My tomarry postHog au: Harry is DADA professor

Pairing(s): Sebastian Sallow × Reader (FMC) Words: ~3.7k

Summary: You never believed in prophecies—not really. But when the one written for you ends in loneliness, fate decides to rewrite it. After a night of too much Butterbeer and Firewhisky, a run-in at the Three Broomsticks brings Sebastian Sallow back into your life.

Warnings: SFW · No Smut · Emotional intimacy · Bittersweet reunion · Post-Hogwarts setting (1890s Hogsmeade) · Light angst with comfort · Slow-build romance · Mutual pining · Confession scene · Kissing

A/N: This one-shot was heavily inspired by “The Prophecy” by Taylor Swift—the feeling of love arriving right when it’s meant to. It’s a story about second chances and finding the courage to rewrite your own ending.

You saw it coming. You always did.

Disappointment had become a familiar guest.

Men loved to be bewitched by the wielder of ancient magic. They all did. Until they discovered the truth: you were tired, and you’d long since stopped trying to set the world alight.

The current man—Troy Connor, the charming wizard from Ireland—was no different.

You had believed, foolishly, that he might be. That he wanted you, not the relic of what you once were.

You blamed yourself for not seeing the signs sooner. Ever since your fifth year at Hogwarts, affection had come with conditions, and every gift carried a thread of expectation.

The blue-eyed, dark-haired man stood before you, refusing to meet your gaze. His silence filled the small Hogsmeade cottage as he moved about, collecting the last of his things.

You didn’t cry. You wanted to, but no tears came. It wasn’t even about him leaving. You wanted to cry because you were twenty-five, and it felt like everyone else had figured it out. They were moving forward, moving on, and you were still standing still—waiting for something worthwhile. For someone who might actually stay.

“I’m not reading this,” Troy muttered as he tossed your letter into the fireplace.

It had been a foolish thing, that letter—five pages of desperation. Words begging him to try again, to salvage what was slipping through your fingertips. You’d written it at the start of the unraveling, back when you still believed you’d found your forever.

Now, watching it burn, you understood. This was it. Whatever gods ruled over your life had made their choice, and this was your prophecy.

“You don’t have the decency to at least tell me why you’re leaving?” you whispered.

Troy straightened. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were empty. “You want the truth?” he said.

You nodded.

“The truth is, you’re… fine,” he began. “But you’re not what I thought you were. You’re not as pretty as you think. You’re dull. You used to have all this potential—people said you were extraordinary once—but you’ve settled into something painfully ordinary. And honestly?” His mouth curved. “I’ve met someone who makes me feel alive again. She isn’t afraid to be interesting.”

You stood there with your throat tight but your eyes still dry. Somewhere inside, a smaller version of yourself wanted to crumble But another part simply thought, of course he found a way to make his leaving sound like my fault.

And with that, he left.

The door closed, and you were left with only the sounds of the fireplace and your breathing. You sank to your knees, staring through the window as the first stars began to show. For the first time in a long while, you prayed—not to any one god, but to whoever might be listening. To fate, to the universe, to anything that had ever cared enough to change a story.

Please, you thought. I’m so tired of being alone.

Your reflection caught in the glass . Your eyes were puffy, your hair was a mess, and you still wore the cardigan he said made you look “safe.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“Pathetic,” you muttered to yourself.

Enough.

You stood, straightened your sweater, and stepped out into the evening.

The lights along the street still glowed, and the town carried on. There were fewer students now; mostly locals closing up shop, calling goodnights to one another. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets and convinced yourself a walk would help. It usually did.

When you passed the Three Broomsticks, a familiar voice consumed your thoughts.

“Perhaps we deserve a Butterbeer or two,” Sebastian had said, after the troll incident all those years ago.

You almost smiled.

Sebastian Sallow had long ago joined the list of men who disappointed you, though his absence hurt differently. After Hogwarts, he had completely thrown himself into finding a cure for Anne. You wrote to him, at first. He wrote back. Then less. Then not at all.

One day, the owls simply stopped coming.

You’d heard Anne recovered. You knew, instinctively, that it had been his doing. But he never returned. Never explained. Never said goodbye.

So, with time, Sebastian Sallow became less a person and more a ghost. He was now simply a name you tried not to think about.

Perhaps I deserve a Butterbeer right now, you thought. You turned toward the Three Broomsticks and pushed through the door.

Sirona stood behind the bar, directing floating tankards with her wand. When she spotted you, her expression softened.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite recluse,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in ages, love. Everything all right?”

You slid onto a stool and rested your arms on the counter. “Define all right,” you muttered, managing a small smile. “Can I get a Butterbeer?”

“One Butterbeer coming up,” she said, directing a tankard toward you. “On the house, if you promise not to look like that while you drink it.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Rough day,” you admitted.

“Man trouble?”

You stared into your drink. “Something like that. He left.”

She didn’t ask which he. Everyone in Hogsmeade had seen Troy Connor enough times to know the answer.

“I just…” You trailed off. “I keep ending up here—not just here here, but in this same circle. Someone new, same ending. I’m starting to think maybe the problem is me.”

Sirona shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re allowed to want someone who stays.”

“I don’t even need grand gestures anymore. Just… company. Someone who doesn’t leave when things stop feeling… shiny.”

Sirona gently smiled. “Then the right one will come when you least expect it. They always do.”

You tried to believe her. You took a slow sip of Butterbeer, and told yourself maybe she was right.

Deserving a Butterbeer turned into deserving two. Then three. Then four. Somewhere in between, a few glasses of Firewhisky had joined.

Now you sat with your chin resting in your hand, watching the tavern tilt ever so slightly. You were drunk.

The Three Broomsticks hadn’t gone quiet yet, but it was winding down. A few tables emptied and the hum of conversation softened to a murmur. Sirona moved between tables, wiping them down.

You were so drunk, in fact, you didn’t notice the tavern thinning out around you—or the man who came down from the upstairs rooms and slipped into the stool beside you.

