A la belle etoile

On such days, Sebastian glitters most — his smile wide, his laughter echoing through the corridors. On such days his freckles seem brighter, and his eyes more mischievous, narrowing as they hunt for a chance to joke, or to find trouble. He and Garreth walk together after Potions, barely holding back their laughter as they wonder which brew Weasley will next subject to both his skepticism and his “genius.” Now and then, Sebastian glances back at Anne and Ominis, flashing them an impish grin — as if checking whether they mean to dissuade him from his next mad idea, or perhaps join in — before striding with the rest of the fourth-years toward Defense Against the Dark Arts.

When they file into the classroom and settle down, Professor Hecat announces that she has had enough: after a long summer, the students cannot seem to remember that they are at Hogwarts to learn, not merely to chatter. “It’s time to shake you awake,” she declares, with a flick of her wand pushing the desks to the edges of the room. She summons a tall, heavy wardrobe into the center, explaining how they are to face a Boggart.

The class falls quiet, save for a few hushed whispers. Some are frightened, some lean forward in curiosity, some roll their eyes, thinking themselves too old at fourteen to be so afraid of anything at all. And when the first student steps forward to confront their hidden terror, the room holds its breath.

Later, of course, there is laughter and shouting. Reyes dashes away from her own reflection, crying out that she would never, never end up as a “happy witch with a big family,” setting aside her Quidditch career. Duncan is devoured by a mountain of puffskeins, their long tongues pulling him into a great furry ball, until the professor, sighing, intervenes before the creature can swallow the Ravenclaw whole. Garreth’s turn comes before Sebastian’s — he sees himself alongside his aunt, who is grooming him to succeed Professor Black as deputy headmaster. On his own face he sees an expression far too stern, lined with wrinkles, especially the crease between his brows.

“Promise me — no, swear you’ll never let me turn into a boring adult!!!” Garreth pleads with mock-theatricality, but also a core of truth. Sebastian only snorts in reply, giving his friend a gentle shove forward.

“If you promise me the same!” Sallow laughs, and watches as Matilda Weasley’s next attempt to straighten the tie on Garreth’s impeccable suit erupts into a burst of colors at the knot, spilling rainbows over both aunt and nephew. Two ringing Weasley laughs echo in the classroom at once.

“Classic Garreth!” the pair declare together, each winking at himself, as the Boggart peers over the Gryffindor’s shoulder and turns its attention to its next challenger.

Sebastian draws a deep breath, bracing himself, yet with no real sense of what his own mind might conjure. Would it be an enraged Solomon, furious over his nephew’s meddling with Muggle artifacts left from his days as an Auror? Would it be a grumbling Ominis, driven past endurance by the chaos of books, clothes, and ink bottles strewn about their shared room, threatening to demand his own quarters rather than share with a country boy who had no manners? Or would it be Anne — somehow discovering that her brother had guessed at her infatuation with a sixth-year Gryffindor? No, that could not be allowed, not before the entire class.

Merlin, let it be Solomon, let it be Solomon, Sebastian prays silently, his gaze lingering for the last time on the green eyes of the Boggart-Weasley across from him. He takes a step back as the figure shifts, shrinking, cloaked in smoke...

The haze clears quickly — revealing not a gnome, not a goblin, but a boy. A small, six-year-old Sebastian Sallow. His brows are furrowed as his inquisitive gaze — so like the one he bears even now — sweeps over the class, settling on Anne in the crowd of students. The little boy frowns harder, bare feet shifting against the floor, heedless of the faint embers still smoldering at the tips of his hair, heedless of the scrapes across his clenched fists. He looks at his older self, more than half a lifetime older, lips pressed tight as he asks:

“You didn’t save them?”

Silence crashes down on the room, heavy enough to feel across one’s shoulders. Sebastian — the older one, the one who had always laughed in the face of the unknown, clutching books tighter until the unknown could be made clear — freezes beneath the weight of his own frown, his own unrelenting gaze.

“I didn’t—”

“You know who I mean! You didn’t save them, did you? You didn’t even try! You were afraid. You only came when it was already too late!”

The voice trembles with so much anger, so much pain, so much betrayal, that the older Sebastian cannot summon a single word in reply — he can only stand, and listen to his own accusations.

“And you think that if you find out what happened, it will change anything? They’re gone, and it’s your fault! You stupid, stupid boy — your thousand books will never save you!” It is the smaller Sebastian who moves first, striding across the timber floor toward himself. He struggles with his own strength, close to crying from grief, from fury, from hurt, yet still holding on. He raises his fists against his older self — taller, grown, but still foolish despite every attempt to be cleverer than everyone else. The blows are not heavy, but they land — against thigh, stomach, chest, whatever he can reach — his breath ragged, his bitterness spilling out in words sharp enough to wound them both.

“You didn’t save them! How could you not save them? How can you walk around now, smiling?”

