Applin

The Department of Magical-Muggle Relations was a place of ceaseless diplomacy and quiet, thankless work. It required patience, discretion, and an inordinate ability to tolerate both wizarding arrogance and Muggle skepticism in equal measure.

Ominis Gaunt excelled at it.

He was precise, professional, and unflappably composed. His work was always turned in ahead of schedule, his quill strokes were immaculate, and his presence in the office was a study in quiet efficiency. He did not linger for idle chatter or commiserate over departmental woes. He was unfailingly courteous but not warm, reliable but never companionable. When the others made plans for a Friday night at the Leaky Cauldron, Ominis declined, offering no elaboration. The younger members of the department had long since given up inviting him.

“It’s a shame, really.” Mused Everleigh, watching Ominis cross the atrium one morning, his shoes tapping methodically against the marble floor. “Such a handsome man, but so dreadfully severe. You’d think he was in a hurry to get back to an empty flat.”

“Man’s married to his work.” Muttered Townsend from his desk, not looking up from his parchment.

This was the general consensus - Ominis Gaunt, while not unkind, was a workaholic. Unmoved by office gossip, immune to lighthearted teasing, and perpetually in a rush to finish his work as though he had nothing else to do with his hours but complete his tasks and leave.

That belief lasted precisely until the day his wife arrived.

It was a normal afternoon when the lift doors opened, and Mrs. Gaunt emerged, a vision of warmth and gentle chaos. Petite, graceful, and unmistakably glowing with the fullness of impending motherhood, she swept into the department, her presence accompanied by the muffled patter of small feet.

Seven sets of them, to be exact.

The eldest - identical twin boys with their father’s sharp cheekbones and their mother’s mischievous eyes - were the first to slip through, darting ahead with the unmistakable confidence of children who had never once doubted they were adored. A girl with a cascade of fair curls followed, clutching the hand of a serious-looking younger brother, while behind them, another pair of twins - this set, fraternal - whispered conspiratorially about something only they found amusing. At the rear of the parade toddled the youngest, a cherubic little boy who held onto the hem of his mother’s dress with one pudgy fist and his own shoe in the other.

The department went silent.

Mrs. Gaunt, unbothered by the collective astonishment, beamed as though stepping into her husband’s office with seven children in tow was a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

“Excuse me.” She said pleasantly to a still-staring Townsend, who was gripping his quill so hard it might snap. “Could you point me toward my husband? Ominis Gaunt.”

No one had ever seen Townsend at a loss for words before, but he floundered, mouth opening and closing like a fish before weakly gesturing toward Ominis’s office.

The door was already opening.

Ominis had felt them before they arrived - his wife’s magic, a presence he had long since memorized, and the familiar cadence of his children’s voices. His expression, usually composed to the point of unreadability, softened at once. He stepped forward without hesitation, his wife meeting him halfway as if drawn by an invisible thread.

“Darling!” She greeted, voice lilting with fond amusement. “We missed you. The children asked if we could steal you for a picnic this afternoon.”

He exhaled a breath that held the weight of a week’s worth of tension and touched her face with aching familiarity. His fingers trailed over the curve of her cheek, down to her jaw, before he cupped it with the kind of reverence that should have belonged to something sacred.

“You shouldn’t be walking so much in your condition.” He murmured, though his voice lacked any real admonishment.

She laughed. “I’m pregnant, not infirm, Ominis.”

“You say that now.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead before resting his against hers for the briefest moment. “And yet, I distinctly recall having to carry you up the stairs the last time you insisted you weren’t overexerting yourself.”

A tiny, impatient tug at his robes broke the moment.

“Papa,” One of the twins demanded, “Did you know a Muggle said merlin’s beard in a book I read? But they don’t even know about Merlin, so I think it was an accident -”

“Papa!” Another child interrupted, gripping his sleeve. “I saw a peacock in a shop window but Mummy wouldn’t let me bring it home.”

“Papa -”

“Papa -”

Ominis knelt, letting their eager hands grasp at his robes and arms as they all clambered to be heard first. The department had never seen him smile before - not like this, easy and utterly besotted.

“One at a time!” He said, laughter hidden beneath his patient tone. “And no, we are not getting a peacock.”

At his desk, Townsend slowly set down his quill. Miss Everleigh pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a disbelieving laugh.

Ominis Gaunt, the most infamously private man in the department, was not only a devoted husband but a father of seven.

Seven beautiful, well-behaved children, a radiant wife, and a marriage that, if his expression was any indication, was the foundation of his entire being.

Sebastian had done the research.

Which, really, should have been enough.

He had spent hours in the village library, scouring through old medical texts, scandalously detailed romance novels hidden between dry tomes of magical theory, even a few questionably sourced pamphlets that he was fairly certain had been tucked away by a particularly daring lad decades ago.

He had read everything.

How to be gentle. How to be attentive. How to ensure a witch felt safe, comfortable, and above all, well-pleased.

He had approached the entire endeavor with the same dogged determination that he had once applied to mastering a difficult spell - research, preparation, an unwavering commitment to getting it right.

And yet.

None of it mattered.

Because now, here, in the quiet of their bedroom, with his new wife beneath him - all soft, nervous anticipation, her fingers trembling slightly where they rested against his chest -

He was completely, utterly lost.

His mind had gone blank.

Everything he had read, all the carefully studied theories, all the well-meaning advice from books that had seemed so logical and structured…

It had all vanished.

Because she was looking up at him, wide-eyed and uncertain, and it hit him - truly hit him -

She had never done this either.

It wasn’t just his first time.

It was theirs.

And she was trusting him to lead.

Which was a problem.

Because, despite all his self-assuredness, despite his meticulous research and preparation…

Sebastian was woefully, painfully unprepared.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

The air between them felt thick, both thrilling and terrifying. She licked her lips - a small, nervous motion, clearly unthinking. Sebastian’s stomach flipped violently.

He needed to say something. Do something.

He cleared his throat.

“So, um.”

Sebastian winced internally.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

His first words before taking his wife to bed, and they sounded like he was fumbling asking for a date.

Her lips twitched upward - a nervous, barely-there smile.

“You’re nervous.” She mused, teasing but gentle.

Sebastian scoffed immediately.

“No, I’m not.”

She raised a brow.

Sebastian hesitated.

“…Maybe a little.”

She laughed softly, and despite everything, Sebastian felt his chest ease just slightly.

Because this was her.

His wife.

And they were in this together.

He let out a shaky exhale, running a hand through his hair before letting his fingers skim over the curve of her waist.

“I just…” He grimaced slightly. “I want it to be good for you.”

Her teasing softened immediately.

“It will be.” She said, quiet, sure. “Already is because it's you.”

Sebastian let out a short, nervous laugh.

“I wouldn’t be so certain." He muttered.

Her expression then turned wry.

“Is this where you tell me you’ve spent an unreasonable amount of time in the library studying?”

Sebastian stiffened.

She gasped, playfully scandalized.

“Oh Merlin, you did.”

Sebastian groaned, letting his forehead drop to her shoulder in sheer, unfiltered embarrassment.

“I was being responsible.” He grumbled against her skin.

Laughter shook through her.

“Sebastian, my love…” She murmured, her fingers lifting to stroke through his hair, voice fond, utterly adoring. “You absolute, ridiculous man.”

Sebastian grumbled against her shoulder.

“This is not how I pictured this going.

She smiled, and when she tilted his chin up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, Sebastian thought, maybe, just maybe -

They were going to be just fine.

-

Except, he had never known true, soul-deep frustration until this exact moment.

Here he was, a well-read, thoroughly researched man, armed with extensive theoretical knowledge of how to please a witch, and yet, none of it was helping.

Because she was soft beneath him, wide-eyed and nervous and unbearably lovely, her hands uncertain but eager, and every time he tried to recall something useful from his research, his brain immediately short-circuited.

She swallowed thickly, her fingers twisting in the sheets beneath them, her breath coming in small, uneven exhales. Sebastian, for all his confidence in literally every other aspect of his life, had no idea what to do with himself.

His mind was racing.