You catch a whiff of him first—pine and cedarwood layered with vetiver, the scent vaguely familiar but edged with something more mature.

You don’t turn your head right away. You keep tracing the rim of your glass, contemplating whether another drink will fix or worsen the evening. Probably both.

The man beside you orders quietly. His voice has a particular cadence that makes you think you’ve heard it before—though the drunken haze could be playing tricks.

You glance sideways through your unsteady vision.

He leans forward, elbows braced on the counter as he speaks to Sirona. His chestnut-brown hair is neat but tousled, strands falling loosely across his forehead. His face contradicting—boyish freckles scattered across his skin marked by too many sleepless nights. A faint shadow of stubble, the kind left behind from a morning shave, traced the hard line of his jaw.

Sirona slides a drink his way with a smile that says welcome back.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked once, then again, willing the alcohol to stop playing cruel tricks. But when he turned slightly toward the light—the truth was clear.

Sebastian Sallow.

The years had changed him. The boy who once filled every room with noise had become a man who barely seemed to breathe. But he was still unmistakably him.

Your heart lurched.

You must’ve made some small sound—a hitch of breath, the clink of your glass—because he turned.

Neither of you moved when your eyes met. Hazel-brown eyes searched yours. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade on instinct, as though the room itself understood it was no longer needed. For a moment, it was only you and him. His eyes widened—surprise first, then recognition, then something cautious and shy.

“Y/N?” he said, voice roughened by time.

The sound of your name on his lips—after all these years—sent a rush of tangled emotions through you. Part of you felt an almost painful relief at seeing something so familiar, so known. The other part remembered too well the silence he’d left you with.

“Sebastian,” you managed. Your voice came out softer than you intended—slightly slurred from the Butterbeer and Firewhisky. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated before he offered a small shrug. “Passing through,” he said. “Needed a place to stay for the night.”

It was a lie. You had once known Sebastian Sallow so well that his tells were second nature to you. You caught it instantly—the tick of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“Passing through, huh?” you hiccuped, swishing the last of your drink.

Sebastian’s mouth twitched—his tell. It always meant he was holding something back. “Something like that.”

You studied his face. “You always were a terrible liar.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “And you’re still insanely meticulous, even after… all this.”

“I’m still a lot of things,” you said, pointing at him with the wobbly motion of someone who’d absolutely had too much. “Just not sober.”

His eyes flicked to the empty glasses in front of you. “You’ve had more than enough,” he murmured. “Where’s your boyfriend? I heard you weren’t drinking alone these days.”

Shit.

“He’s not here.”

He’d heard. Which meant he had asked—or at least cared enough to listen. He knew about Troy Connor, and considering the breakup had barely happened, it was clear Sebastian still thought you were together.

“Well,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he took in your swaying posture. “He should know better than to leave you alone in this state.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” you said, pushing off the stool and attempting a confident stride.

Your legs had other plans. The world spun, and before you could fall, his hand closed around your arm. When you met his eyes, you found that same look of concern—the one he used to give you whenever you did something reckless with your powers.

“And you’re still stubborn,” he said softly, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest moment.

“And you’re still bossy,” you muttered, turning away before he could see the flush creeping up your neck.

“I’ll walk you back. Make sure you get home safe,” he said, setting a few galleons on the table before giving Sirona a nod.

You tightened your grip on his arm as you stepped into the town. He kept his other arm near your waist—just hovering there, ready to steady you if you stumbled.

“Right,” he said after a quiet moment, exhaling as his breath misted in the cold. “Which way is yours?”

You motioned toward the dark outline of the hills on the outskirts of town. “Cottage just a ways up,” you said. “Near the windmill.”

You walked together. Well, Sebastian walked, and you made an attempt at keeping up. You tripped over a stone, muttered something unladylike, and felt him slow his pace. Every movement was so careful—patient. He adjusted for every misstep, carefully matching his stride to yours.

Which was ironic, really. Because years ago, he’d been the one charging ahead—impossible to keep up with. Yet here he was, slowing down just to make sure you didn’t fall.

“Merlin,” he muttered after your fifth stumble. “I ought to have a word with that boyfriend of yours. Leaving you to wander home like this—unbelievable.”

You shot him a sideways look. “He’s not my keeper.”

“No,” Sebastian said softly. “But someone should be, when you can barely stand upright.”

You tried to glare at him, but the effort was ruined by the hiccup that followed. When you reached your cottage door, you lifted your wand, squinting at the lock. “Alohamo—Aloho—ugh.” The spell sputtered uselessly.

Sebastian’s low chuckle stirred the air beside you. “That’s not even close.”

“I had it,” you grumbled.

He murmured the charm himself, and the door clicked open. You stumbled as you tried to hurry in, but before you could steady yourself, his arm circled your waist.

“Easy,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

Sebastian guided you inside, still holding you as if he was afraid you might collapse the moment he let go. The room was dark, the only light coming from the fireplace where Troy had burned your letter.

“See?” he murmured as he shut the door behind you. “Home safe.”

You nodded—well, you thought you did—but the motion only made your head spin faster. Sebastian noticed immediately and guided you toward the sofa. He kept one arm around you until you were settled, carefully propping you upright in case your stomach decided to rebel.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked, watching you try to find a comfortable position. “He needs to be watching you—you could choke on your own vomit or—”

“He’s asleep,” you lied, words slurring together.

Sebastian stilled, disbelief flickering across his face before hardening into irritation. “Asleep?”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“No, I’d like to understand,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “He knew you were out, yes?”

“He did.”

“And he’s asleep?” His jaw clenched. “Didn’t bother to stay up, make sure you got home safely?”

You glared at him, though it took effort to keep your eyes open. “I can handle myself, Sebastian. I don’t need someone waiting by the window every time I decide to have a drink.”

He folded his arms, looking entirely unconvinced. “Clearly.”

You huffed, your words coming slower now. “Why do you care so much all of a sudden?” You blinked, trying to fight the weight behind your eyes. “You left, Sebastian. What’s it to you now?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I was trying to look out for you,” he said finally.