And Sebastian — the Slytherin, the one used to solving problems with cunning, with wit, with knowledge — has no words for the child he once was. He does not even try to catch the fists, simply accepting them, one after another.

“What good... what good is magic at all, if it can’t bring them back?!”

Small fingers snatch his wand and hurl it aside.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate—!”

The child shouts, breathless, furious — and Sebastian sinks to his knees before himself, wrapping the fragile little body in careful arms. The fabric of the light-blue striped pajamas is the same as he remembers — singed at collar and cuffs by flame, threads still rough beneath his fingertips as he presses them to the boy’s back, trying to soothe him, trying to soothe himself.

“Don’t... please. You know I... we tried.”

He whispers softly, and it only stirs the storm more. The child struggles to break free, tugging at his older self’s hair, swallowing tears, sniffling loudly, still pounding with his fists, still protesting. But at last his strength runs dry, as do the curses he knows, and all that remains are hot, wounded sobs, a single word repeated: “Idiot.”

Sebastian does not remember how his Boggart — the child he once was — breaks apart, reshaping into something absurd, something other. He barely remembers the walk to the infirmary, still feeling the phantom fists against his head, the ache they left behind. Somehow, he convinces Anne and Ominis that he is fine, though he can hear the disbelief in their voices.

That night, Sebastian remains in the hospital wing. And when the wooden door closes behind his sister and closest friend, when their footsteps fade away on the stairwell — by the fifth step, perhaps — Sebastian wraps his arms around himself, clutching tight, folding in on the pain that tears at his chest. He cries soundlessly, biting his lips until they bleed, and in broken whispers he breathes:

He and Ominis had agreed to listen to music during the long break between classes.

It wasn’t a date. Definitely not. Which was exactly why Sebastian had asked to leave solfège fifteen minutes early. Professor Ronen would absolutely make him pay for it later with extra assignments—because no one needs fifteen minutes to use the restroom.

Unless, of course, that restroom was a couple of blocks away, in a café that happened to serve a decent matcha latte.

Finding the drink on the menu wasn’t the problem; the real trial was picking out dessert. A plain croissant seemed boring. Almond—too sweet. The trifle—far too chocolatey and damp, not to mention served in a glass you couldn’t take outside. In the end, he settled on something halfway between mochi and matcha cookies.

(How original, Sebastian. Ten out of ten.)

Sebastian hurried down the corridor, nearly knocking Leander over. Luckily, Leander was no longer the “angry carrot” he used to be, and only threw his hands up in exasperation, begging him not to barrel past like the Eurostar.

Sallow muttered a quick apology, gave a sheepish shrug, and kept scanning the hallway, eyes darting for pale tones of fabric and hair. He found Ominis perched on a broad, low windowsill, drenched in the spring sunlight of May. Next to his perfectly pressed beige trousers stood a paper cup of tea—green with jasmine, judging by the scent—and a cafeteria sandwich stuffed with greens (vegetables, Sebastian, not that kind), almost certainly courtesy of Natty.

With a resigned sigh, Sebastian sat down beside him, carefully setting his own matcha latte and the little box of cookies closer to the wall, just in case.

“Sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

Ominis shook his head, and smiled in a way that made Sebastian’s heart stop cold. He forced himself to thaw, to stop posing like a statue cursed by a Gorgon, and slid a little closer. They chatted for a bit, mostly about classes. Ominis confessed he was tired of being handed the lead parts by their conductor, then rushed to add that he did love playing violin, he did love the orchestra—like he was trying to excuse his weariness.

Sebastian nodded in understanding, brushing a hand against the sleeve of his light sweater, and promised not to tell anyone that the orchestra’s first violin was a little weary of all the attention and responsibility. Ominis seemed to relax then, leaning back against the wall, the furrows between his brows fading.

His fingers reached for the light-brown leather bag nearby, from which he pulled out a pair of wireless headphones—the kind with a stiff band that curved around the back of the head, one piece pressing behind the ear, the other against the tragus.

 Ominis dictated a bizarre password for them—“gtsmgft18.” Sebastian blinked, asked twice if he’d heard it right, and got calm confirmation each time.

He snorted, low and amused, asking about the story behind it, only to get a placid, “Another time.”

When the headphones finally connected to his phone with that familiar chime, Ominis nodded and said he was ready. At that exact moment, white noise rushed through Sebastian’s head.

This still wasn’t a date.

It was much more than that.

It wasn’t about blasting something loud and jarring, tearing at the seams, crashing through a mosh pit of sweaty fans.

He was sure Ominis’s delicate ears wouldn’t survive that. This was about sharing something else—something only Anne had seen and heard before, and even then, not all of it. It was about letting Ominis hear a different Sebastian Sallow, not just the clever, slightly cocky one most of the college knew.

