Chapter Text
chapter 07: all the crooked saints
The crinkle of parchment stirs the air as a book flutters past Callum’s ear, nervous as a bird startled from its roost. The library is cloaked in a hush, a symphony of quills scratching on parchment paper and a heavy silence, the kind that makes him feel like even his thoughts are too loud. Golden shafts of late-afternoon sunlight spill through high-arched windows; dust motes dance suspended in the light like enchanted snow. Towering shelves stretch up like cathedral spires, groaning under the weight of centuries: leather-bound grimoires, tomes with tarnished brass clasps, and spellbooks so old the runes have faded into illegibility.
At the far end of the main chamber, Madam Scribner looms behind her desk, sharp-eyed and still as a stone gargoyle. Her gaze cuts through the room, one eye fixed on the entrance to the Restricted Section, the other flicking toward a jittery third-year she suspects of practising spells in the library. Her presence alone is enough to make Callum sit up straighter, part of him still fearing Peeves might reconsider and sell him out to Scribner as Sebastian’s partner in crime.
He yawns into the back of his hand, stifling it before her gaze could skewer him. Across from him, Cressida Blume is deeply lost in a book about agricultural alchemy. Her notes are colour-coded, charmed to hover and shuffle themselves when she flicks her wand. She is reciting the properties of mooncalf dung in relation to fertilizer enchantments with the fervour of a choir-girl reading sacred scripture, glancing from her notes up at him with the hopeful air of someone expecting engagement. Callum keeps nodding dutifully.
But his mind keeps drifting back to the Map Chamber. The grave silence, Professor Rackham’s towering form, his sharp gaze as though he could look straight through Callum’s secrets. The worst part is waiting. For Professor Fig to return, for the next chapter to happen. His fingers itch to turn the pages of a book he can’t wait to get to the end to.
He’s fighting the weight of his head that seems eager to take a nap on the spread books, when he sees you appear from behind a bookshelf, marching towards him.
Callum sits up straighter on instinct. His muscles tense before his brain catches up; his Pavlovian response towards you is still gearing up for a fight. He hasn’t quite figured out the exact emotional terrain between you two. It is somewhere between uneasy truce and accidental co-parenting of a magical crisis. It’s no surprise he expects you to take the books you’re carrying and bludgeon him to death.
But you dump the stack right in front of him with enough force to shake the oak table. It earns you scowls and glares from a flock of Ravenclaws sitting at the other end, which you promptly ignore. Cressida gasps like you’ve insulted the Dewey Decimal System.
“Do you mind?” she hisses.
“Immensely.” You drop onto the bench right next to him, ignoring her glare. “But I’m here anyway.”
Callum catches the book on top before it could tumble off the pile. “What’s this?”
“They’re called books, St. Jude.” You prop your chin in one hand, ignoring Cressida staring daggers at you. “They contain knowledge. You might want to open one from time to time.”
He snorts, and immediately becomes the next target of Cressida’s scrutinising gaze. She looks at him as if he’s grown a second head—and it is unpacking a honey-coloured toffee and tossing it in its mouth. “I wasn’t aware you two were … friends,” she says carefully, as if the word might bite her.
“’Friends’ is a bit generous,” you say.
“I am a very generous person,” Callum offers, innocently.
“Generously full of yourself.”
Cressida looks as though she’s bitten into a lemon. “Can you not do this here? Some of us are actually trying to study, you know.”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have asked him on a date to the library, Blume.”
The colour that climbs Cressida’s neck is Gryffindor-scarlet, and twice as furious. She purses her lips to the point of vanishing, gathers her notes in a series of jerky, indignant movements, and storms off, spine stiff as a wand.
Callum makes a swooshing sound through his mouth, like a balloon emptying of air. He looks at you sideways. “You know, subtlety is an option.”
“I considered it,” you say, swinging your feet up to rest on the opposite bench, already flipping through one of the books you’ve brought. “Then I remembered I hate subtlety.”
He grins despite himself. It keeps happening around you lately, these traitorous reactions like his face has given up trying to pretend it isn’t secretly entertained.
The books are the kind that look they ought to be locked away behind rusted iron, not spread out across a library table. One of them has a dark brown smear across the cover—too dark for ink. Callum stares at it for a moment longer than he means to. He doesn’t ask.
You browse aimlessly through a tome on magical lineages and forgotten wizarding institutions. Its title is embossed in fading silver, the language archaic enough to require a moment to decode. The pages rustle as they part. You lean in, elbow braced on the table, your hair falling forward as you scan the text.
“I’ve been looking,” you murmur, voice just above a whisper, “for anything I could find on the Keepers. The ones you mentioned.”
Callum’s attention snaps into focus. He leans in close to you, his arm brushing yours, reading over your shoulder. His expression is thoughtful. The scent of ink, old parchment and whatever blend your shampoo is, bitter herbs and something sharp like rosemary, wraps around him in a way that is oddly grounding.
“So far, I’ve only got Rackham, and Fitzgerald—Niamh Fitzgerald. She was a Headmistress of Hogwarts in the fifteenth century. Brilliant, revered, possibly terrifying.”
“Sounds like someone you’d get along with,” he says, lips curling into a half-smile.
“She also had a student clean the Great Hall with nothing but a toothbrush for starting a food fight, so I doubt it.”
Callum studies the curl of letters etched in age-darkened ink. On the next page, he watches an enchanted illustration of Professor Fitzgerald settling in the Headmaster’s office. She has an eloquent, aristocratic face, sharp eyes and laugh lines softening the edge of her intensity. “And Professor Rackham?”