You let out a tired laugh that came out more like a sigh. “That’s rich, coming from the man who disappeared without a word.”

He flinched at that. You saw it. But instead of answering, he turned away, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he muttered. “We can talk in the morning.”

Your head lolled against the couch cushion. “Aren’t you just going to disappear again?”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there for a long moment, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said quietly.

You tried to say something back—tried to ask him why he’d really come back—but the words tangled in your throat.

And before you could force them out, you fell asleep.

The smell of tea and something warm on the stove was the first thing to draw your eyes open. You blinked slowly, the room coming into focus as you tried to piece together where you were. You groaned softly, the pounding in your head reminding you exactly how much you’d had to drink.

“Good morning.”

Sebastian stood a few feet away, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was stirring something in a small tin pot over the flames. He looked maddeningly awake.

“It’s miraculous how awake you look right now,” you muttered, pressing your hand to your temple.

He glanced over. “And you’re alive. Miraculous.”

You gave a faint, pained groan. “Don’t.” 

Sebastian poured the contents of the pot into a mug and carried it over. The smell made your stomach turn, but you took it anyway.

“What is it?” you asked, squinting suspiciously.

“Hangover draught. Got the recipe from Sirona years ago. She’s quite used to Hogsmeade’s patrons overindulging.”

You sniffed it. “It smells like boiled socks.”

“It does, but it’ll help.”

You took a sip and nearly gagged. “That’s vile.”

“Good. Means it’s working.”

You glared weakly at him over the rim of the mug. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked to the half-drawn curtains, then back to you. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t roll off the sofa.”

You set the mug down on the table beside you. “You could’ve left.”

“Could have,” he said simply. “Didn’t.”

You blinked at him through the haze of your headache. He looked tired—not the sort of tired that came from lack of rest, but from years of it.

“Why not?” you asked.

Sebastian’s eyes drifted around the cottage, taking in the neat little shelves, the books stacked by the window, the single blanket folded over the chair. 

Finally, he looked back at you. “I know you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Excuse me?” you stuttered.

“I looked around last night. There’s no trace of him here. No clothes. Not even a second pillow on the bed.” He paused. “So, what happened?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands. “You were always too observant for your own good.”

“We both are.” He shrugged faintly. “Or maybe we still know each other all too well.”

Silence hung between you for a long moment.

You sighed. “He’s gone. We broke up. Yesterday, actually.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change much, but realization of your drunkenness last night settled.

“I see,” he said finally.

“You seem terribly calm for someone who was ready to yell at him last night.”

“I was,” he said. “Until I realized there was no one to fight.”

“So what now? You going to scold me for drinking too much?”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No. I think you’ve been through enough.”

“And you?” you asked quietly. “What brings you back, Sebastian?”

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause, “I just got tired of running from ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” you echoed.

He wet his lips. “Anne was healed,” he said softly. “My doing, yes—but when it was done, there was nothing left of me that I trusted. I’d spent so much time sharpening myself against the Dark, but even when the blade finally had no purpose, it kept cutting.” He glanced away. “Nightmares. Rage that came from nowhere. An itch for spells I swore I’d never touch again. I would have ruined anything I stood too close to.”

You sat frozen.

“I left because I loved you,” he said. “Because near you, I am capable of anything—good or terrible—and I did not trust which it would be. I told myself I’d stay away until I could stand in front of you without asking you to save me. I went to curse–healers in London, to a wizard who taught me how to unlearn what I’d made of myself. I took work that kept me moving so I wouldn’t circle back too soon.”

“And the letters?” you asked. “You stopped answering.”

His mouth twisted. “Cowardice, dressed up as kindness. Every reply felt like a promise to return. I kept writing and tearing them up because I thought silence would set you free. I thought if I vanished properly, you’d stop waiting. When I heard you were with someone, I told myself it had worked—that you’d found something–someone–I could never be.” He swallowed. “And still I came to Hogsmeade and slept above the tavern because I could not bear being away from you.”

You couldn’t seem to breathe.

“I saw you in town twice last week,” he admitted. “I told myself it wasn’t my right to talk to you after leaving for so long. Last night, when I found you…” His voice broke. “I thought I was too late. I thought you’d given your heart to someone who would stay, and that I’d forfeited the only good thing I ever wanted by trying to make myself worthy of it first.”

He leaned forward. “I have never not wanted you. Not one hour. Not one minute. I left because my love for you made me ruthless, and I was afraid I’d pull you into the dark with me. I stopped answering because I feared I’d drag you back into my ruin with a single letter. It wasn’t mercy. It was fear.” His eyes found yours. “If there’s anything left—anything—tell me how to deserve you. I will do it. I will stay. I will wait. I will go as slow as you ask. Only don’t send me away believing I came back too late.”

Your heartbeat was everywhere—throat, wrists, the sore place behind your eyes.

“You don’t need saving,” he whispered, “and that is why I love you. But if you’ll let me, I would like to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to be alone.”

He stopped, chest rising and falling, like he’d run a great distance to reach the end of that sentence—and perhaps he had.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His confession lingered between you. It was echoing inside your head—every word he’d said, every word you’d once dreamed of hearing.

Before you could think, before you could talk yourself out of it—you kissed him.

You just reached for him, your fingers fisting in the collar of his shirt afraid he might vanish again. His breath caught for just a moment, and then he was kissing you back with desperation.

Years of restraint, guilt, and almosts all collapsed into that single, perfect collision. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the hot groan against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to make up for every letter he never sent. When your hand slid up his neck, into his hair, his control broke. The kiss deepened. You felt him smile against your lips.

It went from trembling to certain in the span of a breath. From “I missed you” to “I never stopped.” From a goodbye that never came to everything you’d both been too afraid to want.

You finally pulled away, leaving both of you breathless. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. He laughed softly like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. You could feel it too—that fragile, beautiful disbelief that maybe, finally, this wasn’t a dream you’d have to wake from.

