#beth writes

In the end he'd been given detention and handed a note for his parents. He'd hoped he might have been able to hide it in his bag, but his mother had a habit of checking through his things. She'd pulled out the carefully folded paper, hidden within the pages of one of his books, and he'd gulped. There'd been a row then too. He'd held his tongue, even though it took an incredible amount of effort. If they'd just sent him to a decent school they wouldn't even be in this mess! If he could go somewhere they didn't think the giddy heights of reciting the twelve-times tables was impressive, then maybe this wouldn't be happening!

"Why can't you just be normal?!" Had been his father's last words, spat at him from the hallway before he'd stomped out of the house. His mother had fallen silent then and had barely said a word to him the rest of the evening. Dinner had been excruciating. His mother had hardly touched anything, Jeannie had just moved the food around her plate, whilst Rodney ate as fast as humanly possible. Excusing himself from the table the second his plate was empty and slipping away upstairs.

His father's words still stung; like venom slowly eating away at him. He'd always known he was different. Smarter than the rest of them. Well, maybe not Jeannie. As annoying as she could be, he knew she had a similar brain to him. She understood things. She wanted to know how the world worked. She could solve problems. Just like him. But somehow she didn't rub anyone else up the wrong way. She always managed to say the right thing. She didn't rock the boat.

Was there something wrong with him?

The fear behind that question had settled in his chest as he'd worked his way through the new books he'd taken out from the library. There was a limited science section at their local one, but sometimes you had to made do. At least until he could get into the city.

And now, tucked up in bed, only a few minutes after he'd heard the front door slam, his parents were arguing again. He could hear his name drifting up through the floorboards. Just to really slam the point home again. Apparently it was his fault. Their marriage falling apart. Their family breaking down. If you listened often enough you'd think he'd have engineered every problem they had.

With a sigh he rolled onto his side, lifting the side of his pillow to cover his ear, trying to block the noise out. A quick glance at the clock told him it was midnight. They could be at this for hours. He'd heard it all before. Eventually they'd give up. His father'd sleep on the couch. When Rodney would creep down in the morning, he'd be out cold, unshaven and stinking of beer.

Had Rodney driven him to that?

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the pillow harder against his ear. Why couldn't he figure out how to fit in? Jeannie managed it, she knew when to stop before crossing the line, whilst he just kept pelting forwards. A strangled noise crept up his throat and he turned his head, burying his face in the pillow, cutting the sound off as fresh yells rang from downstairs.

2.

This was exactly what he'd wanted, what he'd been wishing for since middle school, to be at college, to be away from the insufferable idiocy of his supposed peers and actually progress. Here he'd have a chance to learn something, maybe even get to test out a few of his own theories. And, most likely, prove to the whole cohort that a 15-year-old could outsmart them all. He'd already seen the caliber of some of his apparent classmates, hardly anything to write home about.

If you ignored the lower IQs than he'd been expecting, he was totally happy here. Very much so. Out of his house, away from his parents, his sister. Exactly what he'd wanted. And yet…

Shadows played across the unfamiliar ceiling, as footsteps tramped past his bedroom, doors slammed, people laughed, music floated through the walls. He tugged the covers up higher, tucking them under his neck as he stared at the opposite wall. He'd thrown up a few pictures from magazines earlier, pages cut as carefully as possible and then stuck to the wall with bluetack. Nothing much, just a few Star Trek stills…a Nobel Prize. Things to keep him motivated.

But now, he almost wished he'd brought a picture from home.

The light under his door dipped as people's feet obscured it. He could hear them. All happy. All having a great time. All ready to throw off the shackles of home. Just as he was. Definitely. Maybe…

He swallowed, pulling the duvet higher to hide his mouth. The clock on his bedside table shone accusingly in the dark: 00:30. He needed sleep if he was going to be sharp tomorrow; he needed to prove his worth, put them all in their place. His hands shook where they were curled into the covers.

Maybe this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind…

3. 

Damn Samantha Carter. Damn her to…somewhere.

There she was, all high and mighty. Acting as if she was the smartest person in the room, just because she had more hand's on experience with 'Gate technology. Come on now. Just because she'd gone through it multiple times, didn't mean she knew exactly how wormhole technology worked! There was a reason he was brought in to sort out the situation, after all, and the SGC didn't just leave it up to her.

And so what if she'd been right? A lucky guess. A hunch. A hunch that had got him a one-way ticket to Siberia!

Damn her!

Rodney growled, rolling onto his side in the small bunk in his new, freezing room. He had three blankets, a sleeping bag, thermals, hat, scarf, socks and gloves and he was still too cold. And this was to be his life now. All because of her.