“Secretive,” you say, with a grim sort of admiration. “Not in the way people are when they’re hiding from scandal, but in the way that suggests Percival Rackham knew exactly how dangerous his secret was. I cross-referenced every mention of his name with Hogwarts staffing records, Ministry archives, and three different conspiracy anthologies—”
“You did what?”
“— and there’s barely anything,” you continue. “Born into a family of unknown wizarding descent, he became Hogwarts’s Divination Professor. Implied to have been a gifted student, he was fully-versed in pretty much anything taught at Hogwarts. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Slouching forward, Callum crosses his arms. “That just makes him more suspicious,” he says, tilting his head. “Because nothing leaves no trace. Unless someone made sure of it.”
“Exactly.” You look up then, the candlelight flickering in your eyes. “Which leads us to Isidora Morganach.”
You say the name like a challenge. Callum leans back, pulse stammering beneath his skin. Something about Isidora Morganach felt familiar, when he first saw her. In the same way his own reflection on a water’s surface is familiar until a single ripple distorts the image. Some part of him recognised her. But that is something he keeps to himself. “What did you find?”
You close the tome with a gentle thud. “She’s the blank space in all of this. I found one reference— one —in a memoir written by some eccentric who spent most of his life trying to bottle moonlight. Unreliable, to say the least. But he mentions a certain Professor Morganach, whose ideas about magic were controversial, borderline heretical. But also brilliant.” You look at him. “In his memoir, he’s writing she believed pain could be a magical conduit.”
He leans back. The weight of your words sink into him like cold water. A flicker of fear, of excitement curdles his stomach at the knowledge that whatever he is entangled in, it has its roots buried deep. “This could be the same Isidora Morganach I saw in the Pensieve. She’s just started at Hogwarts at that time though. As a fifth-year, like me. And Professor Rackham before her.”
You still, something flickering in your expression. Interest, perhaps, or calculation. “Then it seems to me,” you say, your voice sharpening like a blade being drawn, “you ought to start searching for more of these Pensieves.” Your eyes narrow, lashes casting shadows across your cheekbones. “I find it somewhat suspicious these Keepers don’t simply tell you exactly what they want.” You lean forward, your mouth twisted into a scowl. “They’re playing games with you, Callum.”
He exhales, slow and tight. His voice also drops to a whisper. “I don’t think so. You heard him. This sort of power in the wrong hands can do irreparable harm.”
“Do you even know what kind of power it is you’re using?” Your voice drops to something softer—and far more dangerous. “Ancient magic sounds promising,” you continue, and lean forward, close enough now that your presence feels like pressure, like something in the air has turned heavier. Predatory. Your breath smells sweet from the toffee. “But what does it matter if you don’t know to what end you’re using that power.”
Callum lowers his eyes. Not because you’ve struck a nerve, though you have, but because part of him agrees. He doesn’t have any answers as to why or how. No master plan. Just instinct, memories not his own, and magic so wild and strange it makes his bones ache when he uses it.
But for the first time in his life, Callum isn’t drifting, isn’t merely reacting to the events unfolding around him. He is moving. He’s finally found a direction to move towards, not simply take every day as it comes and try to survive. For the first time, it feels like his life has a purpose.
Two sets of dark, unimpressed eyes spear him. He feels your watchful eyes on him, as though you can see right through him, and he can’t decide if it was a good or bad idea to have let you into his life. Then again, it seemed hardly it was his choice at all. You have become a splinter he can’t get out from under his nail. Your very presence—and absence—stings at the oddest times, when he’s done as little as curl his fingers to reach for a coffee mug.
To distract from how much your words have shaken him, Callum gestures to the pile of books. “You know, for someone who didn’t care about all this two nights ago, you’re putting in a rather dramatic effort. Why the sudden interest?”
He thought the question would land like a tripwire. Thought he might see you falter, even slightly, and trip you from the solid foundation you managed to built yourself within the short time since the discovery of the Map Champer and learning about Callum’s special ability. He’s noticed that isn’t something many give you credit for: your composure—most talk of your pride as easily insulted as a Hippogriff’s, and your fury just as easy to match. But he wonders if you’d also turn out to be as fiercely loyal and protective of those who earn your trust. He thinks a Hippogriff would make for a more impressive house mascot than a badger—then again, so far you’re the only Hufflepuff he’s met who guards her pride like a dragon hoards gold.
“I still believe your ancient magic might hold the answers to the connection of our wands,” you say simply. “If there truly is a prophecy and it involves death at the end, I don’t plan on sitting idly by and letting it take its course. While I’m not sure I trust your Keepers,” you add after a beat, “maybe they know something. Maybe it’s worth asking. Next time you’re down there, you might want to stop pretending they’re only watching you. Let them know you’re watching them too.”
Uncomfortable under the weight of your gaze now turned on him, he shifts in his seat. Before he could answer, a dull thumb shakes the table, and you both turn to see a heap of feathers and talons skidding gracelessly across the polished wood.
Callum blinks. “Ingrid?”
A small boreal owl looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, one wing dragging, as if she’s just flown straight out of a thunderstorm and through several bad decisions. She blinks sleepily at Callum, gives a half-hearted hoot, then collapses dramatically on top of your shut book.
You stare at it. “Did your owl just pass out?”
He gently retrieves the parchment tied to her leg, brow furrowing. When he recognises the seal, it sets his heart beating into his throat.