You stayed like that for a while. Two people who had spent too long surviving apart now refusing to part.

In that silence, you understood.

The right things have a way of finding you—after the wrong ones have burned themselves out. Love doesn’t arrive early, and it never comes late. It comes when it’s supposed to.

Beside the fire that once burned your past, he kissed you again—and you knew.

A Tom Riddle x Reader Romance

Summary: Once the devil gets his hands on you, he’ll never let you go. You called your power a curse. He called it a gift. You wanted liberation. He's just burned your old life to ashes and crowned you his queen.

Warnings: (Mature Themes (18+), Explicit Sexual Content (Smut), Dark Romance, Dom Tom Riddle, Power Imbalance, Psychological Manipulation, Possessive & Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Dubious Consent, Degradation, Bondage, Dacryphilia)

Word Count: 5.7k

Click here to read part one!

enjoy ;)

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

᪤ SUMMARY . . After months of silence, a familiar face appears in the middle of the night ~ Draco Malfoy, older, sharper, and just as difficult to forget. You haven’t spoken since the messy end of a relationship that burned too hot too fast, and now he’s here, claiming he never stopped loving you. ᪤ WORD COUNT . . 5.9k words (crazy for a first story) !! ᪤ WARNINGS . . emotional angst, past cheating (not between main characters), messy breakup, vulnerable reunion, explicit smut, heavy emotions, post-Hogwarts setting, soft!Draco, regret & yearning, crying during kissing, reader has backbone, library scenes, emotional comfort, hotel reunion, slow burn then fast burn. ᪤ A/N . . spent the whole night writing this instead of sleeping 😭 this is my first fic so i’m kinda scared to share it but also like?? i cried writing this?? Draco’s so hot it’s insane. best believe he was gonna get his girl back. Divider Credits - @enchanthings-a 🫶🏽

Another night.

That’s what you told yourself—you’ll get over it.

It’s been a year and a half now, and somehow, you’re still not.

Everywhere you go, you see his face. His smile. His hair—the same hair you used to run your fingers through.

The memories come back in waves, relentless and sharp.

It’s over. It’s fine, you whisper.

You’re happier now. So is he.

He and his girlfriend are thriving in London, while you rot in Sweden.

Love was the most beautiful thing you ever experienced.

Heartbreak? Not so much.

The sun sinks just below the horizon, and the moon rises quietly behind the clouds. You shouldn’t be upset—not really. You don’t even have the right to cry.

You ended it.

So why does it still hurt like this? Why does it feel like you’re unraveling?

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts.

Draco.

You freeze.

It stops.

Then rings again.

He wouldn’t call twice unless it was serious… right?

What if he’s hurt? What if it’s worse?

Your thumb hovers before you finally swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Hey. Was starting to think I had the wrong number…Sorry for calling so late and out of nowhere. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice.

You hate how much you missed it—soft, careful, like he’s trying not to break you again.

You shift on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you let me in first?”

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’d hope I’m not at the wrong address.”

Your heart skips.

You get up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long in your own misery.

Peeking through the peephole, you nearly drop your phone.

He’s outside.

Here.

Draco Malfoy is standing at your front door.

Your hands are shaking when you unlock it.

And when you open the door, your breath catches.

You open the door to see your ex, your best friend, your everything, standing right there in front of you.

His usual polished look is gone. His blond hair, once so perfectly styled, is a ruffled mess. His eyes look tired—maybe red around the edges. Maybe he was crying. Or maybe not. Draco doesn’t cry.

But everything about him feels unraveled. Like he came apart somewhere between London and here.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he says back with a small smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

You blink, like that might help you make sense of this. “I’m not sure why I should. Why are you even here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be in London.”

He sighs, slow and deep. “You always asked too many questions. That’s what I loved about you.”

Your heart skips.

You cross your arms, trying not to let the words sink in. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting away for a second before meeting yours again.

“Me and Vanessa broke up.”

You stare.

He lets out a short laugh, dry and tired. “She cheated on me. Can you believe that? The woman who drained my vault on handbags and dinners couldn’t even do me the courtesy of breaking up first.”

You can only blink. What.

“She said I was ‘distant.’” He lifts his hands like he’s done trying to make sense of it. “Maybe I was.” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes, confused. “When did this happen?”

He pauses. “Four hours ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“I took the first flight here,” he says, voice softening. “Theo’s in Sweden, thought maybe I’d crash at his, but he and his boyfriend are out on some romantic dinner. So I sat in that hotel room, alone, just… thinking. And suddenly, I thought of you.”

Your breath catches.

“What could the girl who broke my heart be up to?” he says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “I really tried not to come here, love.” The nickname makes something in you hitch. “I swear I did. But next thing I know, I’m out the door, phone in my hand, driving way over the speed limit. And now I’m here. Outside your house. Telling you me and my ex broke up. What a night, huh? Feels like a dream. Or a sick joke.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“And here I am, to ask the one question I never got an answer to.” His voice is lower now, like it’s trying not to break. “Why did you break up with me, hm?”

The question slams into you like a wave.

Everything you’ve worked to rebuild, the peace, the routine, the silence—it all begins to crack. Slowly, painfully.

You don’t speak right away.

The question lingers between you both, heavy and dangerous.

“Why did you break up with me?” he repeats, quieter now.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. Your throat burns. You try to form the words, but nothing sounds right. So you look away.

“This house,” you say. “I should’ve sold it. I tried, I really tried. But everything happened here.”

He blinks, confused. You step back into the doorway like the memories are starting to breathe again.

“Your toothbrush is still in the drawer,” you whisper. “There’s still flour on the ceiling from that time you thought you could bake. And every damn time I walk past that couch—” your voice breaks, “I still feel your hands in my hair.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him, finally.

“You kissed me for the first time in this house, remember? That stupid truth or dare game, after the war, when we were all pretending to be friends and healing and moving on like we didn’t nearly kill each other.” You exhale shakily. “You kissed me and I hated you for it. Then hated myself for not hating it enough.”