Well, not quite, came a nasty voice in his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block everything out, including that voice that sounded horrifically like his conscience. The one that always showed up at the worst possible moments, reminding him that he wasn't infallible. That he made mistakes, that he wasn't perfect, and that maybe, just maybe, it was worth listening to other people.

He hated that voice.

Okay, fine, so maybe he should have listened to Carter earlier, but how was he supposed to know there'd be a way round it? That they'd be able to get Teal'c out? From everything he'd read, all the simulations he'd been able to carry out, it was impossible. Besides she'd been way too emotionally invested in the whole thing, was it any surprise he'd taken anything she said with a pinch of salt?

It wasn't his fault!

Mostly.

Maybe.

Okay, maybe a little.

His stomach writhed uncomfortably. Must be the food. Great, a lifetime stuck out here and his stomach was already rebelling.

Anyway, they solved the problem, saved the day. The Jaffa was out, walking, talking. All back to normal. That's all that mattered really.

Except, what if they hadn't listened to Carter? Came that voice again. Calm, rational and hateful. What if they'd just given up as he'd wanted to? He'd have been responsible for his death.

Rodney swallowed, his gloved fingers gripping at the insides of his sleeping bag. He couldn't argue with that. No matter how much he might want to. Because…that was true, wasn't it? He could have killed Teal'c. This guy with…a family, probably, out there somewhere. And Rodney could have been the one to pull the plug. A life just snuffed out because he'd been too stubborn to even try and save it.

A shiver ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperatures around him.

4.

The crook of his arm was aching. Briefly he wondered if it might be infected. He'd poured copious amounts of antiseptic on it when he'd cleaned himself up, before bandaging it as best he could. He'd even changed the bandages in the evening, when he'd realised he probably needed something against the skin, not just his uniform. It hadn't looked pretty, but it wasn't red or inflamed. He'd promised himself if it was he'd go to Carson's witchdoctors and get them to sort it out.

But it still hurt.

No matter where he put it, what position he lay in, he could still feel it. He could feel the tip of the knife sliding into his flesh, moving deeper, brushing against muscle and bone. He could remember the crushing weight of his own mortality hitting him in that moment; as he stared up at Koyla's grunt, watching the amusement dancing behind his eyes. The only reason he hadn't been killed right then and there was because he was useful. And he'd fallen right into their trap.

His hand automatically reached for his elbow, his fingers tracing the edges of his bandage. It hadn't taken much to break him. Just a few moments of pain and he'd been singing like the proverbial canary.

Sheppard wouldn't have. He'd probably have held his tongue no matter what they threw at him. Before the storm Rodney had rolled his eyes at the thought, completely bewildered by the whole idea of stoicism before pain…or death. But now, well, it had to be better than the crushing guilt he could feel in his gut. He could have cost the expedition everything. He'd told Koyla the plan within seconds, spilled his guts and only barely able to hold back tears.

With a huff he rolled onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. He could hear the waves lapping against the edge of the city; calm and harmless after the terror of only twenty-four hours ago. All around him he could feel the buzz of the city, full of people now everyone had returned from the Alpha Site.

He could have robbed them all of their home.

He swallowed convulsively as a lump worked its way up his throat. If it hadn't been for Sheppard either he'd have handed the city straight to the Genii or he and Elizabeth would be prisoners on another world right now. Yes, fine, his plan had worked, but all he'd done is press the button at the end. It was Sheppard who'd done all the hard work. And Rodney couldn't even remember thanking him.

Without thinking he pushed the covers off him, swung his legs off the bed and stood to gather his clothes. Sleep wasn't going to come, that was for sure, so maybe now was the time to swallow some pride and do something…useful.

He kept expecting pain to hit, kept waiting for it to punch him in the gut and take his breath. But since the explosion all he'd felt was numb. Hollow. Like someone had reached in and scooped his insides out. It didn't seem right somehow. He could still get through the day, he could still work, still eat, still walk around the city they'd called home for years now. He could still function, and somehow that felt like an insult.

Losing Carson should hurt him more. His best friend. The first person in…forever really, who'd taken the time to get to know him, who'd refused to be pushed away, who'd stood by him.

Losing Carson should have broken him. But instead, here he was, laid in his room, staring up at the blank ceiling, acting as if this was just another day. Carrying on as normal.

Except deep down he knew this wasn't normal. He felt…wrong somehow. The second that final explosion hit he'd felt something die inside him, something he'd never be able to replace. But instead of pain, he'd just felt emptiness. Like there was this big, gaping space inside him. Where Carson had been.