“It’s from Professor Fig,” he says, his voice low. With shaking fingers, he unrolls the lettes, eyes scanning the text quickly. The words are scrawled in the professor’s precise, impatient hand.
Callum,
Come and see me as soon as you can. I’ve returned from a rather unproductive trip to the Ministry. Hoping your time has been more fruitful than mine.
—Professor Fig
Ingrid gives a weary flap, clearly expecting some gratitude in return. She struggles to climb Callum’s robes, so he scoops her up and cradles her against his chest. He folds the letter slowly with his other hand, the pulse in his neck quickening.
“What is it?” you ask.
He looks at you. Torn. Grateful. And already rising to his feet. His eyes burn a little brighter. “Fig’s back. He wants to meet.” Letter in one hand, owl in the other, he is at a loss for words—or rather the opposite, there is so much more he wants to tell you—Callum fumbles with what to say. Thankfully, you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, already returning to your research.
Madam Scribner’s voice rises from somewhere between the shelves like a banshee with a clipboard: “Absolutely no pets in the library!”
Callum flinches like he’s been hit by a spell and bolts towards the exit. “Not a pet, it’s a carrier owl!” he calls over his shoulder, but it sounds more like a plea than an excuse. He takes three steps at once and bursts through the library door into the Central Hall.
The Central Hall always feels alive, but today it practically thrums beneath his feet. The noise of it compared to the quiet of the library is disorientating. The air buzzes with magic—sixth-years have conjured the stone sirens to life, and their voices echo in serpentine harmony as the statues ripple with movement.
Arched windows throw long beams of afternoon sun through enchanted glass, turning the stone-tiled floor into a kaleidoscope of shifting colours. Above, banners in house colours flutter from invisible drafts—scarlet, emerald, gold, and blue rippling like spell-touched flames. Occasionally, the stone mural above the entrance to the library rumbles softly with the low snores of the sleeping dragon.
Callum remembers something Professor Weasley told him during his first week: “ It’s the heart of the hive. Our ‘King’s Cross Station,’ so to speak. All tracks begin and end here .” At the time, he thought she was just being metaphorical. Now, standing in the thick of it, he sees the truth: the Central Hall doesn’t just connect the castle’s wings. It pumps life through them.
Students flood through the space like ants in enchanted uniforms. Ravenclaws with ink-stained hands scribble formulas mid-step, dodging flying ink-pots and bundled parchments. Hufflepuffs carry potted plants from Herbology, their leaves twitching irritably under burlap wraps. A third-year trips over his own shoes, catches his cauldron mid-fall, and keeps running like nothing has happened. Meanwhile, Slytherins slip by like shadows—robes sleek, expressions unreadable, books tucked tightly to their chests like secrets. Gryffindors? Loud, laughing, jostling through the crowd like they have places to be and dragons to fight.
Callum sidesteps a gaggle of second-years attempting to levitate a stack of enchanted scrolls, only for the top one to unravel and slap a prefect in the face. Two seven-years duel in miniature with conjured fireflies on the stairs, wand tips flicking in sharp, elegant bursts. Somewhere near the upper balconies, inside his portrait the young, handsome wizard plays a merry tune on his lute.
Everywhere he looks, there is movement. Paper wings fly overhead carrying messages. Quills scribble in mid-air. Voices tangle together in dozens of dialects and spells, creating a sound that isn’t quite noise—it is more like magic in its natural form.
Tightening his grip on Ingrid, she gives a soft snore against his chest, her small head tucked beneath one wing, completely unfazed by the crescendo of voices. He presses forward, barely managing five steps before he skids right into someone. Someone who catches him with surprising ease, like he’s been waiting.
“Call,” drawls Sebastian, his hands curled around Callum’s upper arms in a strong grip. His head tilts slightly, curls brushing his cheek. That familiar smirk slides into place. “Easy now. If you wanted to throw yourself into my arms, all you had to do was ask.”
Callum groans. “Don’t start.”
“I never start. I merely enhance.” Sebastian glances down at Ingrid, who wheezes weakly in Callum’s arms. “Is she drunk?”
“She’s tired,” Callum mutters, adjusting her again. “Long flight.”
Sebastian makes a quiet sound, something between a hum and a chuckle. He peers at him. “And you seem … twitchy. Did she bring you some grand secret? A letter of betrayal? Confessions of undying love?”
“No—I, I forgot something at the Three Broomsticks, that’s all.” Keeping a blank face, Callum puts both note—and the owl—inside his robe pockets.
“Ah,” Sebastian murmurs, gaze narrowing just enough to make Callum’s skin itch. Sebastian studies his face for a long uncomfortable minute; Callum thinks he sees a shadow pass Sebastian’s eyes, but the easy-going smile never leaves his lips. “And what is it that it has you bolting through the castle like Peeves set your hair on fire?”
“Nothing urgent,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. “Sirona said I could drop by and pick it up whenever.”
A long beat passes. Sebastian studies him in that way that makes Callum feel like he is being examined through a lens. Not with suspicion, no, it is worse than that. It is curiosity , and Sebastian’s kind of curiosity is like fire: slow, dangerous, and impossible to put out once it finds kindling.
Finally, he nods, smile never slipping. “I see. That means you’re not busy right now, correct?”
“Well, I—”
“Splendid. Come with me.” He doesn’t wait for Callum to follow, instead grabs his arm and drags him after him.