A long pause.

You let the silence swallow your next thought before it forces itself out anyway.

“You were everything I didn’t want to love. You were selfish and proud and messy and—”

“And you loved me,” he finishes for you, eyes glassy.

“Exactly,” you whisper. “And that’s why I left.”

He blinks, stunned. “What—?”

“I loved you so much I forgot how to breathe without you. I stopped going out with friends. Stopped painting. Stopped living my own life. I was drowning in you. In us. And you didn’t even notice.” You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“And maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” you continue, “but you weren’t over her, either. Not really. Not Hermione, not Pansy, not any of them. You were trying so hard to be someone else, someone I could build a future with, but I think… I think you were still just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth.

“You broke my heart,” you say, softer now. “But I broke yours first, didn’t I?”

He steps closer.

“What?” His voice is low.

“I couldn’t love myself,” you breathe. “I couldn’t find myself without thinking of you. And yeah, maybe it sounds poetic—‘oh, she lived and breathed for him’—but it wasn’t romantic, Draco. It was suffocating. I stopped being me. I only knew you.”

His jaw tenses, but you don’t stop.

“I did what was healthy. I had to leave. I told myself it was the right thing, and I held onto that until my fingers bled.”

You swallow hard, eyes glassy now.

“And even then, I wasn’t sure. For weeks, I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was stupid, maybe I’d made the worst mistake of my life. So I went to your place. I wanted to talk. I wanted to try—”

You laugh.

“But there you were. Tongue-fucking Vanessa on that stupid couch.”

His eyes widen. “You saw—?”

“It broke me a little,” you say, voice trembling. “But it really shouldn’t have, right? We were done. You didn’t cheat on me. You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

“But still—”

“Still!” you snap. “Still, I stood there in your hallway, holding your favorite chocolate like some idiot. And you were already over me. Already inside someone else like I never even existed. So yeah, I left. Quietly..”

Draco swallows hard.

“It’s completely valid,” you go on, voice tight. “You moved on. You were allowed to. But it made me wonder—that fast? Was I that easy to forget? That replaceable?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your cheek roughly with your sleeve. “And now you’re here. Months later. Telling me she cheated and you thought of me. Like.. like I’m your backup plan.”

“That’s not fair,” he says voice a bit louder. “Don’t you dare reduce what we had to that.”

“Then what is this?” you shout, chest heaving. “You didn’t fight for me, Draco! You let me go. You didn’t show up. You didn’t write. You didn’t even ask why. You just ran into her arms like I never fucking mattered! And yeah, I did break up with you, BUT I needed to find myself. I WAS losing myself.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” he shouts, voice cracking. “I was so tired! I couldn’t fix you, I couldn’t fix me, I was drowning too, and all I saw was the look on your face when you said goodbye.”

You let out a sigh.

“It killed me,” he says, softer now. “That day ruined me. You walked out with no warning, no explanation, and I—I didn’t have the strength to chase you.”

He takes another step, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“I thought Vanessa would distract me. I thought I could forget. But every time I kissed her, it tasted like ashes. Every time I touched her, I imagined you flinching away. And I hated myself for it.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but you stand firm.

“Then why are you here?” you whisper. “Why now?”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because even after all the mess, even after the silence and the pain—you’re still the only one who ever made me feel real.”

You can’t breathe.

He looks like he’s about to say more—but you step back.

“I can’t do this, Draco. I can’t be your second chance when I was never your first priority.”

Silence.

And then—slam.

You close the door.

You’re sitting in a tiny café tucked away in a quiet corner of Stockholm, a place you used to visit when homesickness crept in. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom fills the air, but you can’t taste anything. Your tea is barely touched.

Hermione eyes you from across the table, lips pursed over her cup like she’s bracing herself.

“So… he showed up?” she finally says.

You nod, stirring your tea, watching the swirl of milk.

“And?”

You exhale, leaning back in your chair. “He said Vanessa cheated. Called me right after. Showed up to my house. I thought I imagined it.”

Hermione stays quiet, letting you talk.

“He looked awful. Like he hadn’t slept. Hair all over the place. That stupid half-smile he does when he’s trying to act fine.”

“And you let him in?” she asks, softly.

You nod again. “We fought. I cried. I told him the truth… why I ended things. That I couldn’t find myself. That I only knew how to breathe if he told me how.”

Hermione’s eyes drop, like she remembers exactly what that feels like.

She sighs. “When I dated him… it wasn’t pretty. Constantly. He’d show up for me in one moment and push me away the next. I thought maybe he didn’t know how to be soft with anyone.”

You glance up, heart heavy.

“But with you,” she continues, her voice quieter, “I saw something different. You softened him. Not in a weak way—just… more himself. He laughed more. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid in front of you. And he let himself be cared for.”

That ache in your chest twists.

“I think… I think you were the first person he trusted with all of him. Even the ugly parts.” Hermione pauses. “And that terrified him.”

You blink, tears stinging again, but you won’t cry.

“Truth is,” Hermione says, setting her cup down, “he might’ve been happier with you than he’s ever been.”

You whisper, “I was the only one drowning.”

Her smile is sad. “Maybe you both were. Just in different oceans.”

Mm.

After Hermione left, you wandered the cobbled streets for a while, letting the morning breeze clear your head. There’s a strange comfort in Stockholm’s quiet corners—where magic feels distant, like a dream you once had and can’t quite remember.

You open up the library earlier than usual.

No one’s there yet, just the scent of old pages and wood polish. You inhale deeply. This place is your sanctuary. Before anything else, you brew yourself a small pot of coffee—your favorite beans, the ones you hide in the staff cabinet behind the herbal teas.

You take your mug to the back stacks, where no one will bother you, and begin your morning ritual: organizing the returned books, restocking shelves, checking the inventory system, placing a small order for a shipment of new titles you’ve been dying to get your hands on.