At least if it hurt he'd feel normal. He'd know that he cared. That he wasn't a complete freak. But instead all he had was…nothing. He hadn't even cried. The tears just hadn't come, even during the funeral in Scotland, when he'd been surrounded by Carson's friends and family. When he'd been sat next to Carson's mother, who'd gripped his hand tightly during the service as she stared at the coffin that carried…nothing. She wasn't even getting to bury her son.

Rodney stared upwards as the moonlight danced across the ceiling. He'd not even bothered pulling the curtains when he'd come back. His stomach rumbled softly, but he didn't move.

Why hadn't he just gone fishing?!

The question hit him, as always, with the force of a bullet. It fought through the hollowness inside, half-filling it with a guilt he'd become very familiar with over the years. At least he knew what to do with that. At least it was something. He could embrace that. After all, if he'd taken Carson to the mainland they'd never have gotten caught up in this.

Except then they might have lost Teyla. Was he placing Carson's life above hers?

"Fuck's sake." He breathed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. His eyes itched with tiredness - when had he last slept properly? Days? Weeks? The last thing he wanted to do was be revisited by his nightmares, not when they'd now acquired Carson's face and voice, the radio static filling his ear, the ice-cold certainty that he was gone.

Without another word he pushed himself upright, still fully dressed from when he'd slumped on the bed earlier, and left his room. Work would offer him something, surely. It'd fill a void for a moment at least.

+1.

"Stop staring, McKay," John's voice was thick with sleep, his hair even messier than usual, his features so relaxed. How exactly was he supposed to stop staring?! He still couldn't believe this was actually happening! "Get some sleep."

"Sleep's overrated," Rodney murmured, his gaze traveling almost reverently down the bare expanse of John's chest, illuminated by the moonlight. "Besides, for some of us, this is a novelty and we'd quite like to enjoy the moment. Then, at least when I wake up and realise this was all a dream, it won't be quite such a disappointment."

The sheets were drawn up to their hips, still slightly tangled and creased from earlier. He couldn't believe it. John appearing at his door, looking awkward and uncertain, offering something like an apology for…something, Rodney had forgotten the second their lips met. Clothes had been thrown aside, littering his floor, and then they'd stumbled to bed. Lost in the moment and the feel of one another's skin.

It wasn't what Rodney had expected. Ever. He'd assumed John was a ladies' man through and through. And so he'd settled for admiring him from afar, but now…well, he'd definitely seemed to enjoy himself, so maybe it wasn't just women that did it for him?

"'Snot a dream," John stretched out an arm, wrapping it around Rodney and tugging him closer. Rodney wiggled towards him, only huffing slightly at the loss of his view. "Sleep."

"We're not in the field now, Sheppard," he muttered slightly mutinously, "you don't get to boss me about here." John cracked one eye open.

"Thought you enjoyed that?" There was that irritating smirk, the one that always released butterflies in his stomach, whether he wanted them there or not.

"Don't put your kinks on me, Colonel," he huffed, settling more comfortably under John's arm, the other man's breath ghosting over his face, "not all of us joined this expedition to fulfill some latent submissive fantasy."

"Mhm, sure, Rodney," even in the dark Rodney could see the smirk grow into a smile, one he'd come to realise was reserved just for him. A perfect mixture of fondness and exasperation. "Come on, we've got a briefing in the morning and Woolsey's gonna be pissed if we're half-asleep for it."

Terzo keeps your hand against his mouth, kissing your fingertips, teeth grazing the soft flesh of your wrist; your heartbeat pounds against his lips. It’s late in the day, his face is prickled with dark shadow. He smells like wine and fire and a sneaky cigarette. Without even looking at him he is, wholeheartedly, distracting. Still, you continue. “I call to Brigid, kind and clever. Brigid of healing and hammers. Brigid who inspires. Brigids who calms and protects and lights the way.” With your free hand, you take a pinch of bay leaves and toss them onto the fire; they smoke and snap and light. “Oh, goddess of patience and peace. Goddess of fire. I ask for the blessing of your presence and the blessing of your peace.”

When you finish, you take a moment and let your words float up into the stars like the smoke of your fire and, after another minute of - relative -  quiet, you open your eyes. Terzo is there, sitting next to you; he faces away from the fire- staring deep into your soul - propped up on his arm. His dress shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open. You bite your lip and slide your fingers up his belly, pausing to admire the thick hair that converges at his sternum. “You pray nice.” He says, grin sliding into a smile.

“What are you doing over here, Papa?” You ask, walking your fingers up his throat, pressing your forefinger against his lip and he opens his mouth, gently biting the tip. When he releases you, you slide it back down to his chest; the thick carpet of hair from his collarbones to -you know well - his cock enthralls you. You know it carries on straight down to his ankles. And then a delectable smattering on his toes. Yes, yes. You like what you see. You arch an eyebrow at Terzo, waiting for an answer.