In his short two months at Hogwarts, there are three things Callum has learnt about Sebastian Sallow. One: once he’s made up his mind, there is little that can deter him from pursuing his goal. Sebastian’s determination cuts sharper than the Diffindo Callum’s learnt from Professor Sharp. He finds himself trailing after Sebastian, helpless against the warm, unrelenting pull of him. He tells himself it is just easier than arguing.
Which is a lie.
Two: at some point, Callum has stopped fighting the gravitational pull of Sebastian, and he has a sinking suspicion that it is going to be a problem. It seems the word No eradicates itself from his dictionary when Sebastian looks at him the way he does now: his eyes crinkle with mischief, the promise of adventure written in them. The corner of his mouth curls upward, revealing part of his white, straight teeth. Callum’s noticed a small part of Sebastian’s incisor chipped away, and he’s been wondering about the story behind it ever since.
Of course, he’s trying not to make it too obvious how much time he spends looking at Sebastian’s lips.
They pass the portrait of the boy with the lute on the stairs—he strums harder when Callum passes, and he feels his ears heat. Sebastian doesn’t even glance back to notice. It isn’t until they reach the second balcony and that dark archway looms in view that Callum pulls his arm free, slowing to a stop. “You want me to practice Confringo —again.”
Sebastian stops a few paces ahead and turns, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I want you to master Confringo.” His tone is light, but there is a weight behind the words. Something measured. Serious. “I could tell something was holding you back when I first showed you the spell, and that you haven’t been back to the Undercroft since. Hogwarts doesn’t allow for many places to practice forbidden spells—apart from maybe the Room of Requirement, but I don’t know anyone who’s found it yet.” His eyes disappear behind the thick fringe of his lashes as he looks down. “If you’re worried about Ominis, don’t be. I’ve handled it.”
He isn’t worried about Ominis because ever since the night he snapped at Callum for knowing about the Undercroft, he’s tried not to think about Ominis Gaunt and his seething, cold fury that washed over him like an inexorable tide.
“I don’t think I should—”
“Nonsense.” Sebastian is already heading on, forcing Callum to follow. “Trust me, you’re welcome there. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’ve apologised to Ominis. It’s fine.”
Callum doesn’t know if that is the truth or Sebastian’s version of it. But even as doubts whisper in his mind, he trots after Sebastian, feeling Fig’s letter inside his pocket like a solid weight.
The Undercroft still bears the suffocating, dusty breath of old magic. The torches are already lit. Their flames flicker low and moody, casting shadows that crawl up the walls. Callum follows Sebastian in, boots echoing too loud against the stone, and it’s only when he reaches the base of the stairs that he sees him.
Ominis sits against the far pillar, schoolwork spread in neat lines across the worn bench. His head lifts at the sound of the rusty doors grinding to a close behind them, his gaze tilted vaguely toward the noise, not quite meeting them. Callum’s stomach tightens.
Sebastian doesn’t pause. “How’s your essay on—what was it again? Muggle nursery rhymes?” His tone is casual, but there’s a smirk bleeding into the words.
Callum doesn’t miss the way Ominis’s fingers twitch slightly at the edges of the parchment. “Literature,” he answers dryly, lips tugging just slightly at the corners. “And it’s going well, thanks.”
“You could always drop the class,” Sebastian says, leaning lazily against the wall like this is just a friendly chat. “I mean, we all know you only took it out of sheer spite for your family. Admit it, how thrilling can non-magical plumbing really be?”
Hesitating, Ominis runs a hand over the page in front of him, his fingers tracking the ink like it’s something sacred. In his other hand, his wand pulses faintly red beside the parchment. “The lessons might not be exciting,” he says slowly, “or practical in the way we’re used to. But I think they matter. It’s easy to fool ourselves into believing that our magic or pedigrees make us superior to everyone else. But I find it fascinating how they navigate the world without magic.”
Callum doesn’t realise Sebastian is looking at him until the words hang in the air like smoke. When he meets his gaze, Sebastian’s expression is unreadable. Something flickers behind his eyes before he gives a shrug, faint and non-committal, and turns to light the wall sconces. He clears his throat, the sound a little too sharp in the quiet. Ominis’s back straightens like a blade. Not ideal. Callum’s stomach drops, something sour blooming in his chest at the sight of the way Ominis tenses—not in fear, but in restraint. Like he’s preparing to be disappointed.
“I can help, if you’d like,” Callum adds quickly. “With the essay. Professor Fig had me keep up with Muggle literature, especially the classics.”
Ominis tilts his head. It’s not quite a rejection. Not quite acceptance, either. “How much do you know about…” He trails off, hands skimming the edge of the open book. His fingers glide to a specific line, his wand glowing steady beside him. “ Penny dreadfuls ?”
Sebastian snorts. “A penny what?”
Callum’s lips twitch before he can stop himself. “I’ve read a few. Fig went through a phase. Had a whole shelf of them, mostly when he was feeling dramatic.”
Ominis’s chin juts—a vague nod. Callum takes that as permission. A start, even if it is a cautious one. When he turns to Sebastian, he is already right in front of him, so close he smells his scent: a mixture of smoked wood and old parchment, and something sharp, like spice. Callum freezes, breath snagging in his throat.
“Don’t mind me,” Sebastian nearly purrs, and before Callum can stop him, his hands slip past his outer robe and reach inside his inner pocket. The motion is fluid, intimate in a way Callum absolutely does not have the capacity to process right now. His heartbeat kicks up, loud and clumsy in his chest. He doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t dare breath.