Finally, you curl into your reading nook, worn armchair under the skylight, the city just a whisper outside. A new romance novel rests in your lap. It’s cheesy and dramatic and absolutely what you need.

You’re so absorbed you don’t even hear the door until a deep voice says, casually:

“Don’t stop on my account.”

You jump. Hard.

“What the hell?” you say, half scared, half defensive, clutching the book to your chest. “Why are you here?”

Draco Malfoy, fully reclining against the archway like he owns the place—shrugs, completely unbothered. “Scarlett let me in.”

You glance across the room. Sure enough, Mrs. Scarlett, the sweet old Muggle lady who runs community book club nights, is humming softly to herself while sweeping. She doesn’t even look your way.

You squint. “You sure you didn’t… do something to her?”

He raises his hands. “I don’t do that anymore, love.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname again, and you groan. “Stop calling me that.”

He ignores you. “I told her I needed a book badly. Which is true.”

You exhale through your nose. “What book?”

He smirks, steps forward, and plucks your book from your lap without asking. “Apparently… this one.”

You grab for it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flips a few pages dramatically, skimming. “Oh wow. They’re kissing already? This author doesn’t believe in pacing, do they?”

You lean forward, snatching the book back. “Shut up. This is the good part.”

He sits beside you, knees bumping yours as if that’s normal now. “You really work here?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “Been here nearly a year. It’s quiet. Smells like paper. That’s hard to come by.”

He lets that settle, watching you for a second. “You always loved books.”

You shrug. “They don’t leave.”

That hangs in the air like a pin dropped in water.

He tries again, lighter. “So, librarian by day. What about at night? Still writing poetry and baking cakes no one gets to eat?”

You glance at him sideways. “I still write. The cakes… not so much.”

“Shame,” he says, nudging you gently. “Your lemon ones could’ve ended wars.”

You let out a reluctant laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, voice quieter now.

You look away first. He always made it hard to hold eye contact when he meant something.

There’s a long silence between you, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Finally, he mutters, “You gonna kick me out, librarian?”

You roll your eyes and sip your coffee. “If you try anything to my pages, I’ll hex you.”

He grins like it’s the first real smile he’s worn in days.

“Noted.”

He shifts beside you, fidgeting with a paperclip from the desk. You glance over, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw—he’s growing bored, or maybe just restless.

You sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still never told me why you’re here.”

He looks up.

Not just at you. Through you.

His eyes trace your lips for a second too long before finding yours again. “Missed you,” he says simply. “Couldn’t sleep after last night. I don’t think I slept at all, really.”

Your heart thuds, soft and slow. You smile—just a tiny one. It barely stretches your mouth, but it’s real.

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your composure. You close your book, slip it under your arm, and head to the front desk to check it out for yourself. Your hands move by habit—scan, stamp, slide.

Behind you, Draco’s watching.

“I learned something recently,” you say, still facing the desk. “I can show you, if you’re not in a rush to ruin someone else’s peace today.”

He smirks and follows without hesitation. “Lead the way, love.”

You guide him down a quiet hallway behind the staff area. It smells like cedar and printer ink, and the air is cooler here. At the end of the hall is a locked door that leads to a secret room only staff have access to—meant for archiving older, rarer books.

You unlock it with your key, flip on the warm amber lights overhead, and step inside.

Rows of shelves tower around you, dust dancing in sunbeams that slice through the stained-glass skylight. But in the center of the room sits a magic circle—chalked faintly into the wood beneath a glass dome, drawn with careful lines and symbols.

“I learned to enchant the air in here,” you say, stepping into the middle of the circle. “Just a little charm. Makes sound… feel like a hug. Hard to explain.”

He follows you, his eyes moving over the circle, then to you. “You always were strange.”

You grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm. “Takes one to know one.”

You reach out and murmur a soft incantation—something you picked up in a buried old spellbook from the reserve section. Instantly, the space around you changes. Not in temperature or light, but in feeling.

Warmth settles over your shoulders. Like someone draping a blanket across your back.

Draco shivers. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “That’s…”

“Comforting,” you finish.

He nods, swallowing. His voice is quiet again. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you. Not like he’s studying you—but like he remembers you. All at once. All of it.

You don’t look away this time. You’re too wrapped in the moment. The quietness. The proximity.

It just… happens.

His hand brushes yours.

You turn to say something, and your noses almost touch. Your breath hitches.

Then he leans in.

His lips meet yours—soft, slow, like a secret being passed between hearts. The kiss doesn’t ask permission. It just is.

And it aches.

Because it feels like home.

And you miss him.

But you also remember why you left.

You pull away first—gasping lightly, like you forgot how to breathe.

He blinks, stunned. “You okay—?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I can’t—”

You step back, one hand to your lips, the other to your chest.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, turning toward the door, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “We can’t do this. We’re not dating. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you and her broke up—Draco, I will not be the one to experience that pain again. Not after everything I went through just watching you be with someone else.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “This isn’t the same.”

You scoff bitterly, wiping under your eye. “No, of course not. This time I’m the other woman—not even the one you chose.”

He steps forward. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” you snap. “And you know it. We did love, Draco. And we loved too fast, too hard, and somewhere in all that chaos we forgot to be people. We forgot to breathe. We didn’t even experience ourselves—we just tried to fix each other.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

You shake your head, heart pounding in your ears. “It is when it burns everything else to the ground.”

You turn to leave. You have to.

But he grabs your hand.

Not roughly. Not like a demand. Like he’s begging without words.

You try to pull away, your voice rising. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I don’t want to do this again?”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand,” he snaps, eyes flashing, “that I love you?”

The silence hits like a punch.

Your eyes burn, and your throat tightens. “Because you don’t do love, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping back—but he doesn’t let go. “Last time you tried, it broke both of us. You shut down, you drank too much, you let everything fester. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me, not really, not unless it was in the dark, when no one could see.”

He flinches.

You take a shaky breath. “Why are you even here? Why can’t you just—just leave me alone?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then…

“I am,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tomorrow.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t stay away from London too long,” he mutters.