His finger twitched with nerves above the phone screen and slipped, hitting play by accident. Magenta from The Rocky Horror Show—so untimely recommended by Lucan—had just finished teasing Janet, and Janet burst out into a very explicit moan, begging to be touched everywhere, begging to be made a creature of the night.

Sebastian scrambled to stop this sudden nightmare but only managed to turn the volume up at first.

He watched in horror as Ominis, with an utterly unreadable expression, began to flush red in blotches while still trying to maintain an air of polite composure.

“Shit—shit—shit, shut off already!” Sallow hissed, finally jabbing the right button, too afraid to even glance at Ominis.

“Was that from a… a musical?” Gaunt began, but Sebastian cut him off almost immediately, fumbling the volume lower, switching albums to anything else.

“It’s from nowhere. Brattleby’s gonna pay for this. Seventeen or not.”

The whole ridiculous mess—the ridiculous, ridiculous (beautiful in its own way, but far too explicit) song—knocked Sebastian clean off balance. His cheeks burned, and he wasn’t sure even the fire extinguisher mounted nearby could douse the heat that spread from his chest all the way to his fingertips.

He rubbed at his face with both hands, breathing deep, already regretting that he’d ever asked Ominis to this NOT-date.

His thoughts slid inevitably to Grease, drawing the parallel. Sebastian wasn’t a hundred percent Danny Zuko—though his style sometimes leaned toward those decades, minus the hair, thank Merlin for his parents—but between him and Ominis still stretched a chasm of differences: the houses they were in, the music and food they liked, the weight of family name and fortune.

 And yet… Danny and Sandy had managed to cross their divide, to shed their habits and prejudices, to try something new for the sake of someone so unlike them. So why couldn’t he and Ominis?

Ominis managed to pull Sebastian back only when the image of Gaunt—dressed all in black, ripped jeans at the knees, a cigarette perched between those tempting lips, hair slicked back, leather jacket slung over one shoulder—flared up far too vividly in his mind.

Sallow shook his head, as if to scatter the vision, dragging himself back to the sunlit windowsill they were sharing.

“Sorry. Zoned out for a second. I forgot to tell you—I brought you some matcha. It’s probably not hot anymore though…”

He nudged the cup toward Ominis’s hand, then slid the little box closer, resting its corner carefully against the fabric of Gaunt’s trousers. Ominis’s soft thanks and that quiet, sunlit smile—no, the glow wasn’t from the window—gave Sebastian the space to steady his breathing, to shake off the last remnants of shame and the blush burning his cheeks.

There was so much he wanted to show Ominis. Some things without words, without explanations—just letting him listen, letting him decide whether he liked it or not.

Other songs, though, begged for a longer pause, more than the two, three, four fleeting minutes of melody.

Take These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.

When it played, Sebastian half-remembered the second floor of their small family house.

His parents’ room, larger than the one he and Anne shared. A wide bed in the middle, wardrobe along the wall opposite. He and Annie tumbling across the blanket, dangling upside down off the edge, laughing too loudly.

The record player hissed softly in the corner—and then a pair of short, light-colored, almost white boots appeared in the doorway. That’s all the twins could see at first, tapping along, heels clacking against the floor, keeping time with the lazy glide of bass strings.

They watched, giggling quieter now, before rolling onto their stomachs to see her.

Dark chestnut curls, already unruly, teased into more. A dress just above the knee. Their mother, still dancing, parodying Nancy Sinatra with a round hairbrush clutched like a microphone.

She performed nearly the whole song like that, to the twins’ delighted hollers, and by the time the record rasped out “Are you ready, boots? Start walkin’,” Sophie Sallow was beckoning her children closer. They tumbled off the bed, copying her silly, exaggerated moves, following her out of the room as the brass wound the song to a close.

There was another one.

The kind that sent goosebumps chasing down your arms, while the tip of your nose prickled with laughter, threatening to break free with the very first notes.

One particularly heavy evening, Sebastian and Anne crept up into the attic in search of something—anything—that could remind them of their parents. An old record player, maybe, or one of the vinyls.

Painful to listen to most days, yet on nights like this, it was all they wanted.

They sifted carefully through boxes hollowed out by time, traced photos where their parents smiled back at them, and just as carefully set everything back in its place. Every so often their fingers brushed—catching sleeves, clasping hands, twitching ever so slightly with emotion—as if to whisper without words: I’m here. I’m right beside you.

Sebastian sniffled, loud and wet, as he shoved another box onto a shelf, pretending—only barely—that it was the dust. Anne, quieter, let a couple of tears fall onto the wooden floorboards.

“There’s something else,” Sebastian rasped, frowning as he tried to drag down a rather heavy box from the far end of the wardrobe.

It didn’t give right away and toppled with a dull thud beside them, making Anne flinch. A muttered sorry, and the twins bent over it with curiosity. The writing on the lid was nearly faded, but the first few letters—Sol…—were enough to tell whose things had been left behind in the attic.