Instead, he watches as Sebastian’s fingers brush the lining of his robe like he’s done it a hundred times, as if this isn’t the single most distracting thing to happen. There’s a moment when the collar gapes just enough to show the smooth, pale stretch of skin beneath. Callum stares like an idiot. Burns the image into the back of his brain before he can tear his eyes away.
Sebastian steps back with a victorious grin, holding Ingrid delicately in one hand. The owl gives a disoriented blink. “Wouldn’t want you to accidentally set her on fire, would we?”
Callum exhales through clenched teeth, carefully smoothing down the lapel of his robe. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, charming.” Sebastian crosses the room and gently sets Ingrid in Ominis’s lap. The Slytherin heir accepts the owl without comment, as though this is something they do on a daily basis.
Something in Callum’s chest cracks open for both of them in that moment. Not in that intoxicating way that it’s recently been doing with Sebastian, chaotic and hot and urgent, where simply his presence in the same room leaves Callum fumbling for the right words. This is something gentler. Something that fits perfectly into the dark and secretive of the Undercroft. It makes his throat feel too tight.
Sebastian returns to him with that unmistakable glint in his eyes, eager as a little boy let loose in Honeydukes for the first time. His fingers hook into the fabric of Callum’s sleeve and tug, no hesitation, just momentum. No room to refuse.
The last thing Callum has learnt: Sebastian is alarmingly physical. Touches like he’s trying to anchor himself. Bumping into Callum’s shoulder when they walk, leaning his full body weight onto Ominis when he’s shaking with laughter, tugging at Imelda’s pigtail when she blatantly ignores him. Like physical contact is a language he doesn’t even realise he’s fluent in.
“Go on,” Sebastian says, voice low and coaxing. “Try it.”
Callum stares at the cracked wall Sebastian has chosen as his target. “If this backfires again, I’m blaming you.”
“I’ll take the blame,” Sebastian says, stepping back with a smirk. “Just not the explosion.”
Exhaling slowly, Callum raises his wand. The familiar weight of it settles against the nerves crawling up his arm. The tension in his chest curls tight, like thread winding tighter and tighter around his ribs.
“Confringo.”
A scatter of sparks bursts from his wand’s tip. Too bright, too many colours: sickly green, a flare of pale blue, a sickening yellow. The wall shudders like it’s been hit with a hammer made of wind, fine dust raining down like ash.
Callum looks at Sebastian, who’s standing to the side, arms crossed. He’d make an excellent Professor one day, mirroring their disappointment at an unsuccessful spell. His low, drawn-out umm has Callum on guard instantly. He says, “Your wand doesn’t happen to be holly or apple wood, does it?” He squints. “Unicorn hair core?”
Callum casts a look at his wand like it might answer for itself. But his throat tightens, and your scowling face flashes behind his eyes.
“No,” he says. “Phoenix feather. Blackthorn.” The last word lodges thick in his throat. “Why?”
Sebastian lets out a slow, impressed whistle. “Well, that explains a lot. Anne used to go on about Wandlore, and from what I remember, blackthorn’s not for the faint of heart. Powerful. Stubborn.” He gives Callum a look. “That tracks.”
Callum doesn’t reply. Just adjust his grip on the wand and tries not to think about how sweaty his hands are. Another mystery to unravel. It’s a miracle he’s still passing anything in class with how much is going on.
Sebastian’s voice drops, teasing and pointed. “So if it’s not your wand, then it must be you. You’re afraid of the fire, aren’t you?”
Before Callum can speak, Ominis’s voice rolls in from the far end of the Undercroft, steady and sharp. “He’s not afraid. He’s just more sensible than you, Sebastian.”
Callum’s shoulders twitch, torn between gratitude and discomfort. Sebastian smirks. “Not all of us can be saints like you, Ominis.” He flicks his wand, conjuring a harmless puff of flame between his fingers. “Where would be all the fun in that?”
Ironically, Callum is the one named after a saint: Saint Columba, who walked with kings and banished demons. And of course, Sebastian—named after the Captain of the Praetorian Guard, Roman Soldier, healer and martyr. Saints destined to burn .
Callum wonders if hagiography is a part of Muggle Studies curriculum. For Ominis’s sake, he hopes not. He sighs. “Can’t you teach me something that doesn’t involve setting half the room on fire? Like a lightning spell. Or, I don’t know, a summoning charm that only pulls sweets.”
Sebastian chuckles. “Trust me. Next time you’re in the Forbidden Forest, you’ll be grateful I taught you the Blasting Curse. Especially when a spider the size of your bed comes crawling at you.”
And there it is again—the sharp little barb Sebastian can’t help but flick into his voice whenever the Forbidden Forest comes up. Even though it’s been already a week. Sebastian presses his lips together, thoughtful, and then steps forward with a renewed sort of energy. “Raise your wand.”
Callum does. And when Sebastian closes the distance between them again, slipping behind him, he forgets how to breathe. Sebastian’s warmth. The quiet command in his presence. It’s like standing too close to a fire, not because it’ll burn him, but because craves the warmth during a cold night.
Sebastian’s hand wraps over his, firm and careful. “Precise wandwork,” he says, his voice a low rumble against Callum’s back. “Once you get the feel of it, it clicks. And it’s addictive.”
He knows. It’s not the spell—it’s the fire . Even before he came to his magic on that faithful, horrible night, when he was a child, he’d sit for hours staring into the open flames of the burning candles, the hearth, transfixed. Something in it had a power, he could barely tear his eyes away. Ominis is right. Callum is afraid of fire—afraid it might always rule him, that it would be all he had.