You freeze, only now realizing his fingers were still wrapped around yours. His hand drops.

“What…” Your voice trembles. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw clenching.

“I lied.”

Your heart skips.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

“I lied,” he says again, eyes finally meeting yours. “Me and Vanessa broke up months ago.”

You stare.

“I’ve been coming to Sweden for weeks now. Months, really. Looking for you. Places you used to go. Scarlett knew. That’s why she let me in without asking. I know what coffee you drink now—after you stopped using that awful vanilla syrup you always had with me. I know your schedule. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I still see you.”

He pauses, breath shaking. “Yes, Vanessa cheated. Yes, it hurt. But nothing hurts like missing you. I tried everything. Drinking, smoking, working nonstop, none of it worked. I kept trying to replace you, but it just made the hole bigger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“I miss you,” he says, almost whispering now. “I need you. I’m not asking for anything—I know I hurt you. I know we burned it all down. But what else do I do? Pretend I never knew you? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me wasn’t you?”

Your hands start to shake again.

“I came here because I needed to say goodbye,” he finishes, backing toward the door. “I think it’s time I end my chapter. My obsession. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. And I can’t bear to keep watching us exist like this—knowing nothing is ever going to change.”

He opens the staff room door.

And walks out.

Leaving you standing in a dim, quiet archive, your chest heaving, heart bleeding through the cracks you thought you’d sealed shut.

You finally leave the room, head spinning, heart gutted, and sink into one of the bean bags. It swallows you whole. A moment passes before Scarlett comes up behind you, startling you again.

“He left you something,” she says, handing you a piece of paper. “That boy really loves you,” she adds softly, then walks away.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mutter, fingers threading through your hair as you sigh.

You stare at the note. Then you unfold it.

I’m not sure if we’ll talk about everything today, but I really needed to see you and explain before I go back to London. I want to start with how much I love you. Your smile, your eyes, everything from head to toe- makes me smile and feel warm every time I see you. I miss you. So much. And I regret every day I didn’t chase you, didn’t beg harder. Because I’ve realized… I can’t live without you. If we haven’t talked again before you read this, my flight leaves at 10 p.m. I’m staying at a hotel 20 minutes from your house. It’s okay if you don’t come. But if you do… a chapter will close, and a new one will open.

Tears fall before you even realize they’ve escaped.

You glance at the clock. 6 p.m.

If his flight leaves at 10, he could already be back at the hotel. The library isn’t far from your house… right?

You hesitate.

Then you grab your bag, wave goodbye to Scarlett, and pull out your phone. You search for hotels within twenty minutes of your house, about ten minutes from the library.

There were two hotels, twenty minutes from your house, and the first one you found—the nicer one—had glowing yellow lights beaming through the front lobby. You practically fell through the doors, out of breath.

The lady at the front desk blinked at you. “Do you need a room, miss?”

“No, I—” you held up your phone with a shaking hand, pulling up your notes. “I’m looking for someone. Draco Malfoy. He’s staying here, I think.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we don’t give out guest information.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just tell me if he checked in.”

A pause. Her face softened. “Room 306. Left elevator.”

You didn’t even thank her properly. You bolted to the elevator, smacking the “up” button again and again like it would hurry the universe along. When the doors finally opened, your reflection was a wreck.

You made it to the third floor and stood in front of the door.

Room 306.

You raised your hand to knock, but it shook. Then lowered it. Raised it again.

Before you could even touch the door, it opened. Of course he’d heard your steps, your breathing. He always knew when it was you.

Draco stood there in a black shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting..knowing.

“I—” you started, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

“I didn’t know which hotel it was,” you said, breathless. “I just guessed.”

“And you guessed right.” He stepped aside. “Come in?”

You nodded.

The room smelled like old cologne and tea. You saw a single suitcase by the desk, half-packed. His wand rested beside it, untouched. The window was cracked open, the rain whispering against the glass.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted, standing stiffly by the door. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You never are when it comes to me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a lie. I’ve been wrong about us before.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a single thing you were saying. “What does this mean then? You coming here?”

You stepped closer, the rain still dripping off the hem of your coat. “I don’t know yet. I just—” you swallowed hard. “I needed to see if you meant it. What you wrote.”

He stood now, close. Too close. “Every word.”

Your eyes welled up again. “Then why didn’t you fight for me before?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve spent so long being taught how to protect what I have, but never how to chase what I need.”

“And now?”

“Now I know,” he said. “But if it’s too late, say it. I’ll get on that plane and go. I won’t ask again.”

The silence stretched.

You took one breath. Two. Then whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His face cracked open just a little—like he’d been holding himself together too tightly for too long. “Say it again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

And then you were in his arms. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It was needy, messy, and real. His lips met yours halfway through your sob, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was everything.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he backed you into the hotel room wall, lips crashing and breaking apart between gasps. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, but trembling as if trying to memorize every inch he once knew.

“You don’t get to do this to me again,” you murmured against his mouth, even as your hands fisted into his hair, dragging him closer.”

“I know,” he breathed, voice hoarse and low, eyes glazed with something between guilt and desperation. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth found your neck—slow, reverent, like a prayer he forgot how to say, then rougher, sucking just beneath your ear, biting down harder when you let out a quiet moan.

“You missed me?” you whispered, breathless as his hands slipped beneath your shirt.

He pulled back, dark eyes searching. “I’ve been fucking starving.”

He pushed the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, eyes flicking over your bare skin like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His hands were warm, worshipful, but there was something frenzied building underneath, like a dam cracking.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, like it hurt to say it. “I used to dream about you like this. Begging me. Falling apart on my cock. Think I went mad once or twice.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching, heat pooling fast between your legs. “Stop talking and touch me.” you whispered.

And Merlin—he did.

He lifted you easily, walking you backwards toward the bed as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your mouths didn’t separate, not for air, not for reason.

You were tugging at his shirt, impatient. He then tugged your jeans down, rough now, desperate. You helped, shimmying out of them with frantic hands.