Slow. Gentle. Pay attention to her breathing. Anticipate her reactions.

He hovered over her, stiff as a bloody board, his hands awkwardly placed like he was afraid to touch her wrong.

She let out a soft, nervous laugh.

“You look like you’re trying to solve an Arithmancy equation.”

Sebastian let out a frustrated groan.

“I’m trying to remember the proper sequencing.”

She blinked. “Sequencing?”

Sebastian sighed, lifting his head just enough to meet her gaze.

“Yes, darling.” He said, exasperated. “Sequencing. It’s all very technical. If you do things out of order, you risk -”

She snorted.

Sebastian paused.

Then scowled.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not!” She said, failing spectacularly to suppress another giggle.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, offended.

“This is serious.”

She bit her lip, shoulders shaking with barely restrained mirth.

“Sebastian…” She said, delicately, gently, like she was explaining something very simple to a very slow student. “You do not have to treat sex like a Potions practical.”

Sebastian scoffed.

“That’s exactly what someone without a proper understanding of technique would say.”

She gasped, swatting his shoulder. “You absolute -”

Sebastian laughed, catching her hand before she could hit him again, his fingers wrapping gently around hers. She huffed, her cheeks warm, her lips twitching at the corners despite herself.

“I mean it.” She insisted after a moment, softer now. “You don’t have to overthink it.”

Sebastian hesitated. His confidence faltered just slightly, his fingers fidgeting where they rested against her hip.

“…I just want to do it right.” He admitted quietly.

“Oh, Sebastian.”

She lifted a hand to cup his cheek, her thumb stroking over the edge of his jaw, tracing the warmth of his skin.

“There’s no wrong way to love me.” She whispered softly.

Sebastian’s throat tightened.

Because God, he loved her.

More than he knew how to say.

More than ink on parchment or pages in a book could ever describe.

He leaned into her touch, pressing a kiss to the inside of her palm. She sighed, soft and content, fingers threading through his hair, cradling him close. Sebastian exhaled, finally letting himself relax into her, letting himself let go of the expectations and the theories and the ridiculous amount of research.

She smiled and tugged him in for a kiss, whispering a quiet, “I love you” against his lips.

And Sebastian - nerd, strategist, hopeless academic...

Finally stopped thinking and let himself simply feel.

-

Sebastian had read so much about this.

He had read about technique, rhythm, angles, the importance of listening, the necessity of patience, how a woman’s pleasure required attention and care.

He had studied.

Prepared.

Committed himself to getting this right.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the hours in the library, despite the painfully meticulous research, despite his sheer determination…

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for her.

For the way she fit so perfectly against him, the way she clutched at his shoulders, half-lidded eyes full of warmth and trust and something deeper than anything they'd shared before that made his chest ache.

For the way her breath hitched when he finally pressed inside, her nails biting into his back, not from discomfort, but from sheer sensation.

For the way she sighed against his mouth, murmuring a breathless, "Oh."

Sebastian let out a shaky, overwhelmed breath, his forehead pressing against hers as he struggled to keep himself steady.

He needed to be slow, careful..

Good.

He needed to make this good for her.

But, the way she felt around him…

The way her body welcomed him, warm and tight and overwhelming…

It was already testing his control.

She shifted slightly beneath him, a small, nervous movement, and Sebastian immediately stilled.

“Are you alright?” He murmured, his voice hoarse, strained.

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted, eyes hazy and dazed.

“I -” She hesitated, searching for the words, before offering him a small, almost shy smile. “It’s… a lot.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, nodding. Just the vibrations from her speaking in that airy way were ruining his already crumbling facade of composure.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

She let out a small breath of laughter, her fingers sliding up into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp.

It sent a shiver down his spine.

Sebastian swallowed, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped her waist. He had no idea what he was doing. But he wanted so badly to make her feel good.

So he moved, slow at first, gauging her reaction, watching her carefully for any sign of discomfort.

Her lips parted, a soft inhale leaving her as her fingers tightened in his hair. Sebastian groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck, forcing himself to keep his pace measured. He could feel her adjusting to him, her body relaxing by degrees, the initial uncertainty fading into something more comfortable.

Something better.

And then - oh, hell.

She tilted her hips just slightly, a hesitant, instinctive movement, and Sebastian felt his control snap.

A helpless moan tore from his throat, his fingers digging into her hips as he clenched his jaw, barely holding himself together.

She froze beneath him.

Sebastian barely had time to process the pause before she whispered, somewhat bewildered -

“…Did that feel good?”

Sebastian made a pained, wrecked sound, lifting his head just enough to glare at her.

“Oh, fuck's sake.” He groaned, pressing his forehead back against her shoulder, voice muffled against her skin. “You are going to kill me.”

Her fingers tightened slightly in his hair, her body shifting again…

And sweet Merlin, she had no idea what she was doing to him.

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, his breath shaky, uneven.

He wanted to last.

He wanted to take his time, learn her body, make her come undone beneath him…

But right now, his entire world had narrowed down to the unbearable heat of her, the intoxicating press of their bodies, the sound of her breath in his ear. She shifted again, another tentative, experimental movement, and Sebastian groaned, cursing under his breath.

She blinked, realization dawning.

“…Oh?” She murmured, her voice soft, curious.

Sebastian lifted his head just enough to look at her, his expression a mix of exasperation and something dangerously close to worship.

“Darling.” He ground out, barely holding himself together. “I am doing my best here.”

Her pretty eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as if she had something to say, something to tease, but then, as if sensing exactly how close he was to unraveling, her expression shifted.

Her hands slid down to cup his jaw, guiding his mouth back to hers, and she whispered, so soft, so utterly adoring, “Then don’t hold back.”

Sebastian broke.

His next movements were shaky, desperate, his fingers gripping her thighs, his pace deepening, losing the last shreds of hesitation. She gasped, her breath hitching, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Sebastian felt his entire body tighten, coil, pull taut like a bowstring -

And then, with a final, helpless thrust, his world shattered.

He groaned, entire body trembling, breath caught somewhere between a curse and a prayer, and then he was collapsing against her, spent, shaking, overwhelmed. For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.

Still tangled beneath him, his newly deflowered bride let out a soft, contented sigh, one of her hands lazily running through his hair. Sebastian, face still buried against her shoulder, exhaled shakily.

“Well.” He muttered, voice hoarse, exhausted. “That was…”

He paused, searching for a word.

She tilted her head slightly, peering at him with an amused gaze.

“…Intense?” She offered.

Sebastian let out a weak laugh, nodding.

“I was going to say quick, but that’ll do.”

She hummed, her fingers trailing up and down his back, slow and gentle. Sebastian sighed into her skin, utterly boneless. But then, as his mind cleared, he remembered something.

Something very, very important.

He lifted his head slightly, eyes flickering over her, noting the lingering tension in her body.

She hadn’t -

He hadn’t -

“Oh, shit.”

She blinked. “What?”

Sebastian immediately propped himself up on his elbows, brow furrowing in determination.

“You didn’t finish.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked a bit too mortified to speak.

Sebastian scowled.

“Oh, that won’t do at all.”

She let out a startled laugh, warmth creeping onto her cheeks again.

“Sebastian, we don’t have to -”

Sebastian cut her off with a firm shake of his head.

“Oh, no, love. I’ve read about this.

She cocked her head, bemused. “Read about what?”

Sebastian grinned, already shifting, kissing a slow, deliberate path down her stomach.

“Men last longer the second time in a go.”

She made a soft, flustered noise, her fingers tangling in the sheets.

Sebastian glanced up, his eyes dark with purpose, with sheer, stubborn determination.

“And we do have all night.” He murmured, voice smooth, teasing, utterly devoted.

Her breath caught.

And then, as Sebastian’s mouth pressed against the inside of her thigh, his hands warm and steady on her skin…

Ominis Gaunt was not unused to people approaching him with motives they thought were subtle. It was something of an inevitability, given both his name and his condition. There were those who sought his favor, those who feared him by association, and those who, out of some misguided sense of pity, treated him as if he were something delicate - something in need of rescuing. He had little patience for any of them.

