Chapter Text
Sebastian drank the last of his Firewhiskey. His only company was the wind whistling through the new cottage he’d built in Feldcroft — built for him and her. It had been a year since she left. Since the explosion of her magic. Since the Repository’s power had taken hold of her and ripped her away with a single, shattering truth: She couldn’t stay. Not when staying meant hurting him more.
But what hurt Sebastian more than any wild surge of magic was the hollow space she’d left behind in his chest.
“I miss you,” he muttered into the empty room. His voice cracked. “Fuck. I miss you so much, love.”
The Firewhiskey didn’t numb it. Nothing did. He passed out in the armchair by the fire, chasing the warmth she’d taken with her.
When the cry woke him, it didn’t feel real.
Sebastian jerked upright, head pounding. He blinked at the soft wail echoing through the cottage — a sound so out of place in these walls built for ghosts and memories. In the middle of the room, where there had only been dust and empty dreams, sat a bassinette. Small. Pale blue trim. Rocking ever so slightly.
Beside it, a worn leather bag. And a letter.
Sebastian stumbled to his feet, heart hammering. He reached for the parchment first, hands trembling, eyes darting to the tiny shape inside the cradle — their baby. Their baby.
The letter smelled faintly of her. He unfolded it, each word a blade pressed to his ribs.
⸻
Sebastian,
My love…
This is Sage. Our daughter. She’s four months old now. When I left, I didn’t know I was carrying her. I tried — Merlin, I tried to come back to you — but my condition… it hasn’t gotten better. My magic is still a storm I can’t hold back. I’m not fit to take care of her. She is not safe with me.
She deserves better than a mother like me. She deserves a father like you.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you both. I love you so much.
Yours, always.
MC
⸻
Sebastian sank to his knees, the letter slipping from his grasp. Sage let out another soft cry — not of pain, just the small, innocent sound of life. He inched closer, hands hovering above her tiny form. She was bundled up warm, chubby fists waving, eyes blinking up at him like he was the whole world.
Sebastian’s throat tightened. His heart, so numb for so long, felt like it was splintering wide open. He reached into the bassinette with trembling fingers, brushing her cheek. She cooed, eyelids fluttering.
“Hi, little love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s here.”
He pressed his forehead to her tiny head, tears falling freely. “I’ve got you. I swear to Merlin, I’ve got you now.”
He scooped her up, careful as if she were spun glass. Sage fit so perfectly in his arms, tiny fists curling against his chest, head nuzzling the hollow of his shoulder. She looked so much like her mother — that same stubborn mouth, that soft down of hair, those eyes still blinking open to this new, strange world.
His world now.
With one hand, he dragged the leather bag closer and unbuckled the flap. It was bigger inside — of course it was. She’d thought of everything, even when she was falling apart.
Inside: tiny clothes folded with care. Blankets embroidered with S. Sallow in delicate thread. Bottles. Formula. Small vials of baby-safe potions. He found a satchel inside, charmed cold — he peeked inside and his chest caved in at the sight of carefully labeled pouches of milk. Each one marked with a date, a small note in her handwriting — for when she fusses, for when she can’t sleep.
And a jar of burn cream.
Sebastian’s breath caught. He turned Sage gently, heart hammering. There — on her upper arm, half-hidden under her sleeve — a faint, healing burn. Just enough to break him all over again.
He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to the soft fuzz of her hair. His voice was hoarse, a vow meant for the walls, for the night, for the memory of the woman who had left him this piece of her heart.
“Your mum loves us, little Sage.” He rocked her gently, the words catching in his throat. “She didn’t mean it. She never would. She loves you. She loves me. And we’ll wait for her, yeah? We’ll wait right here. When she’s ready…”
Sage made a soft sound, a tiny sigh against his collarbone. Sebastian let the tears come. He’d waited this long — he’d wait forever if he had to. For her. For the family they were supposed to be.
The next morning, Anne came the moment Sebastian’s owl reached her. She barely knocked — just barged in, robes half-fastened, hair still damp from the morning chill.
She found Sebastian by the hearth, coaxing Sage with soft, desperate murmurs, bouncing her in his arms as her tiny cries cracked through the quiet cottage.
“Oh, Merlin.” Anne pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “You weren’t lying. I thought you’d finally lost it — all that Firewhiskey, you drink it like water, Sebastian—”
“I was not hallucinating,” Sebastian shot back, voice frayed but light with the relief of not being alone. “But she— she won’t stop crying, Anne. She won’t drink. She—” His voice broke as Sage let out another hiccupping wail.
Anne crossed the room, her healer’s instincts snapping into place. She bent down, cooing softly. “Hello, dear. Hello, little Sage. You’re alright. You’ve got your daft father here, don’t you?”
“Anne—” Sebastian’s shoulders dropped. “I warmed it like the note said — the milk — I did everything—”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Anne said firmly, taking the bottle from him. “Some babies are sensitive to temperature, you have to keep it just right. She’s used to her mum’s warmth — here—” She turned the bottle around and smirked. “Merlin’s sake, Sebastian, she left you a note on the back — ‘Keep warm, always’.”
“Oh.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, dark circles like bruises under his eyes. “Yeah. Merlin.”