Terzo exhales and hums, wallowing in a touch of his perpetual dramatics, he lets his head fall back, staring at the stars. It’s cold enough that his breath comes out in puffs. “It’s hot.” He giggles and looks back at you. “And everyone else seems to be getting the holy spirits but me.”

“We don’t get the holy spirit here, Papa. That’s the baptists.”

Terzo huffs. “Well, I tell you they are getting something and I am not.”

“Oh, my poor kitten.” You whine, playfully. You lean forward and kiss Terzo; he lets out a delicious, needy moan and melts into you. When you pull away from him, his mouth follows. “It must be so hard to be you.”

Terzo glares at you but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “You have wine?” he asks and you smile, nodding. 

You fish out a spare glass and another bottle of wine - you were sure to bring plenty - from your basket of supplies; all the while, Terzo nuzzles into your neck, planting a field of kisses across the slope of your shoulder. “I was worshipping, you know.” You say, uncorking the wine and giving the sweet, dark, red a sniff.

“Oh, and you were doing such a wonderful job.” Terzo’s tongue sears into your skin, running up your neck before finding your ear lobe.

“You’re not supposed to be distracting me from my dark path, Papa. You’re supposed to be encouraging me, leading me down it.” You chide him, pressing the glass of wine into his hand. “Copia would never interrupt me.”

Terzo narrows his eyes. “Are you going to be this particular all night? Or are you going to let me make love to you, hm?” 

You stare at Terzo and he bumps his nose against yours. You giggle and take a long sip, making  him squirm a bit, awaiting your answer.. “I did ask Brigid to bless my body. I just didn’t think she’d send you.” You pause for a breath, taking the moment to kiss Terzo, again. This time it’s harder, needier. “Why did you come over here, Terzo? Tell me really.”

He toys with the hem of your dress, pushing it up your thigh an aching inch; revealing nothing, making you want everything. “Everyone is fucking. Or dancing. Or, if you are Primo and unnaturally - and disgustingly - limber for your age, fucking while dancing. And I want to celebrate the sabbat, too. To worship.” He nods towards the fire. “Worship her.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, brushing his lips against yours. His eyes flash, meeting yours and goosebumps prickle up your spine. “Worship you.”

You take Terzo’s glass, and yours, and set them aside. You push the blanket off your shoulders and scoot closer to Terzo. You lean into him and he watches you, unmoving, patiently, humbly waiting for your consent. “I am not her. It is not my night to be worshipped.”

Terzo smirks, eyes hooded and dark with lust. “Ah, you are wrong.”

You snort a quiet laugh. “Oh?”

“Si, si.” He exhales. “This is why you need me - to keep you on your path, guide you along. You know nothing.” You pinch his nipples and he squeaks in delight. Terzo’s finger pushes the thin strap of your linen gown down your shoulder. “You are a goddess. Mia dea. La mia lionessa. You are to be worshipped every day - fire or no - in every season, under every moon.” Terzo’s fingertip slides from your shoulder, across your collarbone, to your opposite shoulder, dethroning the other strap of your dress; the soft, dark linen falls and so do Terzo’s eyes. For a moment, the mismatched irises and blown pupils stare at your bare torso. The back of his fingers slide down your chest, the rough hair on the back of his hand grazes your aching nipple and you suck in a breath. “Bless me, oh goddess.” His gaze comes back to yours. “Bless me and you will find that my devotions lie far beyond the gifts of my flesh.”

You shake your head and smile, taking Terzo’s hand and pressing it against your thigh, pulling it up towards your center, taking your dress with it. The cool night air is no match for the heat in Terzo’s eyes and the warmth of his hands. “I accept your flesh as sacrifice but, I do not require it. That isn’t what I want.”

“Tell me so that I may give it to you. Tell me what I must do - anything at all - to be yours.”

You press your hand to Terzo’s chest, his pounding heart beneath your palm. “This.”

Terzo giggles and kisses you then, pushing you backwards onto the blankets. He nestles his hips between your thighs and you wrap your legs around his waist. “Oh, mia dea! Mia bellissima dea, sono tua!”

His shirt flung over his shoulder, Terzo fumbles with his pants, his mouth busy and his mind busier - leaning down to kiss you. He doesn’t hold back any longer: his tongue dances with yours and he whines and moans, hips bucking while he tries to get his pants down - he is his own hindrance. You slide your hands and try to help him but he swats you away. “Goddesses lay back. Goddesses are worshiped. They do not set their altars, they do not bring forth their own offerings.” I roll my eyes but, obey, scratching my nails back up through his body hair. 

“I like this.” You smile up at him. He pauses for a second, brow knit tight with confusion, eyes narrowed. “What? What’s wrong?” You ask.