Sebastian’s voice is in his ear, low and focused, walking him through the wand movement again, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done this before, with other spells, maybe. With other people? Callum doesn’t want to know. He barely hears the words anyway. His attention is split between the feel of Sebastian’s chest brushing his shoulder and the fact that his hand is still on his.
And when Sebastian finally lets go, he says, low and half-laughing, “If you’re scared of breaking a few things here, don’t be. Ominis and I can handle a bit of chaos.”
Callum swallows hard, his mouth dry. He risks a glance at him, at the way Sebastian’s eyes catch the flicker of torchlight, how every bit of him glows with confidence, unshaken and magnetic.
He tries to believe it. Tries to take that unshakable certainty and mold it into something he can hold. Tries to see himself the way Sebastian seems to, like there is power curled up tight inside him, waiting to be unleashed.
He hears Ollivander’s voice in his head, the memory of receiving what he’s dreamt of ever since Professor Fig promised he’d have his own wand one day.
“Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces the sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish.”
Turning the wand over in his hand, his fingers curl tight around the handle. It doesn’t hum or burn or glow. It just waits. How much of a warrior does it see in him? So far, nothing has exploded in his face. But that doesn’t mean it won’t. Not if he keeps second-guessing himself. Not if he keeps hesitating.
He thinks of you. Your fire. Your impossible confidence. Your undeterred vehemence to cut open a path wherever you need it. Your focus—razor-sharp, unrelenting. You’re a cannon at a sword fight. He’d like to be the gunpowder that sets you off; the match that ignites you.
He clenches his jaw. Steadies his stance. This time, he won’t think of the orphanage, of the flames licking up the stonework, eating everything in its wake; feeling helpless as power scorched his small frame.
This time, he channels the magic, allows it to bear its claws, gnash its teeth. This time, he lets the fire come to him. Opens the door and welcomes it.
“Confringo!”
The spell hits like a thunderstrike. Fire roars forward, crashing into the wall with a boom that shakes the bones of the Undercroft. Stone fractures and scorches. Dust mushrooms in the air, thick and shimmering in the spell’s wake. The flames lick outward like they’re alive, like they want more. The wall explodes in a burst of flame and shattered stone. It echoes through the ancient hall like a heartbeat—loud, alive, dangerous, like a heart trying to break out of his chest.
Callum’s arm lowers slowly. His breath rattles free.
And from somewhere to his right, Sebastian lets out a laugh, bright and triumphant. “Now that’s more like it.”
~ ⋆｡°✩ ~
“You’ll see it for yourself tomorrow, this kid from Mahoutokoro flies like I’ve never seen anyone fly before.” Javi tries to accentuate his point by using his hands to mimic how your team’s new Seeker manoeuvred between the spectator houses, rushed up to the goalposts, then dive-bombed so close to the ground they were worried they’d have to scrape off his splattered remains from the field, before catching the Snitch within two and a half-minutes after practice started. “I’m telling you, if he’s doing the same tomorrow, we’re starting this season off strong,” he finishes.
One by one, keeping your wand steady, you’ve been stacking teacups—not for class, not because you care about the mystic placement of china, but because you need something to do while Javi talks. One wrong movement and the entire stack will collapse.
“If the game is over before I get to hit at least one Gryffindor with a Bludger,” you say coolly, not looking away from the wobbling top of your porcelain tower, “I’m going to be very mad.”
The Divination classroom always smells of dried roses and heavy incense. High above the rest of Hogwarts, it sits nestled in one of the towers, warm with too many velvet pillows, too many crystal balls reflecting the flickering candlelights, too many clocks that never chime at the same time. Everything is lit in a dim, lavender light; the curtains at the windows are all closed, and many lamps are draped with dark red scarves. The shelves running around the circular walls are crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls and a huge array of teacups.
With slow, deliberate grace, you place the final teacup at the top of your stack and lean back on your overstuffed pillow, arms folded, satisfaction curling in your chest like a cat in the sun. “Behold,” you add, “my masterpiece.”
“Neat.” Javi whips out his wand. “Let me transfigure them into rats and put them inside Hobhouse’s trousers.”
“I would appreciate if the teacups in this classroom stay teacups,” comes Professor Onai’s calm, deep voice. She lifts her hand and the teacups respond. They rise in unison, stacks collapsing and reshaping mid-air with the precision of a spell finely tuned over decades. Cups float to their proper places at each table, saucers spin neatly into line like soldiers assembling for inspection. Your tower disassembles mid-hover with an elegant sigh of air, returning to the shelves with the grace of falling snow.
Her wandless magic never fails to impress you. So does her profound yet scrutinising gaze that cuts across your table under which Javi and you try to disappear, knees and elbows banging against each other.
“Palmistry,” Professor Onai says, moving like moonlight, graceful and distant, her voice rising over the rustle of robes and teacups settling in their saucers, “is not merely about lines. It is the story your soul has written on your skin. The heart line, the head line, the life line—these are threads in a tapestry woven long before your wand ever chose you.”
You resist the urge to groan audibly. Of all the nonsensical Divination topics, this one somehow offends you the most. At least tea leaves leave funny shapes you can weave into hilarious stories. Palmistry feels like someone is squinting at the creases in a napkin and decides it holds meaning and prophecies.