It’s hard to say who reached first, but soon enough both of them were tugging at the cardboard lid, curiosity driving them to steal a peek at Solomon’s treasure hoard—what else could it be, hidden so far back in their house?

Even under the dim bulb that lit the attic, they were nearly blinded by the shimmer of wide golden trousers, flaring dramatically at the ankles. Beneath them lay a dazzling yellow shirt with oddly stitched patterned ribbons cascading down from the shoulders to the hem, with thinner ones sewn along the sleeves.

And under all that riot of color—slightly worn, but well-kept leather platform shoes.

Matching the half-erased scrawl on the box with what they saw inside, the twins collapsed into helpless laughter, barely keeping the costumes from spilling onto the floor.

When they finally wiped their tears—these not from grief but from laughing too hard—Anne tilted her head at the box’s contents, a teasing spark in her voice.

“They’d fit you perfectly. Maybe the pants are a bit too wide, though.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up.

“You’re seriously suggesting I wear that?”

“What, don’t tell me you’re scared, Sebby.” Anne batted her lashes with saintly innocence, though Sebastian caught the same mischievous undertone in her voice that so often colored his own.

“Pfft. Give me two minutes.”

A little more than two minutes pass, but then—there he is. Sebastian.

He taps on his phone, and the dreadful (yet instantly recognizable) song blares to life. Those telltale clicks of a pen mimicking a ticking clock against Frank Farian’s teeth, Frank Farrel crooning “She’s crazy like a fool…” and Liz Mitchell and Marcia Barrett answering, “…what about Daddy Cool.”

Sebastian waits for the bass guitar to kick in, then takes a heavy, dramatic step in his platform shoe. Another, right on the beat, syncing with the rhythm, moving at first awkwardly, slowly—giving Anne every chance to drink in the ridiculous brightness of his outfit.

But when the violins join in, he quickens his steps, throwing in a flourish of his arm from the waist up to the air, parodying the dances he and Anne once saw on TV or online.

Anne doesn’t even try to hold back her laughter. At first, when he emerges from behind an improvised curtain of attic junk piled in the corner, she hides her mouth with her hand. But as Sebastian stumbles, nearly toppling over when his heavy shoes trip each other up, her laughter breaks loose entirely.

He powers on anyway—dancing, waggling his brows, squinting at her in mock flirtation whenever Farrel’s lines come up.

Between the music and Anne’s laughter, neither twin notices the click of the lock downstairs, or the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs. Until Solomon appears in the attic, Anne’s inhaler clutched tightly in his hand.

But instead of finding an asthma attack, he finds a fit of uncontrollable laughter—both twins shaking with it.

Sebastian, of course, freezes at the sight of his uncle, dance cut short. But keeping a straight face while Anne is still wheezing with laughter proves impossible. He bites down on his lower lip in desperation, chest trembling with laughter he can’t quite swallow. Solomon’s first alarm softens into slow, bewildered blinking, and finally into a pinched bridge of the nose.

“Everything back in place within five minutes.” His voice is stern, and the twins know full well they’ve gone rifling through things that weren’t theirs to touch. But then—

When the three of them sit down for dinner, Solomon casually adds:

“You’ve got to move from the hips.”

And Anne and Sebastian realize: instead of a lecture, they’re probably in for dance lessons.

There’s also “Grace Kelly”, performed by a certain charismatic Brit named Mika.

Sebastian was thirteen when he first saw that video, first heard that song—and for a long while afterward, he couldn’t stop thinking about how beautifully the singer moved, sounded, simply looked in certain moments.

Especially in the second half of the video, when Mika stares into the camera—so openly, so… almost into your soul, far too close.

And that voice… Sebastian tried, desperately, to hit those high notes Mika reached, but his breaking adolescent voice could only squeeze out something stuck in the lowest octave.

Even the final high C was a battle.

Still—no one could take away his right to dance in his room. To move, to jump, to cast off all the labels so neatly pinned on him by teachers and classmates.

To let himself, whether alone or with Anne, simply be.

It was around then, perhaps, that he realized he wasn’t drawn only to feminine beauty.

But all that brightness—all that loudness, almost brash at times—sometimes felt too much.

His fingers would drift to the search bar and type “Hozier.”

Then they’d freeze, unsure which song to play.

There was Too Sweet, which had been haunting him since the end of winter, trailing him into spring. Whispering that a certain violinist would never stoop to the level of such a brash, guitar-thumping musician.

And yet here they were—side by side, sharing a sunlit windowsill. And Sebastian, under the weight of those unseeing eyes, didn’t turn to stone.

Well—almost.

But the song demanded too much. It opened too much. His finger twitched, scrolling upward, stopping on Movement—but he didn’t press play.

Instead, he closed his eyes, recalling the song in silence. The world slipped away. The sunlight warming their backs vanished, the footsteps of passing students faded, the windowsill’s sharp edge against his thighs disappeared.