“You say when,” He clears his throat, “When you put your hand here,” He moves his hand back to his heart. “You mean my heart, my love, yes? You are not talking about my hairy body, right?” 

You hesitate for a second and then, as Papa taught you - you say what you want. “I want both, Papa. Hairy body, perfect heart. All of you.”

Terzo relaxes, beaming. “It is all yours.”

Distracted by the way he looks at you, the way his hair falls in his face, the way he smiles and the way he breathes; chest rising and falling in excitement you whimper - gasping - when Terzo rubs the head of his cock against your tender core, raking your nails down his arms. Your mewling turns to quiet begging, his mouth covers yours, devouring the sounds you make for him. No, the sounds you bless him with. He puts his hands, and then his forearms, on either side of your face, caging you in. You arch up, as much as you can against his body. “My goddess; demanding more.” Terzo purrs and you smile, kissing him, sighing in relief when he pushes into you slowly; just enough to ease your need, satiate your divine cravings. It has been awhile since you’d had Terzo; a slow roll of his hips gives you a taste of the thick base of his cock. The coarse hair that wreathes it prickles against your clit and you shiver.

You let you a shaking breath, eyes already rolling. “More.”

When he bottoms out, pressing hard and tight inside of you, filling you so completely you threaten to come then and there you inhale sharply, eyes going wide. You stare up at Terzo and he stares down at you and for a moment, the love and devotion in his eyes makes you wonder if maybe you actually are a goddess. He closes what little space is left between you and him, grinding - hot and wet - into you. You imagine he is a reverent devotee, you are mortar and pestle and herbal offering. You are altar and goddess. He is priest and zealot. Slowly, intentionally, he works into you; your eyes roll and your mouth hangs open, slackjawed and smiling - accepting your faithful disciples' alms with pleasure and gratitude. Your orgasm is a deliciously slow, an aching roll of pleasure that starts in your center and pulses out like hot summer lightning and trembles like the thunder that follows.

Brigid’s blessing rolls through you hot and bright as the fire you burn for her. 

You push Terzo’s hair out of his face, cupping his cheek, pressing your other hand to his chest. “Come for me,” you call to Terzo, “Give your last offering, sweet one.”

Terzo presses his forehead to yours, squeezing his eyes shut. He lets out a whimper with each snap of his hips, the sound alone brings you to the brink of another orgasm - the erratic pace of his hips, bucking wildly as he chases his own pleasure does the trick. You come when Terzo does, sobbing into his cheek, arms around him, keeping him close while he gasps for breath. For a moment, you think you both might actually die - the little death turning into a very real possibility: out of breath, shaking, clinging to each other. Terzo’s body works on his own accord and he wheezes, each time you tighten around him, he cries out.

When he finally stills, you don’t let go. The stars above you twinkle brightly, competing well with the full moon. You press your lips to his cheek, to his ear. You run your fingers up and down his back, through his hair. Finally, Terzo falls to the side and you both yelp at the sudden absence of the other; together - giggling - you work to cover up beneath your blankets and find the bottle of wine. Terzo holds you, your rest with your head on his chest; fingers pushing his chest hair in and out of place, caressing nails pulling him in and out of a happy, sex-hazed sleep. You both stare at the fire for a long time, listening to the celebrations around you. Chanting, singing, music - cries of pleasure not unlike your own - fill the forest with a symphony of sabbat celebrations. 

In the morning, you wake in Terzo’s bed - delighted to find that you slept on a soft mattress, under piles of blankets, wearing Terzo’s silk pajamas. You roll over and find him sleeping peacefully next to you. You lean over and kiss his chest, nuzzling into his sternum. He stretches and groans. “Well,” he yawns. “You had a good Imbolc, yes?”

Hux isn't good at the physical interaction side of a relationship outside of sex. And even that, he's not, it's been a learning curve. He's not good at hugging, Force knows he can probably count on just his two hands how many hugs he can remember receiving, but he's getting better.

Less restrained, more willing to initiate.

When he gets back to his quarters and finds Ren pacing erratically through the space, muttering to himself as he seems to gesticulate to an invisible conversation partner, Hux hesitates. He's not in tune with the Force, but he's becoming more in tune with Kylo's moods and behaviours, and this, even for him, is strange.

"Ren." He doesn't raise his voice; doesn't dare, but he knows how to make himself heard, though he's not this time. "Ren." Again, no response, and the pacing continues. "Kylo." A brief twitch, Kylo turns his head for an instant then goes back.

Hux sighs and pulls his gloves off, drops them on his desk and drapes him coat over his chair.

