped back onto his bed. For a long moment, the weight pressing on his chest lifted, replaced by something unfamiliar — a cautious flicker of hope. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe this was the moment to reclaim what he’d lost. He drew in a shaky breath — the quiet before the storm. “When does she want to meet me again?” He hesitated only a moment, heart thundering like he was walking into a duel. But this was worse. This time, he might actually lose. “Now.” Ominis never heard him bolt that fast before. (He probably should’ve offered a floo powder, but… better late than never.)

Sebastian stood before the odd-shaped cupboard that led down into the Undercroft. His breath came fast — half from the sprint, half from the weight pressing on his chest. Somewhere along the way, he’d remembered Floo powder existed — and how much of a pain Ignatia Wildsmith could be — but sod it. He was almost here. No shortcuts today. Not for this. In his palm rested a small box of chocolate truffles, still warm from his pocket. Not her usual thing — she’d told him once on their first trip to Hogsmeade that she didn’t like sweets — but as a relentless sweet tooth, Sebastian had insisted she try them. He’d never forget the look on her face when she finally did: surprise mixed with reluctant delight, like she’d found something unexpectedly good. He pushed the memory aside and stepped into the Undercroft. There she was, leaning against the cold stone wall — a heavy book in one hand, her wand in the other. She looked up at him — gaze like glass: hard, polished, nothing getting through. “Long time no see,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

What the actual fuck was that?

An apology? A greeting? A declaration of war? He wasn’t sure. Probably sounded like a nervous frog croaking for help. All the charm Hogwarts claimed he had — and that was the best he could come up with?

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

He held out the box, voice rough. “I brought these. Your favourite.” Peace Offerings, he thought. Her eyes flicked to the truffles, then back to him — still burning.

“Bribery?” Her tone sharpened, rising just a little. The word hit him like a hex. He was scared shitless. Then she said it — slow, deliberate, with that weight only she could carry: “Sebastian Sallow —” His heart nearly stopped. Cold sweat ran down his spine. “—What do you think I am? A bloody owl?” The tension shattered. He blinked, the fear slipping away as if someone had lifted a curse. Because yes — now that she said it — she really did look like Cotton. Fierce, sharp-eyed, and utterly unyielding. Her gaze said it all — Bribery won’t get you anywhere. Pets and their masters, after all. Judgmental stares included. That blasted owl. “And?” She snapped — growing more impatient by the minute. His mind immediately went back to the undercroft. The thought almost made him laugh, but he swallowed it down, hard. Focus, Sebastian. If he dared to laugh now, he’d be hexed to oblivion. No doubt about it. No, he’d literally die. So instead, he forced himself steady. “Maybe I’m just trying to learn from my mistakes.” She didn’t smile. The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them. After what seemed to be forever, she sighed. “What do you want now?” she finally asked, voice low. “Your forgiveness." His throat tightened. "I.. I didn’t mean it — didn’t mean the word like that.” Sebastian exhaled slowly, the weight of his pride battling the truth. “I was angry. Frustrated. I’m sorry. I really am.” For a moment, she was back in Feldcroft — back when he barely slept, back when he snapped at Ominis for breathing too loud and nearly hexed a Hufflepuff just for asking about Anne. She remembered how his hands trembled in the catacombs. How his voice cracked every time he said her name. How he flinched —flinched— when his uncle raised it at him one too many times.

She tried to understand. Merlin, she wanted to. Even when he lashed out. Even when he shut her out. Even when he looked at her like she was just another thing standing between him and a cure. But there had to be a line. And somehow, even after everything — even after she stood by him through spellfire and Scriptorium and loss — he still found a way to cross it. No matter how much she wanted to understand, there was only so much she could take. Her eyes softened for the briefest moment, just enough for a crack to show. “Words hurt, Sebastian. You don’t simply cast them out and pretend they were never said.” “—But I didn’t mean—” “It makes no difference.” Her voice was quiet, but every word landed like a curse. There was a slight pause before she finally continued “...You said it when it suited you best.” He exhaled — the weight of it sagging through him. “I know… I’m sorry. I mean it.” “Are you?” He looked at her. “I swear — I am.” Her lips curled into something resembling a smile — all edge, no warmth. “Am what, Sebastian?” she said, plucking a truffle from the box without ceremony. He knew where this was headed. The answer sat heavy on his tongue, pride coiled tight in his throat. "You’ll have to be more specific — I’m rather… dim-witted, as you can see.” His lips twitched. The sting hit sharper than he expected. He let out a bitter laugh. “… ignorant,” he muttered inaudibly. “Hm?” she asked, casually plucking another truffle, as if she hadn’t just heard him surrender the last shred of his pride. "I am ignorant." There. Said it. Let it hang. She leaned back against the wall, smile curling—dimples and all. “Precisely.” Sebastian shook his head, half-smiling like someone who knew they’d lost. Then he laughed — low, dry, a little pathetic.

Still, worth it. That was the first time he’d seen her smile in weeks. “Friends?” she asked, voice calm again — She extended her hand. eyes dry, unreadable. Sebastian hesitated. Then took it. “Friends.”

Their hands shook once. He let go. Hm?

It didn’t feel right — No, no. Not quite right. Not when her fingers had felt that warm. Not when her touch still lingered like a spell he didn’t know the counter to. He glanced at her — dimples flashing faintly as she turned back to her parchment. Unbothered. Recovered. Like nothing had happened. But something had. Something big. And late as ever, he was just now catching up. Sebastian stared at the spot where her hand had been and, very slowly, remembered what Imelda had said to Poppy in the Training Room.

Next time, don’t insult the girl you want to snog. (Brutal advice. Accurate advice).

Oh,

Oh.

Bloody hell.

He was in love with her. (Of course he was. Only took him a full-blown crisis and half a box of truffles to catch on.)

The rest of the day was… different. He didn’t hover anymore. He didn’t grovel. He didn’t owl six times a day or bribe birds with toast or offer sad, crumpled bits of Honeydukes chocolate.

He didn’t need to. She sat next to him again — sometimes. Walked with him after class — sometimes. And when she did, she leaned into his shoulder without needing to explain herself. He didn’t ask. She didn’t pull away. They didn’t talk about what had changed, but it was there — in the silence, in the glances, in the small, unconscious ways her arm brushed against his as they walked through the courtyard. And when one of their classmates — Leander, now — strolled up beside her outside Herbology, grinning too easily and saying something about Hogsmeade plans, Sebastian didn’t even flinch.

He reached up. Rested an arm across her shoulders. Let it stay there.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t mind.

If anything, she tilted her head — slightly — toward him.

Prewett took the hint.

Sebastian said nothing.

He didn’t need to anymore.

He’d earned his place beside her.

It had taken one insult, two owls, six letters, a box of chocolate, and a few minor mental breakdowns… but he was here.

No letters. No toast. No bribes. Just him.

And it was enough.

For once — Sebastian knew when to stop. (He'd gladly prove his uncle wrong.)

P.S. 1. Points if you can tell I was binge-listening to Sabrina Carpenter’s “Manchild” while writing this. (Lol. Fitting, isn’t it?) 2. Bonus points if you caught that “ignorant” was emotionally powered by Gordon Ramsay’s “idiot sandwich” meme energy. (Tell me Sebastian Sallow wouldn’t deserve the same treatment.) Thanks for reading — I hope it makes you laugh, wince, and maybe even yell at Sebastian a little. Let me know what you think! -Nina

✦ The Spiral (So Far): [2/3] : Sixth Time's The Charm

[3/3] : Signed, Sealed, Survived

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