Professor Onai goes on, her voice low and reverent. She paces the room with the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t need volume to command attention. “The Ndebele tribe, for example, teaches that the left hand holds the destiny you are born with, and the right—what you make of it. Each fork in the line, each island, each break—your triumphs, your losses, your transformations.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure for a palm,” you mutter.
Javi leans in. “Bet yours just says ‘ will insult someone before breakfast .’”
You elbow him.
Professor Onai, completely unfazed by the undercurrent of murmuring in the room, turns to face the class again. “Let us begin with a demonstration. Mister Sallow. And—” her eyes sweep the room and find you with chilling precision. “You. You two will pair for this exercise.”
Several students immediately turn towards you two in their little fat pouffes like you owe them Galleons. Javi lets out an exasperated breath.
“Oh, that’s cruel,” he whispers. “Try not to bite his hand off. You can’t get into detention again.”
You rise slowly, every movement lined with disdain. Across the room, Sallow is already on his feet, smirking like the absolute menace that he is. The way his eyes light up—not with delight, but something sharper, something dangerous—makes your stomach twist with loathing. Or is it adrenaline? You refuse to examine the difference. The two of you meet at the velvet-draped table in the centre like opponents called to duel. Professor Onai observes silently from the back, fingers steepled, her gaze unreadable.
Sallow extends his hand with exaggerated flair, palm up. “Try not to faint from how impressive my fate line is.”
You pinch the edge of his sleeve between two fingers, the same way someone might hold a rat by the tail, not touching his skin as though it is something contaminated. Briefly glancing over his palm, you find it rougher than you expected, scarred with faded burns, the smudge of black ink still smeared across his thumb. A duellist and scholar’s hand. Your face twists in mock revulsion.
“This line here? That’s where everyone you love abandons you. And this one? That’s your ego—vast and empty. Like the inside of your skull.”
A snort cracks from behind you—Javi, most likely, but you don’t turn. You’re too busy enjoying the flicker in Sebastian’s expression, knowing where exactly to probe to bring out that violent, uncontrolled temper. They say don’t kick a snake’s den, but they forget badgers eat snakes for breakfast.
Sebastian’s smirks twists, curdling into something far less charming and far more sinister. He seizes your hand roughly, fingers clamping around your bones like iron. You still, something inside you looks tight, like a trap snapping shut. Your eyes track across your elbow. Your forearm. Sebastian’s fingers wind tightly around your wrist. You raise your eyes to his face, sparking with intensity.
“Don’t touch me,” you say, voice cool and surgical, like a scalpel sliding through skin. You try to pull your arm from Sebastian’s hold, but he refuses to let go.
“What’s the matter?” he says deceptively softly. “Afraid of your own future? I would be too, if my only real talent is losing. You sure you want to fly against Gryffindor tomorrow? You know what they say: the higher you fly, the greater you fall.”
“At least I’m still allowed on a broom. We might have to reassess your head line, or did you forget what happened in our third year?”
“I’m pretty sure you flew like a two-year old toddler.”
“Oh, that’s fucking mature, Sallow. At least I won’t be bald by twenty-five.”
“I won’t be bald—”
More snorting, from multiple corners this time. Someone puts their teacup with a decisive click back onto its saucer.
“That is enough,” Professor Onai says, voice sharp. “Five points from Slytherin and Hufflepuff.”
You and Sallow immediately break apart, standing like sulking statues as she moves towards the front of the room.
“In anger there is no intelligence,” she continues calmly. “This was supposed to be a demonstration, not a confrontation. You may be rivals at your House tables, or at Mister Brattleby’s ‘secret’ duelling club. But not in this classroom. And since you have demonstrated what not to do, I’ll be assigning new pairs. Mister Sallow, please work with Natsai. And for you, I believe there is an open spot next to Mister Gaunt.” Her gaze doesn’t leave room for argument. “Everyone else, take the books and try to read the palm of the student sitting next to you without threatening to put each other into the hospital wing.”
As the class fills with rustling robes, fluttering pages, Sallow clicks his tongue. His hold on your wrists loosens, and you take it as opportunity to yank your arm away. “You care about that hand, Sallow? Find it useful? Then don’t bloody touch me again.”
Sallow opens his mouth, reconsiders as though he’s come to the conclusion you’re not worth the waste of his breth, and stomps off. He seems in a fouler mood today than usual. You remember you don’t care about him and drive him from your thoughts, bracing yourself for the next fight. Your spine straightens. It isn’t fear, not exactly. More like a tightly wound awareness. Like standing too close to lightning and waiting for it to strike.
You haven’t spoken to Ominis since detention. Since you’ve said too much. Cracked the door open on something you swore you’d keep sealed. Eyes dancing across the room, finding him already turned in your direction, Ominis sits composed as always. His expression doesn’t betray anything. You gather your things slowly, buying yourself a few precious seconds. Javi offers a silent thumps-up as you pass.
When you sit across from Ominis, you can’t quite look at his face. Not because he would see you—he can’t—but because it is unnerving how easily he reads people without needing to see.
“Is it that impossible for you not to instigate Sebastian at every opportunity?” is the first thing Ominis says—and he doesn’t sound as though he is criticising you. He sounds very amused.
“It’s hard not to,” you say, voice toneless, “with someone who throws a fit over not being the centre of attention for more than five minutes.”
“I can hear you,” snaps Sallow from three seats away. When Professor Onai’s gaze sweeps over him like a knife looking for something to carve, he ducks his head and turns away.