"Kylo," he doesn't give the other man time to react, banking on surprise when Kylo should have every advantage. Grabs his shoulder and pulls them both down onto the couch, landing himself on the solid body beneath him and holding him, arms round his shoulders. "Kylo." He squeezes. It's not a good hug, more a grapple, and he holds on tight as Kylo tenses, reacts, and then relaxes into it, as the murmuring stops and Kylo comes back to the room.

"Hux." His voice is even rougher than normal, "I... Stay, please." He asks quietly, clinging back against Hux.

"Are you back?"

With another flick of her wand and the ash is gone, cleaned up, and almost forgotten. Her elbows rest on the table, her face buried in her hands as she sobs for the first time in years for what was lost - she'd only wanted him to learn his lesson, she hadn't wanted to lose him. Hadn't anticipated the entire fallout. Anne and Ominis had been beside her at the time, happy for her to be the one responsible to make the decision - probably to save themselves the guilt of it - but also likely using her naivety and lack of understanding of the Wizarding Law in hopes she wouldn't feel the guilt herself.

That had lasted all of three days when she saw the article detailing Sebastian’s sentencing. That had been the first time she'd broken down about her decision, she'd screamed at Ominis in the Undercroft for not telling her turning him in meant never seeing him again. She'd collapsed into his arms, sobbing into his chest but the thought that it wasn't Sebastian brought the sobs harder and faster until she pushed Ominis away and curled in on herself.

She'd finished her last two years of Hogwarts in silence, only speaking when a professor asked something of her. She pulled away from the many friends she'd made during that fateful year - not from their lack of trying - she just couldn't. She spent any time not in class in the Room of Requirements, she'd even gone through a period where she didn't eat because she couldn't face the Great Hall. But Deek had caught wind of that and made sure to always have something set on a table for her.

For as excited as she was to attend Hogwarts, leaving had felt like a relief. There were too many memories haunting her of him, and the friends she'd left behind. Part of her had wanted to run as far away from Scotland as she could, but the other part - the larger part - couldn't.

Even if she couldn't be with him, she wanted to be close.

The thought terrified her, he knew it was her decision. He'd looked so angry, so hurt as he was hauled away by the Aurors and the article detailing his sentence had quoted him. He'd promised he'd get revenge.

It was stupid of her - likely still naivety - that made her move from the Highlands surrounding Hogwarts to a small Hamlet in the northernmost area of Scotland. She'd managed to buy a single cottage on the outer edge of the hamlet, the back leading to the forest and while being there was lonely, she hadn't made much of an effort to befriend anyone. It was private, it was hers, and honestly, if Sebastian had to deal with life alone because of her. She felt she deserved it too.

Her sobs quieted after some minutes, the air in the room still heavy with the melancholy she felt. Her tea had gone cold, not that she felt she could stomach it. Her insides were in knots, she felt that any attempt to eat or drink could cause her to vomit. Any movement could cause her to collapse further in on herself.

She took a deep breath, a sigh escaping her as she reminded herself that no one knew where she lived. Not from lack of trying on their part, Ominis, Natty & Poppy had continued to try and open her back up for her last two years to no avail. Following their graduation, they'd reached out via Owl. Although the more she ignored them, the less they came.

A knock at her door pulled her from her increasingly spiraling thoughts and she frowned, pulling herself up slowly from the table. "Who is it?" She called cautiously, although it probably wasn't her best idea. It was likely just the friendly old woman down from the house closest offering her something she'd baked.

"Open the door, it's Ominis." Her eyebrows furrowed then, stepping closer to the door but not unlocking it.

"How do you know where I live?"

"I work for the Ministry, it wasn't hard." She felt a pang in her chest at his clipped words, she'd never admit it but she had missed it, missed him. Finally unlocking her door and pulling it open, she took a look at Ominis. The years had treated him well, his hair was still slicked back and his suit still made him look as regal as he always did.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, a little exasperated at the situation. Her words, while firm, still held the edge they did when she'd been crying and she hoped it had been long enough that her unexpected guest didn't notice.

"Checking in. I don't suppose you heard the news." And there it was, his way of letting her know he still cared but not in such a way she'd run and lock the door in his face. "Sebastian escaped." Stepping back slightly, audibly so that he knew he could come in.

"I did catch a glimpse at the Prophet, yes. Is that why you're here?" She asked, her voice needlessly harsh as she continued. "Here to see if I'm hiding him somewhere?"

"No, of course not." He mentioned with a frown of his own. "You surely remember what he said upon sentencing. I was merely worried about you." The words took all of the fight from her and once again she found her lip trembling as she held back her tears, another wave of guilt washing over her.

"How long has he been out?" She brings herself to ask, the newspaper was from today, sure. But if Ominis thought Sebastian could have already found his way to her, perhaps it'd been a few days.