You reach up to start unbuttoning his pants, but he pushes your hands away gently.

“Missed you so much today, I miss you everyday…” he says pressing sloppy wet kisses onto your inner thighs, sending you small sparks that ignited in your core. His fingers continued to roam on your legs as he continued to lazily separate them off to the side. 

Parted enough for his height, his hand cups under your knee to lock you in place. His finger prodding at your panties which now had a damp spot, causing you to quietly gasp under your breath.

His darken eyes meet with yours asking for your permission, to which you allow his advances. You quickly slip from his grasp to slide down your undergarments and throw them off towards the edge of the bed.

His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you soaked and aching, and he groaned into your neck.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. All for me?” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds and then slipping one inside. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

“Draco—” you gasped, hips bucking, one hand gripping the sheets and the other digging into his shoulder.

Swirling around your sensitive cunt with his fingers you can’t help but moan. His eyes fixated on you with each stroke he makes on your slippery clit. Flicking it up and down, then circling around it before he moved further down towards your entrance.

The usual sensation entering your slick hole while the grasp you held onto the sheets loosens to move onto the back of your his head. Your grip on Draco’s head increased as you pushed him further onto you. 

His tongue’s attacking you aggressively while watching you squirm right in front of him, growing more engorged with each whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He added a second finger, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit as he kissed down your chest. “I’ll take my time with you later. Tonight, I need to feel you,” he growled, voice darker now, his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You were panting, teetering on the edge when he pulled his fingers out and spread your legs wider.

The hands wrapped behind your knees increased in strength when he folded them further, pushing you onto your back as he continued to rip out an orgasm out of you. You’re at a breathless mindless state when he does, painting a vision of white as you cum on his digits. His face, red with a smug look and slightly wet from your release.

Planting a kiss on your lips, you pull back to gaze at him for a moment while his breath tickles the surface of your cheek. His erection, painfully hard, slightly rubbing onto your radiating core. Sharing an intimate kiss once more before he unbuckles his restraining belt that laid on his waist, letting comfort ease over him when he unclasps the button on his pants.

Once you were both stripped, he paused—chest rising and falling, eyes devouring you.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered, leaning in, lips ghosting yours. “Say you want this.”

“I want you,” you breathed. “I never stopped.”

That was it.

He kissed you again—messy, bruising, like he needed to consume every breath you’d ever taken.

“You ready?” he asked, voice like gravel, forehead pressed to yours.

“Please.”

He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He let you adjust to his size for a moment before he further started to rock his hips into you. You're absorbing the feeling of him while he started off at a slow consistent pace, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed, head falling back into the pillows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hips started slow, grinding deep, kissing your cervix with each stroke, but that softness cracked as you moaned his name like a prayer. His pace quickened—harder, rougher, until the headboard banged softly against the wall.

“I missed this,” he grunted. “Missed the way you grip me so fucking tight.”

Your pussy’s stretching from all the gradually building up pleasure to his length, squeezing down when you felt his dick twitch inside you. His cock is plunging back in and out covered in your glistening fluids, making it easier to continue thrusting.

His eyes his longing for you fill with overwhelming rapture, heightening his experience. 

Heat building up at the bottom of your stomach once more, breathlessly panting throughout moans that resonated in his ears. All the blood is rushing to his tip, feeling all hot and heavy inside you as Draco’s body continues to surge into yours at full speed.

You arched under him, moaning louder now, nails dragging down his back. “Draco—fuck—I’m close.”

“Let go for me, love,” he whispered hot against your ear. “Show me it’s still mine.”

His thumb reaches down to play with your swollen clit to help finish you off. You’re curling your toes while accepting all of the stimulation he’s giving you while you shiver.

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He followed moments later with a strangled groan, hips stuttering, collapsing on top of you as your heartbeats thundered together.

For a while, there was only silence and sweat and tangled limbs.

Then, softly—

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go either.

I was wondering if you would be interested in writing something about an adult protagonist who is in a relationship after Hogwarts with one of the HL guys, and struggling with infertility? Could be for a reason, like PCOS, or unknown reasons (which is unfortunately all too common too!) I personally would enjoy the dynamics of that situation with Ominis, Sebastian or Garreth, but honestly I think you could write for just about any character and it’d turn out great :)

That being said, I know this can be a trigger (and pregnancy can be a trigger too), so if it isn’t your thing that’s completely fine! Thanks for taking the time to read this small essay, and thanks again for all the stories you write!!

Quiet House | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Thank you so much to the lovely person who sent this request. your message was so kind, and I can’t tell you how much it means that you’d trust me with something this personal and tender to write.

I know it took me a little while to get this finished. Life has been keeping me on my toes lately, and I’m currently pregnant myself, so my writing pace has slowed down.

Anyway, I hope this story feels gentle and honest, and that it captures what you were hoping for. Thank you again for inspiring it.

Words: ~4,000

Tags: One-Shot, Post Hogwarts, Female Reader Insert, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Angst, Grief

Content Warnings: Pregnancy, Infertility, Miscarriage

The house is quiet in the mornings. It always has been.

You used to think of that as peace, as a kind of gentle lull between sunrise and obligation, when the kettle would hum and the floorboards creaked under bare feet. Now, it feels like the silence itself is listening.

There are two teacups on the counter, the same ones you’ve used since the wedding. Yours is chipped at the rim, and Sebastian's handle is slightly scorched from one of his overenthusiastic charm experiments. They sit side by side as the kettle begins to boil. You reach for them automatically, the rhythm of habit doing what your heart seemingly no longer can: move forward.

You pour, stir, and let the spoon rest against the saucer. A faint clink echoes across the kitchen.

Sunlight spills through the curtains in thin gold strips, cutting across the tidy countertop, the vase of wilted daisies you forgot to replace, and the framed photo on the far wall: your wedding day, captured in motion. You, laughing; Sebastian, looking at you instead of the camera.

You turn away from it.