Which was why the new student gave him pause.

She was not like Sebastian, who charmed and cajoled his way through life with an effortless ease, nor was she like their housemates, who either avoided him altogether or curried favor with careful words and measured flattery. No, she was… different. Not brash, not insincere, not overeager, but something he couldn’t quite place.

And, for some reason, she had developed a habit of seeking him out.

It had started with a simple enough request.

“Ominis, if you’re not too busy, would you mind helping me with Ancient Runes?”

Her voice had been quiet, pleasant - an almost old-fashioned sort of politeness, the kind one did not often hear in Slytherin’s common room. He had been tempted to brush her off, if only out of habit, but something about the careful way she had asked, the lack of expectation in her tone, made him hesitate.

So, against his better judgment, he agreed.

That had been his first mistake.

The second had been assuming it was a one-time occurrence.

One study session turned into two. Then three. Then so many that he lost count. She never made a fuss about it, never demanded his time, or made it seem as if she were doing him some great kindness by sitting with him. She simply asked, and if he agreed, she would settle in beside him with quiet gratitude, listening attentively as he spoke.

At first, he expected some ulterior motive.

Perhaps she wanted to befriend him for the sake of his surname, or perhaps this was some elaborate scheme of Sebastian’s - though to what end, he couldn’t fathom. But there were no grand reveals, no sudden turns. She was merely there, with her gentle questions and steady presence, asking nothing of him beyond his knowledge.

Which was, perhaps, the most suspicious thing of all.

It was only after what felt like the hundredth study session that he finally addressed it.

“You do realize that there are far better study partners than me?” He said, closing his book with an air of finality.

There was a brief silence, followed by the faint rustle of parchment as she straightened. “I don’t mind.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

A soft exhale, something that might have been amusement. “I like studying with you.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly as if listening for some hint of insincerity in her voice. He found none.

“Why?”

For a moment, she did not answer. Then, after what seemed to be careful consideration, she said, “Because you explain things well. And I enjoy your company.”

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Enjoyed his company? It was not something he heard often, and certainly not so plainly stated.

“Curious…” He murmured, fingers tapping idly against the spine of his book.

“Is it?”

“Most find me rather… prickly.”

Another pause. Then, with quiet certainty, “I don’t.”

Ominis did not quite know how to respond to that.

He sat there for a moment, considering her; this girl who had, without any discernible reason, settled herself into his routine with such ease. She did not push, did not pry, did not demand anything of him beyond what he was willing to give. It was strange. But not unpleasant.

Eventually, he let out a slow breath. “You are unusual.”

She hummed, amused. “I suppose I am.”

And that, as it turned out, was the beginning of a habit neither of them quite cared to break.

-

Ominis did not consider himself a creature of habit, but he was, at the very least, one of routine. He had to be. Navigating the castle required precision, a sort of internal mapping that left little room for deviation. He memorized the foot traffic in certain hallways, the way the torches crackled at different intervals along the corridors, the distinct warmth of the library compared to the common room’s cool stone walls.

And yet, somehow, their new student had managed to slip into that routine without him even realizing it.

He should have expected it. The first few times she sought his assistance, he had been wary, waiting for the moment she would grow bored of the arrangement and move on. But she never did. If anything, she seemed… comfortable with him. Which, if he were being honest, was both perplexing and vaguely concerning.

It wasn’t just the study sessions anymore.

She had started sitting near him in the common room even when there were no textbooks involved, her presence constant, but never intrusive. She would greet him in the halls with soft hellos, never loud or cloying, but always expectant, as if it were natural for them to acknowledge one another. She never sought to command his attention the way Sebastian did, never tried to fill the silence with unnecessary conversation. And yet, she was there.

And now, it seemed, she had taken to waiting for him after class.

Ominis sighed as he stepped out of the Charms corridor, immediately sensing her nearby. He did not need to see her to know she was there; he had grown accustomed to the soft rustle of her robes, the way she moved, like she was careful not to disrupt the world around her.

“You’re hovering.” He remarked dryly.

“I am not.” There was a faint smile in her voice. “I was simply waiting.”

“For?”

“I thought we might walk together.”

Ominis hesitated for a fraction of a second - just long enough to be noticeable. He wasn’t sure why. This was hardly the first time they had walked side by side, and yet something about the way she phrased it, so simple, made him feel as though he was stepping into something he had not quite agreed to.

Still, he sighed and gestured forward. “I assume you’ll be doing so whether I approve or not?”

She let out a quiet laugh, soft and unbothered. “You wound me, Ominis.”

He smirked despite himself. “Highly unlikely.”

They fell into step together, their pace unhurried as they wove through the castle corridors. He noted, as he often did, how she adjusted her stride to match his - not in an obvious way, but subtly, instinctively. It was a strange thing, to be around someone who seemed to understand him without effort.

The silence between them was not uncomfortable. If anything, it was almost… pleasant. Which, of course, only made Ominis more suspicious of it.

After a few moments, he spoke. “You spend a great deal of time around me.”

He felt her gaze land on him. “Is that a problem?”

He considered that. Objectively, no. Subjectively… perhaps.

“I simply find it curious.” He admitted. “I am not exactly known for my charm.”

She huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

Ominis arched a brow. “Doubtful.”

“Or perhaps you assume too much of others.”

He turned his head slightly, more intrigued than he cared to admit. “And what, precisely, does that mean?”

She hesitated, weighing her words, then said, “I think you expect people to misunderstand you. Or to want something from you.”

Ominis was quiet for a long moment.

He did not like how easily she had put that into words.

“And you?” He asked at last, voice softer now, almost testing. “What do you want from me?”

She did not answer immediately. Then, after a pause, she merely said, “Nothing.”

A simple response. Honest.

Ominis exhaled through his nose, something almost resembling amusement beneath it. “Now that is unusual.”

-

She was not herself.

Ominis could tell the moment she sat down across from him in the common room, her usual composure disrupted by the restless way she adjusted the parchment in front of her for the tenth time in a matter of minutes. Normally, she was calm, deliberate, never one for unnecessary fidgeting. But tonight, she was different. And not in a way he liked.

He let the silence stretch between them, waiting, listening.

Then, she sighed softly.

Ominis set his quill down. “Spit it out.”

She startled slightly, as if she hadn’t expected him to notice. Foolish. He always noticed.

“I…” She hesitated, then let out another breath, this one heavier. “I feel guilty.”

Ominis frowned, tilting his head. “For what?”

“For lying to you.”

That made him sit up straighter, his interest fully caught. He hadn’t expected that. She was not a liar. She was reserved, yes. Guarded, even. But deception had never been part of her character.

So why did she sound so… ashamed?

“I wasn’t aware you had lied to me.” He said carefully.

She swallowed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He could hear the subtle shift of fabric as she adjusted, nervous. Unusual, indeed.

“When you asked me what I wanted from you?” She said, voice quiet. “I told you nothing.”

Ominis nodded. “I remember.”

“Well… I was wrong.”

The words were soft, uncertain, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, deeply conflicted.

Ominis exhaled slowly. He was careful with his words, but not unkind. “Go on.”

Her breath hitched ever so slightly, and then, finally, she said it.

“I want something from you, Ominis.” A thick swallow. “I want a date.”

Silence.

While Ominis was not someone who was easily caught off guard, for the first time in a long while, he found himself entirely at a loss for words.

He had spent weeks - months, even - waiting for the inevitable reason behind her persistent presence in his life. He had suspected everything: pity, curiosity, obligation, some scheme of Sebastian’s for his own amusement. And yet, in all his wariness, he had somehow overlooked the simplest, most human answer of all.

She liked him.

Not out of duty, not out of manipulation, but because, against all odds, she simply did.

Her voice was small when she continued. “I do enjoy your company. That part wasn’t a lie. But the more time we spent together, the more I realized that… I wanted more than that. And that makes me feel awful, because I told you I didn’t want anything from you, and now I do, and I-” She broke off, flustered. “I didn’t mean to lie. I only just realized it myself.”

Ominis considered her words carefully.

She thought this was something to be guilty about.

The realization was almost amusing, in a way.