"We think he escaped Monday, but we can't be sure. The guard he'd managed to switch with was in no condition to talk." Monday… They thought Monday and he'd only shown today for fear of her safety. It was Saturday for Merlin's sake. She felt a small flame of anger flicker in her chest. "No one realized until Thursday when the next guard was sent through."

She couldn't help but laugh at the sheer stupidity. No one noticed a guard had disappeared on his rounds. She knew the tales of Azkaban were horror stories, but for Helena's sake, she didn't expect them to be that bad. She could only imagine what it was like to be there full-time.

And that thought was enough to snuff out the anger and bring back the melancholy from earlier.

"If you're wanting to look around, just in case. I haven't been home for long." She murmured, not even sure why she'd said it. But Ominis was quick to nod, his wand flashing its usual red as he walked around the small cottage. Picking up the cup of forgotten tea, she couldn't help but feel on edge, but she wasn't sure if it was because of the news of Sebastian or if it was because there was someone other than herself in her house. No one else had been here since she moved in six years.

She busied herself doing the dishes, staring out the window into the small Hamlet until Ominis had finished his sweep. She could feel him standing by the table but she didn't turn, neither of them saying anything for a while.

"I think it's time you-"

"I want you to write to-"

They both spoke at the same time, and she finally pulled her eyes from the children she saw running in the field to look at her guest. "You first." He assured, clearing his throat. She suddenly felt a little awkward, her nose wrinkling slightly as she thought back on what she was going to say.

"No, you first." She finally decided it was for the best since she'd been about to tell him to leave.

"I want you to write to me, let me know you're okay at least weekly." Her brows furrowed and she felt another flicker of irritation.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, Ominis. I made sure that when I moved here no one would know me or that I'd moved here. Until you showed up, that is." She couldn't help the bitter tone in her voice, she'd tried so hard to make sure there was no way anyone could track her down. She supposed that even without that effort, his connections at work would mean he'd always known.

"I'm serious, I just want you to let me know you're okay. At least until he's back in Azkaban." The genuine concern in his voice was bittersweet, he clearly wanted her to know that he meant it. "If I don't hear from you, I'll have to stop by again."

Heaving a frustrated sigh, she gave the blonde boy a glare that he couldn't rightfully see. "Fine. If it means I'm left alone." Deep down, she realized she didn't mean it. She'd felt so lonely and part of her felt that perhaps she wouldn't follow through just so he would turn up. But then she remembered the guilt and knew that she had to be lonely because that's what she'd sentenced Sebastian to eight years ago. "Now I'd you'd be so kind to leave, it's getting late." She finished, leaving no room for argument as she stepped to the door and pulled it open.

"Take care of yourself, please," Ominis said as he stepped back through the door, still a small look of concern on his face that made her turn away.

Once he was out, she closed the door and once again triple-locked it before checking the windows. Only when she was sure everything was secure did she curl up on her couch with a blanket, and a book open in front of her - not that she paid it any mind. Her focus was on the flames licking in the fireplace as she waited for the time she'd move from the couch to bed. 

— — — — — —

The feeling of something trailing over her forehead caused her to stir slightly, sleep slipping away from her. She groaned, turning over and burying herself further into the pillows and blankets of her bed before the realization struck her.

Sitting up quickly, she looked around the bedroom, the low light from the lamp on her dresser casting shadows. But besides her and her heavy breathing, the room was empty.

She was going crazy. Paranoid.

It had been a week since the article and Ominis' visit. A week of knowing that Sebastian was out there somewhere, likely looking for her. A week of constantly feeling like she was being watched when she wasn't. It was taking a toll on her.

She briefly contemplated asking Ominis if she could stay a few days with him, to see if she felt any different. But considering last Saturday was the first time they'd spoken in years, she likely wasn't welcome.

Sighing softly, she pulled herself up from her bed. Some tea would likely help calm her. Grasping at the lamp, she stepped from her bedroom and into the main room, heading for the stove and her small tea kettle. She got busy, setting the water to boil and taking hold of a cup she'd used earlier in the day. Her eyes settled out of the window just as they had a week ago. The streets of the hamlet were dark and empty, it was raining heavily, and for some reason that soothed her a little. She'd always liked the rain.

A loud bang from her bedroom jolted her from her thoughts, dropping the teacup she held as the sound of wind howled through her home. Once more grasping her lamp, she took her wand from the counter too and crept to the doorway, looking through it cautiously. The room was still empty, there weren't any hiding places after all. The room was only big enough for a bed and a dresser.

Her eyes lifted from their observation of the room to the window. Seeing it had flown open. Frowning, she stepped further into the room and towards the window until she was able to pull it closed, locking it. She swore she'd locked it before she'd gone to bed. But perhaps the stress of the last week was getting to her, her days blending together.

