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It’s cold in Azkaban.
Anne was so pleased to receive your owl, so delighted to hear from you. Of course she was. She loves him. Even if she can’t bear to look at him. Even if she hasn’t visited him once. You might have loved him, you think, if not for everything that happened. You’ve tried to tell her that it was for her benefit, that he was only ever in her service. At least she arranged the meeting for you. You remember her cold hands, the weakness in her smile. You remember him.
He wasn’t evil, he wasn’t cruel. That much you know. He just…
You sigh as you step down the dark stone hallways, leading you deeper into the pit of the prison. The very air seemed to suffocate you, to pull you downward. Perhaps it was just the dementors. You hate the thought of him succumbing to their cruelty. You hate that he’s been down here all these years, alone without Anne, without Ominis. Without you.
It was a mistake.
The hallways are wet with something you can’t decide is water, and the moans of the convicted and the desperate fall all around you. He is one of them, somewhere. You don’t even know if you’re going to recognize him. It’s good that you came with a guide, silent and foreboding though it is. Your wand is at the ready by your side, patronus ready to be cast at even a hint of aggression from the guard.
It doesn’t speak as it ushers you to his cell, gliding gently past the door. It feels your sorrow. You know it does, because you feel it’s hunger scraping at the edges of your soul, waiting for the wrong move to be made, waiting for an excuse…
His dark eyes raise to meet yours, the light of recognition immediate. He’s slouched on the floor of his cell, one arm propped on his knee. You don’t know if he’s going to lunge at you, or weep, or both.
“It’s… you.”
“Sebastian,” is all you can bear to say, and he very nearly flinches at the sound of his own name. It was a mistake. It was such a mistake.
He’s looking at you with those eyes, those dark and knowing eyes. For the very first time, you might be afraid of him.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, but the words barely come out. You’re kneeling down, clutching the bars like a life raft. The dementor moves closer. You can almost feel its cloak, whispering at your back.
“And Anne?” he asks bitterly, ignoring the apology and averting his gaze. You’re at once relieved, and anguished — you had never known what it was to miss his eyes meeting yours.
“She’s lovely, as always.”
“Is she—Is she alright…?”
“We’re still trying. Ominis and I, we…” He pulls backward, recoiling in on himself. Chestnut hair falls over his face, further darkened in the cell. There’s no light here. He doesn’t look like Sebastian. “We’re following the traces. Trying to find a magic that can help her.”
His gaze lifts to you again, lighter now. You hate to give him hope, but it’s all you have to give. The flashes and sparks of ancient magic are ripe in Azkaban, but you’ll find no cure here, nothing living or helpful to those who yet live. Your quest has taken you across the continent, across countrysides. Ominis won’t speak of him, but you know he misses him. Like you, Ominis wishes he had done more. Like you, he wished he had stopped him. Anne sends owls regularly, and you’re almost friends. It’s almost like things are… normal.
“Sebastian… I should have never turned you in. I should have let the truth die in that cave. I’m so sorry,” you say. You’re no angel; Victor Rookwood’s rotting corpse would agree.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, the hint of a grin playing at his lips. He rises from his spot on the floor, approaching the bars. “I always had a knack for getting into trouble.”
You hate the way he says it. Like he’s already dead. Being sentenced to a place like this, you understand why his voice is cracked and cold, why he’s only a shell of the boy you knew. You miss the warmth in his gaze, the classes spent exchanging secret smiles. The late night walks through the Grand Hall, running from prefects and laughing breathlessly in darkened corridors.
“You never deserved… this. You were trying to save her.” You clutch the bars, willing him to come closer, though you don’t know what you’ll do if he does. Sebastian complies, shifting toward you like the inferi you brought down in the cave. His cold fingers close around yours, a shock to the warmth and health in your hands. You remember the summer when you first met, the night in the library.
How he’d taken the fall for you.
After all, you weren’t blameless in all this, were you? The killing curse had coursed through your wand as well, summoned by your own lips. Poachers, goblins, and even Victor, dead by your own hand. Yet here was Sebastian, taking the fall for his uncle. Your greatest mistake.
“I did deserve it. I took things too far with Solomon.” He turns over his hands shakily. “And Anne…”
“She understands,” You lie. “She will, someday.”
You close your palms around his pale hands, willing your warmth to pass through him. He shudders at the unfamiliar touch, practically hanging against the cell door. The dementor hisses behind you, a final warning.
“Sebastian,” you whisper. Your voice is a caress, an apology. A regret. “I’m so sorry.”
You begin to feel the magic course through you again, the ancient traces in Azkaban swirling around you like a tempest. You wonder if the dementor can sense it, too. Sebastian is the first to notice it, perhaps by the warmth in your hands. Or the look in your eyes. He stumbles backward, half shocked and half in fear. No one had seen your strength, the way he had — not since Fig. The tears are already beginning to stream down your face. The dementor is whirling on you, preparing to strike.
You don’t need a patronus, you think, as you lift your hands. The magic waits at the tips of your fingers, suspended for but a moment before releasing. The cell doors blast apart around you.