He let out a small sigh and breathed out her name, a touch exasperated.

She tensed beside him.

He resisted the urge to smirk.

“You do realize that liking someone is not a crime, yes?” He asked, voice lighter than it had been in weeks

“I…” She blinked, her flustered silence telling him everything.

He shook his head, something almost fond beneath his exasperation. “You’ve spent all this time feeling guilty because you fancy me?”

She let out a frustrated breath. “When you say it like that -”

“How else should I say it?”

She groaned, and Ominis finally - finally - let himself smirk.

“I fail to see the problem.” He said smoothly. “You like me. You’ve realized it. And now you’ve told me. What exactly were you expecting me to do? Flee?”

“No!” She stammered, clearly flustered. “But I-I don’t know. I thought you might feel deceived.”

“Deceived?” He laughed, quiet but genuine. “You might be the least deceitful person I know.”

A pause. Then, cautiously, “So… you’re not upset?”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, pretending to seriously consider the question. “Hm. No, I don’t think I am.”

She hesitated. “That doesn’t mean you… return the sentiment.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Her breath caught. “Ominis-”

He smirked again, just barely. “I do believe that for your deceit, however, you owe me a proper date.”

Silence. Then…

“Oh.”

It was such a small sound, barely more than a breath, but Ominis could hear the realization behind it. She had expected rejection. She had prepared for it. And yet, here he was, turning her entire expectation upside down.

Ominis reached for his book, fingers trailing over the worn leather as he allowed himself the smallest, most fleeting smile.

“You can take your time deciding where, but make no mistake that I do expect a date.”

She swallowed audibly. Then, after a pause -

“Okay.”

Ominis nodded, satisfied.

Now that was settled.

Her nothing was the sweetest lie he'd ever been told.

-

The snow fell in slow drifts, blanketing the courtyard in soft white. The lamps cast a muted glow over the path leading to Hogsmeade, their light catching on the frost-laced stone. The world felt quiet, the kind of hush that came with snowfall, muffling every sound into something softer and more intimate.

Ominis waited beneath the archway, fingers wrapped loosely around his wand, listening. He had arrived early, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was habit - he despised being late. Or perhaps, if he allowed himself to be honest, he had simply wanted a moment to compose himself before she arrived.

And then, there she was.

She never made much noise when she walked, but he knew it was her. He knew the way her steps sounded in the snow, the way she always hesitated just before speaking, as if giving herself the chance to think twice. He did not turn toward her immediately, only tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“You’re early.” She greeted simply.

He smiled. “And you’re surprised by this?”

A small, relieved laugh. “No, I suppose not.”

He heard the soft crunch of snow as she took a step closer. The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. And yet, there was something different about it tonight. Neither of them had said it outright, but they both understood: this was not like all the times before. This was not just another walk to Hogsmeade.

Ominis reached out, fingers brushing against the cold fabric of her sleeve before sliding downward, finding her hand.

She tensed, only for a moment, then let out a breath and laced her fingers through his.

Her grip was warm.

Ominis let his thumb rest lightly against her knuckles. “Ready?”

“Yes, Ominis.” She said softly.

He nodded, adjusting his hold slightly to hold her more firmly. And as they stepped out onto the path together, into the soft hush of winter, Ominis realized something.

For the first time in his life, he had taken someone’s hand first; not to be led, not to be guided, but simply to hold.

The first thing Lucy learned about the Animagus ritual was that it was stupid.

The second thing she learned was that attempting it under the nose of a paranoid, sharp-eyed apothecary master while working full-time in his shop was possibly stupider.

And yet, there she was.

Standing behind the counter of Wicklow’s apothecary, jaw clenched, face utterly blank, attempting to look normal while a slimy, bitter, absolutely foul-tasting Mandrake leaf resided under her tongue like a bar of soap in the mouth of a cursing child.

"You're exceptionally lacking in your usual whinging today." Wicklow grunted from the back room, the scraping of mortar and pestle carrying with his voice. "Not that I mind the bloody silence, mind you."

Lucy blinked once, slowly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

That’s because if I open my mouth even slightly, this entire operation goes to hell.

Instead of responding, she made a hum of agreement and busied herself organizing the front shelves, sorting bottles by size rather than ingredient because she could practically see Wicklow’s eye twitching and she found that amusing - and distracting from her present plight.

The leaf was disgusting.

She had known it would be unpleasant - everything about this absurd process was designed to test patience, something she barely had in the first place - but this?

This was downright miserable.

Not speaking for a month? Fine.

Not chewing properly for a month? Horrific.

She had spent years perfecting the ability to act completely normal while barely eating, but this was another beast entirely - literally. Wicklow had already eyed her suspiciously at lunch when she had withdrawn a single piece of toast from her pouch and then just… sat there, staring at it like it had personally wronged her until she ultimately opted to subsist on nothing but pumpkin juice for the remainder of the day.

And tea. Merlin’s bloody beard, she missed tea.

She'd learned the hard way that hot drinks were a terrible idea, nearly losing the entire month-long process to a scalding sip of Earl Grey on the first morning. That had been a close call. A very close call. She had no idea how anyone was expected to maintain this ridiculous, fragile ritual for thirty-one days.

But she would.

Because she’d lost that duel by the boathouse.

Because she’d underestimated her opponent, and she hated that more than anything.

Because when he had vanished mid-step, shifting seamlessly into a form of muscle and claws, she had barely been able to react before she was flat on her back.

And Lucy Kay did not lose like that.

If there was one thing she was good at, it was adapting.

She would endure the ridiculous leaf. She would endure every painstaking, inconvenient, infuriating step of this process. And when it was over, she would have yet another weapon in her personal arsenal.

She imagined herself shifting for the first time - sleek, powerful, dangerous. A bear. A panther. A dragon. Something that would strike fear into her enemies, something that commanded respect.

It had to be something grand.

Anything less would be a waste.

She heard Wicklow’s footsteps approaching and schooled her expression into perfect indifference as he stepped into the shopfront, narrowing his eyes at her.

"You look like you swallowed a dungbomb." He muttered, reaching for a jar on the shelf. "Not getting sick, are you?"

Lucy shook her head once.

Not yet, anyway.

"Good. I’d hate to have to put you down."

Lucy grinned, all gritted teeth caging in that damn leaf.

Not if this leaf does it first, old man.

Hamish snorted and left her to it.

One month.

She could survive one month.

She had endured far worse.

And so she did indeed endure.

The first thing Lucy planned to do when the month was finally over was eat an entire loaf of bread out of spite.

Not because she was particularly hungry - though she was, having mostly consumed nothing but juice as of late - but because she could. Because she could chew properly again, could taste things again, could drink tea without feeling like she was navigating an elaborate death trap.

The second thing she looked forward to doing was preparing for the next stage of the Animagus ritual.

It had to be done precisely at the full moon, and if one single thing went wrong - if the sky was cloudy, if she messed up even slightly - she’d have to start over from the beginning.

The entire month.

The thought made her ill, so she took every precaution possible.

Which was how she ended up perched on the roof of Wicklow’s apothecary, crystal phial in hand, waiting for the moon to emerge like some deranged imbecile conducting an occult ritual.

Which, really, she was - but no one else needed to be privy to that.

The leaf - that wretched leaf - rested on her tongue, a miserable, soggy thing, soaked in a month’s worth of suffering.

She hated it.

She had never hated something so much in her entire life as she did that fucking leaf. Even Iona herself was beginning to take second seat in her utter loathing.

The full moon shone bright and clear above her, not a cloud in sight, though, and that in itself boded well enough.

Lucy leaned forward, tilting the small phial so that it caught the pure light of the moon.

She spat the Mandrake leaf into the phial with as much force as humanly possible, watching it sink into the liquid with grim satisfaction.

She wasn’t done yet, unfortunately. Such a finicky process.

Next came the additions - the personal piece of herself, the elements that would tether the transformation to her.

She reached up and plucked out a single strand of hair, carefully placing it into the phial.

Then, the dew.