He heard, in the song’s hesitant opening bars, his own uneven, stumbling steps, matching the stuttering beat of his heart. He felt, through the whispering voice, his own trembling—the tentative brush of his fingertips along chair backs in a concert hall.

He saw Ominis—standing on stage, violin in hand, playing with such raw, trembling feeling that it was a wonder no one else had heard those notes echoing through even the thick oak doors.

Ominis, entirely alone, consumed by the music, oblivious to the world around him.

And Sebastian crept through the half-dark of the hall, the stage bathed in its lonely glow. His steps soundless along the long red carpet, more out of instinct than a real desire to remain unseen.

He reached the foot of the stage, hiding just behind a column that held up the balcony above, heart pounding as he listened to the violin’s line—meant to weave with the organ.

He’s caught somewhere between Hozier’s voice—rising, powerful, building—and that other melody he once heard, sneaking into the concert hall while Ominis rehearsed alone. Out of this tangle, this near-cacophony, he’s gently pulled back by a voice—and then by Ominis’s touch.

His friend looks around with faint worry, not understanding what brought on such sudden silence.

“Sorry,” Sebastian mutters hoarsely, then sighs, realizing he has no choice but to pick something.

“Tough week,” he adds—a half-truth—with a small huff, and hears in reply a quiet, understanding hum.

He notices the way Ominis’s hand shifts toward his own, as if ready to say it’s fine, we don’t have to do this now, we can just talk instead.

But Sebastian—stubborn and cowardly both—scrolls quickly through his playlist and presses play on Barnes Courtney’s “Little Boy,” a song that fits the weather and the restless mood outside.

The acoustic guitar begins—soft but hurried, like sunlight flickering through leaves as you ride past on a bicycle or in a slow-moving car. Sebastian can almost see the handlebars before him, feel the May sunshine, the headphones in his ears, the roads of his native Scotland: narrow lanes where two cars barely fit, tree-lined stretches between fields and hills.

That was how he spent many weekends before college—setting out on his old but faithful bicycle, earned honestly by painting a neighbor’s fence.

It’s a peculiar, aching sort of feeling, born from nostalgia. Riding along a road that once seemed vast, endless, full of adventures. The fields on either side, or the forests, holding mysteries and tiny treasures—stones, curious leaves, pinecones.

And then—just for a moment—he almost sees a younger version of himself running ahead toward his sister, laughing, before glancing back over his shoulder. As if he’s spotted something at the horizon—right where Sebastian stands now.

The little boy shakes his head, grins so brightly, still untouched by all the hardships to come—and runs on.

And he wants to warn him about something, make him turn around one more time, say something so he knows exactly where to be careful—but the shout gets stuck in his throat, and he realizes it won’t come out.

And yet… and yet, that little boy is still somewhere inside, in those rare, special moments of silliness, laughter, smiles, and happiness. He appears in smiles, in the corners of eyes as tiny drops of tears, in a mischievous, bright gaze full of adventure and light cunning.

He’s still here—just a little older now.

Without noticing, Sebastian leans slightly toward Ominis’s shoulder, pressing gently closer, listening to the guitar strums, to the warm, strangely cozy melody Barnes Courtney weaves through Ominis’s headphones.

Sebastian seems to open just a little of this vulnerable, too-true part of himself, revealing—seemingly—just a single song, yet one that carries far too much of who he is.

And when it fades, when it ends, Sallow pulls back, giving Ominis space, sighs in short, jagged breaths, nervously biting his lip, not meeting the violinist’s eyes at first.

But the violinist, Ominis Gaunt, refuses to leave his thoughts. His soft, melodic laughter—rarely caught in the bustling corridors as students gather before classes—lingers in Sebastian’s mind. His smiles, fleeting but unforgettable, seen when he speaks with Natty or Amit, are so light yet tinged with weariness, as if smiling doesn’t come easily to him, but he genuinely wants to try.

And his fingers... Sebastian doesn’t dare say it aloud—it’s ridiculous and maddeningly embarrassing—but the thought has crossed his mind more than once. He wonders, absurdly, what it would be like to trade places with the violin, to feel those graceful, refined fingers moving over him with the same tender care, coaxing note after note, almost lovingly, from the strings.

All these thoughts keep him awake at night, dragging his focus away from studying and their band practices entirely. Garreth sighs, setting his guitar aside once again, casting Sebastian a knowing, slightly exasperated look. Imelda, on the other hand, keeps hammering away at the drums and cymbals, her gaze challenging as it locks onto Sallow, daring him to start singing again.

He forces himself to comply, shredding the guitar strings with relentless intensity, playing until the calluses on his fingers wear down to raw, aching skin.

Sebastian asks Anne, hoping to learn at least something about the violinist who has so firmly taken root in his thoughts. His sister understands immediately but keeps her cards close at first, offering evasive, cryptic answers about Ominis, almost driving her twin to frustration before she finally gives in and speaks more plainly.