She had nothing to worry about. No one but Ominis knew where she lived and he wouldn't tell anyone. It had to have been the wind from the storm, she hadn't latched it properly before bed, clearly.

The sound of a quiet whistle sounded from her kitchen and she sighed. Right, yes. Tea. That's what she needed. Pulling her curtains closed, she made her way back into the kitchen to finish her tea, hopefully when she drank it she'd be able to get back to sleep.

— — — — — —

A few days later, she found herself stopping next to the stand holding the Daily Prophet, she glanced at the headline.

Sallow Still at Large!

She didn't bother picking up a copy this time, it was likely just going to be a reiteration of what was said in the original article. Instead, she forced herself to push on, the hood of her robe pulled up over her head.

The feeling of being watched magnified each time she left the house, to the point where she was seriously considering dropping her errands to one day a week and holing herself up inside of her cottage.

She stopped at the produce vendor, picking up some pieces of fruit and vegetables as she did often, paying quickly before turning on her heel. Usually, she'd make a stop at a few more stores, but right now, she wanted to go home. She wasn't in dire need of anything else - today at least.

Walking down the main street of the hamlet, her hood up and her head down to avoid being seen meant that she wasn't looking where she was going. So it wasn't surprising when she walked into someone, the bag she held falling to the floor.

"Merlin, I'm sorry!" She said, reaching down to collect her things.

"Don't be, miss. Accidents happen." A friendly voice said she looked up briefly to see a man of around her age, brunette hair and while his smile was friendly and it definitely wasn't Sebastian she was looking at, she couldn't help the flash of his face in place of the strangers.

Suddenly she was in a bigger rush to get home, her hands trembling as she fought to ensure everything she'd dropped was picked up.

"Let me help." The young man offered and she frantically shook her head, scooping the last of the produce into her bag and standing quickly.

"N-no n-need. It's fine. I must get home." She brushed off, pushing past the kind stranger that made her think of Sebastian and speed walked her way back to her cottage, not looking back. Although that feeling at the back of her neck, that she was being watched only grew as she stepped over the threshold and once more thrice locked her door. A sigh of relief fell from her lips as her clammy forehead rested against the cool wood.

— — — — — —

Two weeks. Two weeks had passed since she'd seen that article since Ominis had visited and nothing had happened besides her losing her mind from her paranoia.

Since her run-in with not-Sebastian, she hadn't left the house. A traitorous part of her brain just wanted him to be found and back in Azkaban so that she could go back to how life was before.

As much as she didn't want to leave, she had to head into town. If she didn't want Ominis stopping by again she'd have to drop off the letter she'd written him. She also needed to get some food.

She supposed she could be quick about it, not stopping beside the two shops she needed to and then heading straight back. Chewing on her bottom lip, she considered not leaving, her eyes staring at the front door as if it could decide for her. Taking a deep breath, she opened it and blinked against the bright sun. 'Quick, just be quick.' She told herself, closing the door behind her and heading towards the main street. And if she stopped to buy a bottle of fire whiskey while she was there, who was going to judge? 

— — — — — —

Slamming the door behind her, she panted - a slight panic overtaking her. She was definitely going crazy, she swore she'd seen Seb so many times in the small time she was out, only to do a double take and there would be no one there. She had to be going crazy.

Dropping the bag of food onto the kitchen counter, she rummaged through the bag until she found what she was looking for. The bottle of fire whiskey glinted in the sun streaming through the winter. Briefly, a voice in her head told her it was too early to drink, but she shut it up quickly as she pulled the top off and took a large drink.

The fiery liquid trailed down her throat and she held back a cough, even as the wince made it through. Dropping herself into the chair at the kitchen table, she held the bottle in an iron grip. As she took another long drag from the bottle, she could feel the familiar haze of calm falling over her.

She tried to remember when she'd last eaten and realized it had been breakfast yesterday. Pair that with the fact she didn't drink often and it was only normal for barely a quarter of a bottle to hit her so fast.

Time passed slowly, and the contents of the bottle also slowly dwindled as it got dark outside. At some point, it started raining again but she didn't care. She'd drunk a good amount of the bottle and she couldn't very well keep her head up off the table.

She'd never be able to get herself to bed in this state. Rolling her head to the side, she looked at the couch, wondering if she'd be able to make it there. It was only five steps, maximum.

Pushing herself up, grasping the edge of the table hard to steady herself as the room spun. Once she felt situated enough, she took a step.

So far, so good.

Another step, then another and that's when her knees buckled. Her stomach churned and she closed her eyes as she waited to meet the floor. But the meeting never came. Two arms had wrapped around her, catching her in her fall.