This had been its own nightmare. Finding a place untouched by sunlight or human feet for a full week in a village full of wizards was nearly impossible. But she had managed. It had taken several long, very frustrating nights of sneaking out into the wild Highlands, crawling through brambles, and swearing at nature, but she had found it - a quiet, hidden hollow, untouched and perfect.

The tiny silver spoonful of dew followed the hair into the phial.

Last, the chrysalis.

The Death’s-head Hawk Moth was rare, elusive, and most fragile. It had taken weeks to locate one and immense care to keep it intact. She had guarded it like a dragon hoarding its nest, ensuring that nothing would ruin it.

She placed the delicate chrysalis into the mixture and watched in eager anticipation as it sank beneath the surface.

The phial was complete.

Lucy exhaled nervously, staring at the small vial in her hands.

It looked… unassuming. Just a bit of moonlit liquid with a few strange things floating in it.

But it was so much more.

She had done it. Getting to this step alone was a feat, and she was quite pleased with the accomplishment. But, there was always more work to be done. No rest for the wicked, after all, and what was more wicked than illicit rituals as an underage witch?

The mixture needed to be stored somewhere dark, untouched, and quiet now…

She had already chosen the perfect place - a hidden nook beneath the floorboards of her room at the Three Broomsticks.

It would stay there until the next step.

And then, when the storm came and the lightning finally struck, she would finish this ritual.

Lucy smiled to herself, holding the phial up to the moon one last time to ensure it collected all the damn moonlight it wanted before tucking it carefully into her cloak.

One step closer.

-

And sure enough, the storm hit fast.

Lucy had been watching the sky for weeks, muttering incantations over her heart like some lovesick poet every evening, waiting for the inevitable moment where nature and her will finally aligned - and now that it had, she had about three minutes to get to a spacious patch of the highlands before she missed her shot.

She bolted out the back of the apothecary that evening, the rain slicing sideways through the alley, her cloak whipping around her ankles. The cobblestones were already slick beneath her boots as she sprinted through Hogsmeade, past shuttered shops and glowing windows, heart pounding in her chest.

No time to check if Wicklow had noticed her absence. Not that she expected him to - he was probably hunched over a cauldron, muttering insults to himself about idiot apprentices.

And anyway, she had bigger problems.

Like the blood-red phial clutched in her fist as she raced the storm roaring overhead.

By the time she reached the highlands proper, the wind had picked up and whipped around her. The storm was at its peak, lightning splitting the sky, and all she could think was, If I get struck by lightning mid-transformation, I am going to be so unbelievably pissed.

She skidded to a stop at the crest of a hill, breathing hard, soaked to the bone, and laughing a little under her breath because Merlin, this was stupid.

So stupid.

She pressed the tip of her wand to her chest, feeling the now familiar second heartbeat against her ribs.

"Amato Animo Animato Animagus."

The storm crackled in response.

The potion remained invitingly crimson in its vial.

Lucy squinted at it, turning it slightly to inspect the red liquid. She had spent months on this. Months of prep, of suffering through that bloody Mandrake leaf, of nearly choking herself to death every time she tried to take a drink.

And now, here she was. The final step.

She exhaled a steadying breath. "Well. Cheers, I suppose."

Then, she knocked it back in one go.

It burned like boiling water had been poured into her bloodstream, igniting something inside her. Her vision blurred, her head went light, and her heart - both of them now - began to hammer wildly.

And then a bolt of lightning split the sky, and the world dropped out beneath her feet.

-

After all the theatrics, the first thing Lucy noticed was that she wasn’t dead.

Which, frankly, was a bit of a surprise.

She partly expected something to go horribly awry - the potion to backfire, her limbs to twist into some half-formed monstrosity, or for a stray bolt of lightning to smite her where she stood. But no, she was alive.

Something was indeed different, though.

Her vision had changed - stretched, almost, like the world had been pulled into a fisheye. The rain felt different too, not hitting her skin but soaking into fur. The storm still raged above her, but the sounds were louder, and the earth itself even smelled different.

She had done it.

She had actually done it.

Lucy grinned - or at least tried to. The movement felt strange, unfamiliar, like her face wasn’t quite built for expressions anymore.

…Huh.

That was when she realized she couldn’t stand up properly.

Her front legs - legs, not arms, legs - buckled as she tried to move, her body longer, thinner, horribly unfamiliar. She staggered, paws - paws - slipping in the mud.

No need to panic.

She just needed a moment to adjust.

A moment which was promptly interrupted by a gust of wind catching her absurdly long, ridiculous, unreasonably thin legs and nearly knocking her over like a sack of damp twigs.

Lucy froze.

Her mind caught up with her body, her new proportions, her shape.

And then it hit her - a brief vision in her mind.

She was a dog.

Not a bear. Not a panther. Not a powerful predator or something impressive and fearsome.

A bloody overgrown, leggy, ridiculous, merlin-forsaken CANINE.

No, no, no.

This couldn’t be right. The ritual must have messed up somehow. She had done everything perfectly, endured that stupid leaf, chanted every day like a lunatic, risked getting caught by Wicklow, and this was what she got?

This noodle-bodied, absurdly proportioned, damp-looking -

Lucy tried to growl.

It came out as a whine.

Brilliant.

She sat - awkwardly, because her legs seemed to go on forever, folding underneath her like a newborn fawn - staring out over the rain-drenched highlands in abject horror.

This was humiliating.

Of all the creatures she could have become - a bear, a hawk, a great, snarling beast of legend - she was this.

A Borzoi.

Lucy whined again, dropping her head dramatically onto her too-long legs, rain still pelting down around her.

Thus, Lucy sat in the rain, in the mud, as a very large, very leggy, very damp Borzoi, contemplating every single life choice that had led her to this exact moment.

And she had a lot of time to think.

Because she had no idea how to stand up properly.

Her limbs weren’t just long, they were endless. Every time she adjusted, they tangled under her like she was some giraffe marionette whose strings had been cut.

This was mortifying.

A low whimper -

NO, NOT A WHIMPER, A GROWL, DAMN IT

- escaped her before she could stop it.

And then that was enough wallowing.

This was still her body.

She was Lucy fucking Kay.

With what little dignity she had left, she planted her stupid, gangly, entirely-too-thin legs beneath her and forced herself upright.

Alright. Standing.

That was an improvement, at least.

Now, she just had to…

Move.

She took a single step forward, and her front leg went too far. Her back legs went nowhere. The rest of her failed to keep up entirely.

Gravity won.

Lucy collapsed sideways into the mud.

For a long, long moment, she did not move.

The rain dripped off her drenched, pathetic, shaking frame. The wind howled. Somewhere in the distance, an actual predator probably felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of secondhand embarrassment.

This was fine. This was completely fine.

She was just going to lie here, in the dirt, and let the earth swallow her whole.

That seemed reasonable.

Except - no.

No, actually, it wasn’t fine. It was offensive.

She had spent months preparing for this. She had suffered through that damned mandrake leaf, stolen forbidden ingredients, lied to Wicklow’s face daily, and now she was lying in the dirt like an overgrown, rain-drenched rat?

With renewed spite, Lucy forced herself upright again, this time more balanced.

Front leg.

Back leg.

She tried another step.

It wasn’t graceful, but it wasn’t immediate failure, either.

Then another.

And another.

And then, suddenly, something clicked.

She took a real step, and then another, and then, before she could stop herself, she was moving, her legs stretching out, her body following, paws hitting the soaked earth with a rhythm now, until she wasn’t just moving - she was running.

And running felt good.

And Merlin, she was fast. The Highlands blurred around her, raindrops flying off her sodden coat as she tore across the hills, weaving through the landscape with a natural ease that hadn’t been there minutes ago.

This form was built for speed.

Her doubts, her irritation, her absolute horror at being a bloody dog faded slightly, pushed aside by the sheer, undeniable thrill of movement.

Maybe this wasn’t a complete loss.

Still undignified, obviously, but Lucy Kay now felt like she was the fastest thing alive.

She was little more than a brown streak of wet fur and gangly legs, cutting across the Highlands through her storm.

Being a dog wasn’t entirely awful.

Still hideous, though - that part was non-negotiable.