“He doesn’t really talk to us much,” Anne says sympathetically, shaking her head as she watches her brother. “After practices or performances, he leaves right away. Though...”

“No guessing games or cryptic hints, Anne,” Sebastian grumbles, frowning at her in irritation.

“He communicates with Leander,” Anne replies with a mischievous glint in her eye, fully aware of the fiery dynamic between her brother and Prewett, which has been simmering since their first year. “And to Natty, but she’s often away dealing with family matters.”

Sebastian lets out a low groan, realizing that his little investigation—if it could even be called that—is falling apart before his eyes. Natty’s frequent absences made her no more accessible than Ominis, if not less, and as for Prewett... their feud should have fizzled out ages ago. After all, they had chosen entirely different paths: Sebastian leaned into a more modern direction, while Leander pursued the classical route. The shared guitar class was a distant memory, as was the broken instrument they’d shattered during a heated verbal sparring match.

But Sallow hadn’t forgotten the things Prewett had said about his and Anne’s situation—the remarks about their family’s lack of wealth and standing. It didn’t matter that he and Anne had earned their places at this college through grants, working tirelessly to secure their admission. Leander still held on to grudges, and Sebastian wasn’t sure whether they were aimed at Garreth or himself.

Perhaps it was because Weasley had ended up in the modern guitar class, later switching to bass and spending more and more time with Sebastian. Sallow even suspected that Prewett harbored some special interest in Garreth, though the latter assured him they were just good friends and that Leander simply had a fiery and complicated temperament.

Sebastian felt cornered—or nearly so. Natty was impossible to pin down, always rushing home after classes to care for her father and help with his treatment, as Sebastian had discovered during one of his attempts to reach out. Approaching Prewett would mean swallowing his pride and essentially admitting that he and Anne didn’t truly belong here. And going to Ominis directly... that seemed risky and, well, a bit foolish. Not frightening, of course. Never that. Just... why bother him over something so trivial, right?

It made more sense to gather some preliminary knowledge—not everything, but at least enough to approach the conversation prepared. What if Ominis didn’t like rock at all? What if he preferred jazz? Or perhaps he didn’t care for modern musical trends whatsoever, content with the grandeur of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and others. Not that Sebastian couldn’t appreciate them—he could. He cherished warm memories of childhood music lessons with his parents, back before they were gone.

But what if Ominis refused to speak to him altogether? What if Prewett had already filled his head with tales about the Sallow twins being scrappy nobodies, who had clawed their way into this prestigious college not through wealth or a renowned family name, but through relentless effort—and, maybe, a tiny touch of magic. Reyes had put in a good word for them both with the college director, after all.

I need to talk to Prewett.

Sebastian grimaced so hard at the thought that a nearby patron at the café where he worked evenings gave him a concerned glance, asking if everything was all right. He blinked a few times, sighed, and shook his head, offering an apology for his appearance as he handed over a freshly prepared cup of coffee.

His eyes swept the cozy but modestly sized café. There weren’t many customers, and those who were there were quietly enjoying their drinks. That meant he had a little time—at least until the doorbell chimed again—to do something he’d been dreading but couldn’t avoid any longer.

It was time to write a message to Prewett.

In his contacts list, names like Garreth and Imelda scrolled by, but Sebastian deliberately moved past them, talking himself out of consulting his friends about such a risky idea. The notion of partially baring his soul to Leander—exposing his interest so vulnerably—felt too precarious. He couldn’t afford to second-guess himself.

Eventually, among the other names, “Angry Carrot” appeared. His finger, jittery with nerves, nearly slipped right to initiate a call. He muttered under his breath, fumbling to cancel the near-mistake by pressing the button too many times in a row. Finally, he swiped left, took a breath, and began typing.

"This is Sebastian. Sallow, that is. Could we talk sometime?"

Sent.

Of course, Sebastian knew that Leander might refuse, might not have his phone on hand now, or simply might not notice the notification popping up on his screen. Still, for a while, he stared at his phone, willing it to vibrate with an incoming reply.

But the device remained silent, and the soft chime of the café doorbell pulled him back to reality. A new customer had arrived, and Sebastian had no choice but to set his thoughts aside for now, returning to the comforting rhythm of brewing coffee and serving patrons.

Without hesitation, he chats with the visitors, maintaining light-hearted conversations when necessary, or remaining quiet when he senses someone isn’t in the mood to talk. On the cardboard cups, he writes neutral, pleasant notes, careful not to intrude on anyone’s thoughts too much.

He supposes he could speak to Ominis the same way—gently teasing with his words, narrowing his eyes playfully, offering compliments one after the other. But this time, he wants honesty.

The last time, he’d had enough of fleeting exchanges that led nowhere meaningful—just a pleasant evening with no strings attached, leaving behind only the hollow aftertaste of emptiness. This time, he refuses to settle for less.