“If only he would hear this well when I tell him to stop getting into trouble,” Ominis says. His eyes take on an almost playful glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Do I have to worry about a morbid future as well or are we going to use the assigned textbooks?” He offer you his hand, palm up. Unlike Sallow’s hand, his bear no scars, no callouses, no ink-smudges. Just a pale, elegant hand, slender fingers slightly longer than his broad palm.
You push the open book towards him. “I’m really not in the mood for trying to find meaning in someone’s sweaty palm.”
“Very well,” he says as though he’s expected you to decline. He sits with an air of quiet purpose, one hand resting on the table, the other still waiting patiently, palm-up. “I shall try then.”
You wait for the punch line, then remember you have never heard Ominis crack a joke. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—”
“Blind, I know, very observant of you. Now, shall we?”
You hesitate. Look down at your hand. Next to his, your imperfections seem glaringly obvious: callouses on your palm from five long years of wielding the bat on the field and holding onto your broom; from gripping your wand in an iron hold during countless fights. Scarred and bruised. A little too similar to Sallow’s hand.
Ominis tilts his head slightly. “Is something the matter?” His voice is silky-smooth. “Afraid I might bite?”
Goosebumps rise along your arm. For a split second, you’re back in Potions classroom, surrounded by sweet-smelling herbs, rain thrumming against the windows, and your quiet voices echoing in the hollow dungeon.
The corner of your mouth twitches. Barely. You accept his challenge and place your hand in his.
The moment his fingers close around yours, your breath catches. His touch is surprisingly gentle, but precise. Like he is reading your hand the way he reads Braille—each ridge and line catalogued with patient reverence. His touch is cool as usual, like the smooth surface of a marble statue inside a cathedral.
Whenever he needs reference from the textbook, he leaves your hand suspended in mid-air, turns to let his wand dance across the text, then returns to you, his fingers sliding over your open palm more carefully.
“Your heart line begins high,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over yours. “That usually suggests someone … passionate. Stubborn. Prone to lead with emotion over reason.”
You give him a look. “You just described half the castle.”
“Fittingly,” he continues as though you haven’t spoken, tracing the curve of your hand, “your strongest trait is loyalty—not easy to win, but harder to lose. You’re not the kind to give up on people. Even when you should.”
His fingers slide to the base of your palm, brushing against the centre, soft and steady. It doesn’t tickle. It unsettles you. Ominis’s head tilts again, as if listening for something in the silence between your pulses. His touch sends little electrical shocks from your fingertips all the way down to your toes.
“I feel a long head line,” he continues. “You think too much. Something has happened recently that occupies your mind. And here,” his voice drops just slightly, “a fork. A major one. You’re always turning things over in your mind, imagining every outcome before the first move is made. It it a gift, but it keeps you up at night, doesn’t it? The weight of ‘what if’s?”
You resist the urge to withdrawn from his hold. Sensing this, Ominis’s hold gets firmer—not harder, not harsher. Just a slight change of pressure of his thumb and index finger against your wrist that keeps you perfectly still in his hands.
“Your fate line is slightly broken—here, around this point. That means something, or someone, changed your path. Someone you thought you understood. Someone who might be surprising you now.” He frowns. “I’m not sure what the next bit means. Trials and suffering. But happiness, too? So, you’re going to suffer, but you’re going to be happy about it?”
“Thanks, Gaunt.”
“Ten points to Slytherin,” comes Professor Onai’s voice suddenly, and you both jerk back—you didn’t even notice how close you two have been leaning toward each other.
Ominis withdraws instantly, elegant as ever, folding his hands neatly in his lap as if nothing has happened. A quiet mask falls back over his face, unruffled and composed.
“I can tell you have a gift for … seeing what most people don’t, Mister Gaunt. A rare talent, one you hopefully nurture over the next three years,” Professor Onai says, turning to you now. “If I may lift the remaining mist to allow clarity.”
She asks for your hand like a valorous knight might ask for a noble maiden’s hand and by the unspoken laws of courtesy, you oblige. For a moment, she just looks at your open palm. And blanches. For you, the whole room stills. Sound recedes like a tide pulled too far back. Then, gently, she folds your fingers inward, closing your hand in hers, cradling it like a small, frightened bird she means to protect from a harsh storm.
“There is a line,” she says softly, almost to herself. Her eyes take on the misty veil of remembrance. “A line that doe not end where it should. It forks instead into … grief.” Her thumb traces your knuckles absently, grounding you, though her gaze is lost in something far beyond—in memory.
“I see loss, my child. Wilting flowers. The sun disappearing behind black clouds. A thread snaps where it once anchored you.” She hesitates, falters. “And something older still. A bond, severed centuries ago, now rekindled to life. Two destinies twined not by fate, but by death. It is an inheritance of power. But not without its price.”
She straightens, collecting herself—forces her mind back to the present and away from whatever memory held her captive. The pads of her fingertips burn against your icy fingers.
You stand up abruptly, feeling as if the world is tilting and you are clinging on helplessly, trying to keep from tumbling into a black abyss. You can feel the shadows closing in.
As your mind reels to come up with something—fight (you can hardly knock out a Professor without being expelled) or flight (lesson isn’t done yet, would you get into detention if you just faked a heart attack to get out?), you try to find the only person that offers some form of sense. Black curls, grey, scheming eyes. You count the green-robed students, and come up one head missing.
Your mind has first been so occupied with the game tomorrow, then holding yourself back from throttling Sallow that only now you notice: Callum isn’t here.