Lucy skidded to a stop near a shallow stream, panting. Her paws sank into the damp earth, her impossibly long legs finally feeling like they belonged to her instead of some cosmic joke at her expense.

She huffed, shaking out her soaked, miserable coat.

Then, finally, she turned toward the water to get a look at herself.

The reflection that stared back was…

…unfortunate.

She had never seen a Borzoi in the flesh before, but she was intimately familiar with what a wet mop looked like, and apparently, that’s what she was now.

The longest, dampest, saddest thing she had ever seen.

Her legs were absurd. Her snout was unnecessarily long. Her already pitiful ears drooped under the weight of the rain. She looked like someone had cast a Stretching Charm on a normal dog and then left it out in a thunderstorm to marinate in regret.

This was so far removed from the grand, terrifying animagus form she had dreamed of that she actually had to take a moment to emotionally process the loss.

Instead of a dragon, she was this horrific, overcooked Victorian noodle dog.

Her new horribly long nose bumped against her own paw as she tried to curl up in defeat, her body taking up far too much space no matter how she twisted snd pretzeled her limbs.

At least Wicklow would never know.

That was something, at least.

Lucy sat there for a long moment, watching the rain distort her already ridiculous reflection.

And then she started to laugh.

It came out as a wheezing sort of bark, and that made her laugh harder, which just made her sound worse, until she was cackling like a dying goose in the middle of a storm, alone, soaked to the bone, in a body she absolutely did not ask for.

It was hilarious.

Because of course, nothing in her life had ever gone to plan, so why should this be any different?

She pushed herself up, legs wobbling slightly, and gave herself one last long look in the stream.

Alright.

Fine.

So she wasn’t powerful.

She wasn’t fearsome.

But she was fast.

The problem with being fast, however - really, properly fast - was that stopping was an absolute nightmare.

Lucy discovered this the hard way.

Running was easy now, like her body had been designed for it; because, apparently, it had. The first few wobbly, mooncalf-on-ice attempts were behind her, and now she could race. Wind whipped around her too-thin frame as she skimmed across wet grass, paws barely touching the ground before pushing off again. It was a rush, a natural sort of momentum.

But she had also learned something very important: this body had no brakes.

The first time she tried to stop, she did not stop.

Instead, her long, wretched, treacherous legs betrayed her completely, folding under her like a cursed bit of origami and sending her skidding twenty feet downhill in a mess of fur, mud, and dignity.

It was fine, though.

She had survived worse.

It had, admittedly, taken a bit longer than she would like to untangle herself, especially because Borzoi legs apparently just kept going and did not, in fact, function like normal limbs. But after some rather intense self-reflection and five solid minutes of lying in a heap questioning every life choice she had ever made, she had determined that she was, at the very least, built for speed, not impact.

Regrettable.

-

She was still sulking about it when she finally slunk back toward the apothecary, shifting back into herself with the ease of muscle memory, wet clothes plastering back over her like they’d never left.

She rolled her shoulders, still feeling the strange, phantom presence of too many limbs, and combed a hand through her drenched and tangled hair.

She was stiff, soaked, and covered in mud.

As soon as she stepped inside, the warmth of the shop hit her, along with the heavy scent of woodsmoke and herbs. The instant Wicklow saw her, he let out a grumble from behind the counter, not looking up again from the potion he was brewing.

"Do I even want to know?"

Lucy plucked a piece of grass off her sleeve. "Probably not."

He grunted, off-handedly reaching for his wand and casting a drying charm on his wayward apprentice. "Thought not. Try not to get yourself killed or arrested before your shift tomorrow, yeah? Sundays are busy.”

Lucy grinned, the familiar warmth of dry clothes easing her.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

She headed for the stairs toward the workroom to finish her abandoned tasks, shaking out her still-damp hair.

The Borzoi was useless in a fight, but it was fast and agile, and - if she had to admit it - kind of fun.

It wasn’t what she expected or really even wanted, but she'd worked hard at it, and she couldn't help the sense of pride washing over her.

She’d head to the bookstore at lunch tomorrow and read up on her new inner beast.

And then never tell a soul of her shame.

The Undercroft was quiet.

Too quiet.

It had always been a place of secrecy, of whispered plans and hushed laughter, of the clatter of gobstones, of arguments that burned and healed in the same breath. It had been their refuge.

But tonight, it was just heavy.

She sat on the old couch, bony elbows on bony knees, fingers tangled in the fabric of her robes. A slow, absent motion, twisting and smoothing, as if the world could be put back together by touch and self-soothing alone.

Sebastian and Ominis sat nearby - Sebastian at her side, close enough that their shoulders brushed, Ominis perched on the arm of the chair across from them. Neither boy spoke.

The silence stretched.

And then…

“I wanted to be a seamstress.”

Her voice was soft, tired, breaking the quiet like a thread unraveling.

Sebastian turned his head slightly to acknowledge he'd heard her, but he didn’t say anything.

She exhaled, letting her gaze drop to her lap. “Before I came here, before… all of this -”

She gestured vaguely, encompassing the wreckage of the last year, the things they had done, the people they had lost. “I just wanted to make things. Something simple and my own.”

Ominis opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, wanted to pull her back from whatever edge she was standing on.

But there was nothing to say.

Because it was true.

Sebastian’s voice retorted, a sharp utterance of her name.

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Why did it have to be me?”

Sebastian’s breath stilled.

Ominis pressed his lips into a thin line.

She leaned further forward, voice dropping to something more worn, more brittle, not at all her age.

“I didn’t want this.” She muttered miserably. “I didn’t want the title. The battles. The magic that no one else could understand.”

Her fingers twisted tightly into her robes, as if she were actively in agony. “I would have been happy just sewing, just living, just being…”

She cut herself off with a small choke and bit her lip, willing away the tears that had begun to prick once more at her eyes.

Sebastian ached at the sound.

Because he understood. Gods, did he understand.

She glanced between them, her voice quieter now.

“I wish it had been anyone else.”

Ominis’ jaw locked, and he finally spoke up. “Don’t say that.”

She laughed, but it was a raw, shattered sound. “Why not? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you wish it had been someone else?”

Sebastian clenched his fists, staring at the floor.

Because the answer was yes.

He had wished, more times than he could count, that she hadn’t been forced to bear everything. He certainly wouldn't have wanted the weight of it himself.

But he had also wished - selfishly, terribly - that it hadn’t been someone else.

That it had been her, because without her…

None of them would be here.

Ominis shook his head, voice tight. “You would have hated that.”

She scoffed. “I would have -”

“You would have.” Ominis repeated, firmer now. “If someone else had been chosen, if you had watched instead, if you had been forced to sit back while someone else suffered…”

Her breath caught.

Because she would have hated it.

Because even if she had never wanted it, she wouldn’t have been able to stand doing nothing.

Sebastian finally spoke, low and petulant as ever.

“It’s not fair.”

She blinked, turning to give her attention now.

He was staring ahead, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.

“It’s not fair.” He repeated. “But I…”

He swallowed. Inhaled. Exhaled.

“I’m glad it was you.”

Sebastian turned his head, brown eyes meeting hers, quiet but unwavering. “Because if it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

Ominis’ shoulders slumped, his head dipping slightly.

Her throat felt tight.

It was true.

If it had been anyone else, if it had been someone weaker, someone less fierce, someone who wouldn’t have fought as hard as she had…

Sebastian would have been lost.

Ominis might have never trusted again.

Hogwarts might not have survived at all.

They were all there because it had been her.

She swallowed hard, staring down at her lap.

The weight of it settled in her chest, heavy, but not as lonely.

Sebastian nudged her knee with his. “You still could, you know.”

She looked up, warmed by the touch of her friend, but equally confused.

Sebastian tilted his head. “Sew.”

Oh.

Her lips parted slightly.

Sebastian smiled, but it was softer, more genuine than usual. “You’re brilliant at everything else. I can only assume you’d make excellent robes.”

Ominis huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Something almost like relief slipped through the cracks of her tension.

It wasn’t fixed.

It wasn’t fair.