By the end of his shift, Sebastian has completely forgotten about his text, having immersed himself fully in work. It’s only when he places the black apron neatly on a shelf in the backroom, and his phone buzzes incessantly in his hand, that the memory comes back to him.

Amid the nearly one hundred messages in the group chat with Garreth and Imelda, and four missed calls from Garreth, Sebastian finally finds two short texts from Leander.

“This was... unexpected, Sallow.” “Will tomorrow at 4:45 PM after classes work for you?”

Declining such an offer would have been unthinkable, so Sebastian types out a brief, "Yes, that's fine," without sparing a thought for the fact that he’d also need to pick up Anne afterward. He figures he’ll text her tomorrow to give her a heads-up and avoid a full day of her speculating about the thaw in his frosty feud with Prewett.

To his surprise, he falls asleep that night. After coming home from his café shift, exhaustion takes over the moment his head hits the pillow.

The next morning, however, his thoughts descend on him in waves, swirling with doubts and hesitation. More than once, he picks up his phone, tempted to cancel the meeting with Leander. Focus eludes him during classes, and he finds himself sneaking off for smoke breaks more often than usual, drawing curious glances from fellow students and mild reprimands from professors.

When the fateful time finally arrives, Sebastian finds himself standing in a distant corridor, gazing out the window and counting the budding leaves on the nearest tree as they push through winter's remnants. Anything to distract himself. Pruett is late—not by much, but enough for Sebastian to assume it’s deliberate. Perhaps Leander wants to "teach him a lesson," reminding him of his supposed place alongside people like Anne. But eventually, Pruett emerges from the lecture hall, his assessing gaze sweeping over Sebastian as if weighing him.

“We’re here to talk about... Garreth.”

“...Gaunt.”

They stand staring at each other for a beat too long, both trying to decipher what the other had in mind when agreeing to this meeting. Leander presses his lips together, a faint flush creeping over his face as he shifts his gaze to the side, clearly sorting through his thoughts and simmering—whether at Sebastian’s audacity or sheer nerve was hard to tell. Meanwhile, Sebastian exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose with enough force to leave marks. Of course, he’d forgotten to clarify the purpose of their meeting, and now they were caught in this awkward limbo.

Before Leander can start hissing like a boiling kettle, Sebastian cuts him off.

“Let’s walk”

The spring breeze cools them both, carrying with it the crisp promise of renewal. Sunlight dances across freckled skin, forcing narrowed eyes and unintentional smiles. Finally, they manage to partially let go of old grievances. Leander, speaking in a low, awkward voice, offers an apology for the past. Sebastian, far calmer, apologizes for the present, making it clear that there is nothing more than good friendship between him and Garreth.

Sebastian doesn’t miss the subtle shift in Leander’s demeanor—the way his shoulders finally relax, the way his clenched fists loosen, fingers brushing nervously against his uniform trousers, as though trying to erase the excess tension.

They talk about Ominis sparingly. Not as much or as deeply as Sebastian might have hoped, but enough for him to learn a few key things—details he quietly tucks away for later.

Ominis isn’t closed off, but things with his family are... complicated. He recently moved in with his aunt, which finally allows him more time for everything else, not just his studies. He clings to music desperately, as if it’s his lifeline to a world where people truly see him—free of flaws and judgment. Yet he struggles deeply whenever he’s without his violin, feeling adrift in any company without that familiar anchor in his hands.

Leander doesn’t share much more, but he pauses to ask Sebastian why he’s suddenly so interested. He warns him, too—with an edge of protectiveness—that he’ll stand up for his friend, not Garreth this time, if Sebastian does anything to hurt Ominis.

"Don’t worry about it. I won’t," Sebastian replies tiredly, his voice betraying a bitterness he hadn’t intended. He lets a hint of his interest in Ominis slip, unwittingly revealing more to Leander than he meant to.

They part ways not as enemies anymore, but not yet friends either—there’s still a long way to go. However, a thaw in their relationship has finally begun. Sebastian promises he’ll try to bother Garreth a little less about dragging him to concerts on weekends, or inviting Leander along if his delicate ears can handle the noise and chaos of their favorite bands. Leander doesn’t promise Sebastian anything in return, and Sebastian doesn’t expect anything either.

Imelda huffs in displeasure, poking Sebastian with the fork she has her asparagus speared on, drawing his attention to herself.

"I don’t want to say ‘I told you so,’ but... I told you so. And what did you do?"

"Hey, I didn’t even try, just double-checked," Sebastian replies, raising both hands above the table in a gesture of surrender. "But you should probably look over there at ‘your’ new headache."

Sebastian hums, tilting his head to the side as he nods toward Garreth, who’s laughing too loudly at one of Leander's jokes, standing a little too close to Prue, more than just a close friend.