But she wasn’t alone.

She pressed her shoulder lightly against Sebastian’s, looking at him for just a second longer than she needed to.

Then, softly, but certainly…

“I’d make you the ugliest set imaginable.”

Romantics were the ones who sighed wistfully at poetry readings, who blushed at the sight of a well-crafted love letter, who spent Valentine’s Day clutching their hearts like some love-struck imbecile from an old novel.

She was not a romantic.

And yet, there she was.

Sitting in the Great Hall, not eating her breakfast, not reading her book, but instead watching - because everywhere she looked, it was there.

The soft, intimate moments she pretended not to care about. The day before Valentine's Day.

A Hufflepuff girl tucking a chocolate frog into her boyfriend’s pocket with a whispered, “For later.”

A Ravenclaw scribbling something in the margins of a letter, smiling absently to herself before sealing it with a wax stamp and charming it to flutter across the vast room.

A Gryffindor dramatically dropping to one knee in front of a giggling girl, presenting a questionably-made bouquet of half-wilted wildflowers to a simpering, blushing witch.

And herself?

Eating dry toast and definitely not pining.

“Why do you look like you’ve swallowed a lemon?”

She blinked, snapping out of it, and turned to see Poppy Sweeting watching her far too closely from across the table, arms folded neatly on the wood.

“I don’t.” She said flatly, reaching for her tea.

Poppy hummed in a way that implied otherwise. “You’re staring at people.”

She tore off a piece of toast and shoved it into her mouth, unladylike and unbothered. “I’m observing.”

Poppy snorted. “Observing what?”

She could lie. Say she was disgusted by all the romance, say that it was silly, useless, pointless.

Or…

She could tell the truth.

“…Nothing.” She muttered instead, stuffing the rest of the toast in her mouth before she could say anything else.

Evasion was neither truth nor lie, and thus, an acceptable third option. Poppy narrowed her eyes, tapping her fingers against the table. Then, far too casual-

“This wouldn’t happen to be about a certain freckled menace, would it?”

She choked on her toast.

Poppy beamed.

“It is about him, isn’t it?”

Still coughing, she reached for her tea and muttered, “It is not.”

Poppy, clearly unconvinced, simply leaned forward and propped her chin on her hand. “Right. So, when you were observing just now, you definitely weren’t actually sulking over the fact that you spend every waking moment with a certain Slytherin, except, glaringly, on the one day of the year you'd most prefer?”

She froze.

Because.

Well.

That was entirely too true.

It wasn’t that she was sulking over not getting a Valentine in general. It was that, if she ever were to get one, she already knew exactly who she’d want it from. Except Sebastian Sallow had made precisely zero mention of doing anything even platonic on the impending day from cupid-pink hell.

And that thought?

That thought was dangerous.

Because Sebastian was not an option in the first place.

Sebastian was Sebastian - her best friend, her partner in literal crime, her closest companion, the one she could turn to for anything and everything.

And he was not hers.

He flirted with everyone. He charmed his way through life. He tossed out compliments like it was second nature, and none of it meant anything.

She knew that.

She did.

And yet…

The unspoken longing was starting to eat at her, and that unrequited feeling stung a little more than she cared to admit.

“…You should write him a letter.”

She blinked. “I should what?”

Poppy shrugged. “Write it all out. Not to give to him, just… to get it off your chest.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She scowled, heat creeping up to her cheeks at the mere notion.

“It’s practical.” Poppy gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been miserable for ages over this. It's not hard to see. Just write it all down, and then decide if you want to say it to him for real.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to shut it down, to dismiss it entirely…

But then, at that exact moment -

Sebastian strolled past, laughing about something with Ominis, his robes ruffled from sleep, his hair a careless, tousled mess, looking infuriatingly attractive in that effortless way of his…

And she sighed, smitten.

“…Fine.”

-

The letter was not supposed to be good.

It was just supposed to be words on a page. A venting session. A way to untangle her own thoughts.

But when she finally lifted her quill from the parchment, she realized, with horror, that she had somehow written the most disgustingly heartfelt confession imaginable.

The worst part?

She meant every word.

She stared at it, stomach twisting, and let out a groan of regret.

Why did she listen to Poppy?

Why did she ever think this was a good idea?

This thing needed to be burned. Immediately.

She folded it aggressively, shoved it into her school satchel, and made a mental note to destroy it later.

And then promptly forgot about it.

Because that night, she was half-asleep, shoving her books into her bag without a second thought, not realizing that the letter had slipped from its hiding place and fallen, unnoticed, to the castle floor.

Waiting.

For the wrong person to find it.

She realized far too late that the letter was missing. She had spent the morning of the damned frilly holiday blissfully unaware, going about her day as normal, utterly oblivious to the unforgivable mistake she had made.

It wasn’t until midday, when she went to retrieve her Transfiguration notes, that she noticed the folded parchment was gone.

Her heart plummeted.

She froze, still as stone, fingers digging through her satchel in mounting horror, books and parchment scattered on the table as she searched, and searched, and searched…

And found nothing.

The letter - the one letter she could not afford to lose - was gone.

Panic rushed through her, overwhelming, as she replayed every moment from the night before.

She had written it.

Folded it.

Shoved it into her satchel.

And then - what? Had it fallen out? Had someone taken it? Was it currently out there, somewhere in the castle, waiting to ruin her life?

Her stomach rolled violently.

She had to find it.

Step One: Enlist Every Trustworthy Person She Knows

This was not a one-person job.

She swallowed her pride, sought out her closest friends in each house, and told them the full, unfiltered truth - with the strict demand that they never speak of it again once the letter was found.

Natty was the first to respond, the voice of reason among the chaos.

“We should retrace your steps.” She suggested, calm and methodical as ever. “Where were you last night?”

She winced. “I don’t know. Everywhere?”

Natty sighed.

Poppy, hands clasped over her mouth in barely contained amusement, offered absolutely no helpful input whatsoever. Sick amusement from this whole debacle, that one got.

Garreth Weasley, on the other hand, lit up like Christmas had come early.

“This is brilliant!” He declared, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Thought today was going to be dull. I'll have you to thank for the entertainment!”

She shoved him off, scowling. “Garreth, I will brew you into a potion.”

Garreth held up his hands, mockingly placating. “Our leading lady is so high-strung.”

Natty pinched the bridge of her nose. “Focus.”

“Right, right.” Garreth sobering immediately, turning back with mock solemnity. “If I were your missing letter, where would I be?”

“It was in my bag last night, which means it could have fallen out anywhere between the common room and class this morning.”

Poppy perked up. “And you went outside to read before breakfast, didn’t you?”

She groaned. “Right. So now it could be anywhere in the entire castle or the bloody courtyard.”

They scattered.

Natty took the main halls. Poppy went to check the greenhouses. Garreth, horrifyingly, volunteered to go search the Great Hall, which she immediately regretted allowing, because if he so much as breathed a word of this to anyone, she was going to have to change schools.

Meanwhile, she scoured the rest of the castle.

She checked every hallway, every staircase, every possible place it could have fallen. She combed the courtyard, nearly tore apart the Undercroft, and spent far too long peeking under random benches, earning more than a few odd looks from passing students.

And yet…

Nothing.

By late afternoon, her nerves were shot.

The longer the letter was missing, the worse her paranoia became.

What if someone already had it?

What if it had been read aloud to a group of cackling classmates?

What if Peeves found it?

What if it had made its way to the Slytherin common room?

She groaned into her hands.

This was hell.

And then, as if fate had decided she had suffered enough, she saw it.

Or, at least, she thought she did.

A glimpse of parchment, lying half-hidden in the empty courtyard, crumpled and slightly smudged with dirt.

Her heart leapt. She moved immediately, nearly tripping over herself, relief flooding her system as she reached for it -

Only for another hand to grab it first.

Her stomach dropped.

Because, of course.

Of course.

It was Sebastian.

Sebastian, standing just a few feet away, held the letter in his hands, tilting his head curiously.

And her?

She panicked.

“Ah - oh, that’s not important. Just some old parchment -” She lunged, making a hasty attempt to snatch it back.

Sebastian sidestepped effortlessly, lifting the letter out of reach.

“Now, now!” He teased, grinning. “No need to be so hasty. I just want to see what’s got you racing around the castle all day like a headless diricawl.”

He had noticed?

Of course he had.

Sebastian watched her too closely, too often.

He had definitely noticed.

She swallowed hard, keeping her voice steady. “Sebastian, it’s really nothing.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “So if I read it aloud right now, you wouldn’t mind?”

Her eyes went wide.

Sebastian grinned.

“Oh, Merlin.” He said, delighted. “It is something, isn’t it?”

Her heart pounded. “Sebastian -”

But he was already unfolding the letter.

Already reading the first lines.

And already…

Smirking.

-

Sebastian had every intention of teasing.

He had caught her red-handed, after all - had seen her darting around the castle like a witch possessed, muttering under her breath, frantically scouring every inch of Hogwarts like a niffler who had misplaced her cache.

She had been so focused, so desperate that he had spent the entire day trying - and failing - to get her attention. She had brushed him off in the corridors, ignored him at lunch, even physically dodged him on the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was a new level of avoidance, even for her.

And now, at long last, he finally had the answer to why.

So, of course, when he picked up the crumpled parchment in the courtyard and saw her entire soul drain from her face, he couldn’t help himself.

“Ah. So this is what’s had you so worked up?” He mused, turning the letter over in his hands, pretending to inspect it. “I must say, I’m intrigued.”

She lunged again.

“Sebastian!”

“I knew you were up to something,” he said, deliberately casual, letting his thumb skim the edge of the folded parchment. “But I must admit, I wasn’t expecting it to be a secret love letter.”

Her entire body seized.

Sebastian beamed.

“Is it really?” He laughed, delighted. “It is a love letter.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Sebastian. Give. It. Back.”

Sebastian tutted, clicking his tongue. “Now, now. I think it’s only fair I take a little peek, don’t you? Considering how rudely you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

Sebastian cleared his throat and unfolded it with great circumstance, smirking as he began to read aloud, voice deliberately dramatic.

“To the most insufferable, reckless, and endlessly arrogant prick I have ever met…”

He chuckled. “Oh, this is already off to an excellent start.”

She whimpered, burying her face in her hands.

Sebastian continued.

"You drive me to madness on a daily basis. I have never met someone more infuriatingly smug, more entirely frustrating -"

He snorted. “Flatter him more, love.”

"- and yet somehow, impossibly, against all logic and reason -"

Sebastian paused.

His grin faltered.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

Sebastian’s breath caught as he took in the next lines, the way the handwriting shifted slightly, the way her usual slanted script had softened, like she had hesitated before writing it.

"I find myself drawn to you anyway, Sebastian."

Sebastian’s grip on the parchment tightened.

"I don’t know when it started, whether it was the first time you shielded me in a duel, or the hundredth time you made me laugh when I wanted to scream, or maybe it was always there, just in our day-to-day."

Sebastian swallowed.

"All I know is that I look for you before anyone else. That I miss you before you’re even gone. That the idea of you with someone else makes my stomach twist in ways I don’t want to acknowledge."

A slow, creeping warmth spread up Sebastian’s neck, his freckled face heating.

"I don’t know if I’ll ever say this aloud. Maybe this is the only time I’ll ever admit it, even to myself. But it’s there, no matter how much I try to ignore it. I am yours, and you don’t even know it."

Sebastian’s breath hitched.

He didn’t even realize he had stopped reading.

Didn’t realize he had gone completely still.

Didn’t realize she had been watching him the entire time, cheeks red, expression somewhere between horrified and resigned.

He felt her eyes on him, felt the weight of her gaze, the unspoken tension between them.

And suddenly -

Everything was different.

-

She was dying.

Actually, literally, physically dying.

Sebastian was silent.

And not in his usual, plotting, scheming way.

No.

Sebastian was silent in the way that meant his brilliant brain hadn't been able to quite wrap around the horrific monstrosity of emotional vomit which had been inflicted upon him.

Which was, frankly, more terrifying than anything else.

He just stood there, holding the letter, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.

And she herself who had spent the entire day terrified of this exact moment, who had been dreading what his reaction would be, suddenly realized she had no idea what to do now that the very worst had actually happened.

She cleared her throat, shifting awkwardly. “I… um. That’s…”

Sebastian looked up.

Their eyes met.

Her stomach flipped.

And then -

Sebastian laughed.

It wasn’t his usual cocky, amused laugh.

It was nervous, breathless, and way too full of emotions he clearly didn’t know how to process.

“Oh.” He said, voice slightly unsteady. “So, um. That’s - wow.”

She groaned, burying her face in her hands again. “Sebastian…”

“No, no, wait -” He laughed again, more to himself than anything, running a hand through his hair, looking thoroughly unmoored. “You… Merlin! You wrote me a love letter.”

She winced. “Shut up.”

“I mean, really!” He huffed out another disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You actually - you wrote me a love letter.”

She let out a strangled noise. “So we've determined! Now hurry it along so I can put in for my transfer to Durmstrang.”

Sebastian smirked, and for a brief, horrifying moment, she thought he was going to tease her , but then he glanced down at the letter again, eyes flicking over the last lines, and his smirk softened.

He hesitated.

Then, before she could stop him…

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and delicate.

A sprig of dittany, perfectly preserved, fastened to a silver hair clip.

And offered it to her.

Sebastian’s ears went pink as she stared blankly at it.

“I, um…” He cleared his throat. “It’s not - it’s not much. But I know how much you like dittany, so I thought…” He stopped himself, sighing in a bid to regain composure. “Look, I just - I didn’t know how to say it, either.”

Her heart stumbled and stopped.

Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, glancing away, looking suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “But if you’re mine, then I’m yours, too.”

Warmth flooded her, and then, before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in and kissed him in a moment of absolute insanity.

It was clumsy, awkward, entirely too soft.

They smiled against each other’s lips.

And for the first time all day, she was glad she lost the letter.

The kiss was nothing like the ones from the romance novels she squirreled away in her dorm. There was no perfectly choreographed moment of breathtaking passion, no swooning or instinctual spark.

It was clumsy - a little too eager, a little too uncertain, the way all first kisses tend to be.

She leaned in too quickly, and Sebastian, in his attempt to meet her halfway, nearly bumped their teeth together, and they pulled away just as swiftly.

They both froze for a half-second, faces inches apart, before quiet, nervous laughter bubbled up between them.

Sebastian let out a soft, breathless chuckle, shaking his head as his forehead brushed against hers. “We’re terrible at this.”

She grinned, biting her lip. “Truly awful.”

Sebastian hummed, still holding the dittany hair clip between them like some ridiculous peace offering.

“Maybe we should try again.” He murmured, his voice quieter now, more certain. “I'm a good study, you know.”

Her breath hitched.

Ah, there was the swooning.

And then - slowly this time - she tilted her chin up, closing the space between them once more. Sebastian met her gently, no more rushed movements, no hesitations; just the soft, uncertain press of lips, the quiet warmth of finally, finally knowing. He sighed against her mouth, content, and she felt his hand find her waist, the touch featherlight, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her yet.

So she grabbed his wrist and placed it there herself.

Sebastian smiled into the kiss, tilting his head just slightly, deepening it for a lingering moment before pulling away.

She barely had time to catch her breath before he bumped his nose against hers, deliberately this time, teasing, affectionate.

He spoke against her mouth, voice warm and endearingly unsteady, “I think we just got a little better at it.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, her cheeks aching from how hard she was smiling.

“I suppose we’ll have to keep practicing.” She mused.

Sebastian’s grin turned positively wolfish. “You do know how I like to tutor.”

She rolled her eyes, nudging his shoulder, but she didn’t let go of him.

Didn’t step away.

Didn’t pull back.

She just stood there with him, forehead resting against his, her hands still tangled in his robes, his thumb brushing slow circles against her hip.

The lost letter forgotten.

The ridiculous day worth it after all.

And as Sebastian finally shyly tucked the enchanted dittany clip into her hair, she thought…