"Oh no. Another one’s going to catch the spring fever soon. And what am I supposed to do alone on the drums, huh, Sallow?" Reyes grumbles, clicking her tongue in mock frustration as she glares at Sebastian.

"Me? I’m not going anywhere, Reyes. Don’t even hope," Sebastian responds with a smirk. "And besides, Garreth’s going to get tired of being torn between Leander and the band, so we’ll have one more listener."

"Don’t you dare—"

"Hey, Gaz!" Sebastian waves his hand enthusiastically at Garreth. "Next time, bring Prue to our rehearsal! Let him add something a little more... acoustic."

Garreth just smirks and gives a thumbs up in response.

"I hate you, Sallow..." Imelda groans, covering her eyes with her hand so she doesn't have to see how excitedly and brightly Weasley is gesturing something to Leander.

"You love me, Reyes," Sebastian smirks, carefully pulling Imelda's hand away from her face. "Besides, you were the one who said we needed listeners, right?"

All that comes in response is a heavy sigh from Reyes.

Everything falls back into its usual rhythm, but this time there’s one more person in their group. Leander really adds a bit more classical, lyrical sound to their band, pushing the usual boundaries of their style and helping them explore new directions, not just the "noise and chaos," as Prueutt had pointed out during one of their rehearsals.

Anne shares her success in the orchestra. They even perform together as a duet at one of the concerts, with their flute and violin melodies receiving a thunderous ovation afterwards. Ann tries a few times to bring up the topic of Ominis with Sebastian, asking what he learned from his conversation with Leander, but Sebastian always sidesteps the topic, avoiding anything related to the blind violinist.

After that conversation with Prewett, Sebastian realizes just how different he and Ominis are. His noisy, cheerful gatherings, the loud music that nearly knocks you off your feet, simply don’t suit Ominis. The other is striving for something, moving toward his goal, at least knowing one thing in his life with certainty, while Sebastian has no idea where he’ll go after college. He wonders if he’ll be able to push the band even to the point of an indie project or if they’ll all abandon it and go their separate ways.

Ominis comes from that same wealthy family, while Sebastian struggles to make ends meet, working part-time in the evenings when he’s not studying or rehearsing. Ominis wears soft, knitted sweaters in the winter, holding a mug of mate in his fingers, trying to warm himself. Sebastian, on the other hand, walks around in black hoodies, sometimes forgetting to zip them up, and shakes his iced bumble with the plastic cup, making a clinking sound.

Ominis is like light, and Sebastian is the unflattering shadow. There are just too many differences between them.

Sebastian doesn't look at his phone while working, handing out order after order to the late-night visitors. The coffee machine hisses with heat, grinding the beans with a deafening noise, releasing the aromatic, coffee dust into the portafilter. The bell above the door rings behind him, and without turning around, Sebastian shouts:

"One minute!"

He turns off the steam, pouring the heated milk into the cup where coffee with a few squirts of syrup is already resting at the bottom, and, after placing the order on the pickup counter, finally directs his gaze toward the new guest, freezing.

"I was told the coffee here is pretty good, but I'd still prefer a matcha, if you have it on the menu..."

His smile is still a little tired, but sincere, with tiny lines at the corners of his eyes, just at the start of the constellation of freckles on his cheek. His voice is soft, with a light touch of laughter, almost weightlessly brushing against the tip of his nose, teasing it gently. His eyes... as it turns out, they are even more beautiful up close, captivating enough to almost turn someone to stone with just a single glance.

For Sebastian, Garreth is about shared foolishness, pranks, experiments, and a friendship that sneaks up on you when you're not looking. Their interactions are playful nudges to the ribs, kicks under the desk when they’re forced to sit together, one making the other laugh with some ridiculous idea. It’s the unspoken mutual aid, accompanied by eye-rolls when surrounded by their own housemates. It’s the first taste of butterbeer and the first hangover after it. It’s dumb bets like "Who can fly to the Astronomy Tower and back the fastest?" that somehow land them both on their house Quidditch teams—something they never planned.

It’s the spiked punch at their first Yule Ball in fourth year, with alcohol that Garreth brewed in some hidden corner of the castle. And so much more.

There’s not much known about Garreth, unfortunately. Yes, he tested his potions on his sister, frequently swiped rare ingredients from Sharp just to experiment, and was likely kept after class more than once—because there’s no way he got away with all of that unnoticed.

I never imagined Sebastian as someone who saw inter-house rivalry as serious as the school wanted it to be. It seems likely he and Garreth crossed paths during detentions, both earning their punishments for mischief. Even before his sister’s curse, Sallow was curious, reckless, and ambitious in his own way.

I wanted more of Weasley. I wanted more interactions between students, more thrilling, silly, and ridiculous stories that could’ve happened within the castle walls and beyond.

Someday, I hope, a roleplayer for Garreth will come along, and I’ll finally get to "run as Sebastian" alongside the mischievous Weasley.