“Here. I know just the charm.” Anne tapped her wand, murmured something soft, and a gentle glow spread through the bottle. She tested it on her wrist, then pressed it to Sage’s lips.
Sage sniffled, eyes fluttering — then latched on, drinking greedily, hiccups fading to tiny sighs.
Sebastian let out a ragged breath, sinking onto the sofa beside Anne. “Oh, Merlin.”
Anne settled next to him, leaning her head on the back of the couch, watching him watch his daughter. The fire crackled. Sage’s tiny gulps filled the silence, soft and steady.
“…Will you be alright?” Anne asked after a while, voice gentle.
Sebastian didn’t answer at first. He just looked down at the small miracle in his arms — this warm weight, her little hand grasping his thumb. He swallowed hard.
“…I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s… it’s overwhelming. But when I think about her — about MC doing this alone, with her magic the way it is — I should be doing better.” He kissed Sage’s forehead, a ghost of a smile breaking through the exhaustion. “She didn’t deserve that. Sage didn’t either.”
Anne slipped her hand over his, squeezing. “Well. You’re not alone. If the milk runs out, I know mothers at St. Mungo’s who’d be happy to spare some. She’ll have what she needs.”
“Thank you, Anne.” His voice cracked. He let out a shuddering laugh. “…I’m so bloody overwhelmed. But—” He looked down at Sage, her lashes fluttering, her mouth still working at the bottle. “This is the brightest morning I’ve had since she left.”
Anne smiled. “She’d be proud of you, you know.”
Sebastian just nodded, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, as he held tight to the small, precious piece of the woman he still loved — and the life they’d made together.
___
Word spread fast in Feldcroft — faster than fire in dry grass. The villagers caught wind of the baby almost overnight. Sebastian had half-expected the usual nosy whispers, but what came instead was warmth he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
Old Agnes dropped off a basket of knitted hats and blankets. The twins from the farm up the hill left a stuffed Puffskein on his porch with a note scrawled in childish handwriting: For your baby. Hope she laughs a lot. Even the local shopkeeper, gruff and stingy as ever, waved him off when Sebastian tried to pay for more baby formula.
It surprised him, how the hamlet rallied around him. Around Sage. They’d known her mother too — the girl with the strange power, the one Sebastian had loved loud enough for everyone to see. And maybe they remembered that love when they left fresh bread at his door, or warm stew when they knew he’d forgotten to eat.
Anne came by every few days, a steady presence. She’d bring bottles of milk from mothers at St. Mungo’s, share the gossip she knew would distract him, teach him how to swaddle Sage tighter when she fussed through the night.
Sebastian took leave from the Auror Office — something he hadn’t done in years. Work could wait. His daughter couldn’t. He learned how to rock her just right, how to hum soft lullabies that sometimes turned into half-choked pleas for her mother to come home.
At night, when the hamlet quieted and the hearth glowed soft, Sebastian would lay Sage on his chest and show her the small collection of photos he kept. A candid one of MC laughing in the sun. One of them together by the Feldcroft spring, his arms around her waist, her smile pressed to his temple.
He’d trace the edge of the photo with his finger, then tuck it against Sage’s tiny hand.
“That’s your mum, little love. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she? She’s strong. Brave. You’ve got her eyes — stubborn, too, I can already tell.”
Sage would giggle, reaching for the picture with her chubby fingers. Sometimes she’d babble nonsense at the fire, like she could see her mother there, hidden in the flicker of flame and memory. Sebastian’s heart would clench so tight he’d feel like he couldn’t breathe.
“She loves you,” he’d whisper into the down of her hair. “She loves us both. She’ll come home one day. And when she does… you’ll know her. I’ll make sure of it.”
He pressed his lips to Sage’s soft crown, her giggles the brightest sound in that quiet cottage built for ghosts, now echoing with life instead.
******
MONTHS LATER
Sebastian woke with the dawn pressing gold through the cottage windows. He reached out on instinct — hand brushing the edge of Sage’s crib at his side. His heart dropped. Empty. The small door on the crib’s side swung wide, the latch he’d been meaning to reinforce dangling loose.
Panic punched through the haze of sleep.
“Sage!” His voice cracked as he scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. “Sage! Love — where are you, sweetheart?”
Silence, then — a giggle. High and bright, outside.
He tore to the door, throwing it open so hard it rattled on its hinges. The morning air bit at his skin, crisp with the bite of early autumn. There she was — Sage, bundled in her warm little coat, plopped in the middle of the garden path. She was pointing with a chubby finger, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, eyes wide with wonder.
“Dada!” she squealed. Her other hand slapped the side of a big, sturdy wooden box — the lid propped open. A note fluttered on top, held down by a small stuffed Kneazle.
He plucked the note free with trembling fingers. The familiar handwriting made his throat close.
Happy birthday, my love.
No other words. No sign of her. Just her shadow in the autumn wind.
Inside the box: toys, baby books, warm clothes, soft blankets stitched with dancing stars. Every little thing a one-year-old could want — things he’d been saving up for slowly, penny by penny. All of it here now, in a single box overflowing with her mother’s love.
Sebastian’s chest cracked open, something raw and grateful bleeding through the ache. He scooped Sage up, holding her tight as she giggled and wriggled against his shoulder.
He stepped onto the porch, Sage warm in his arms. He looked down the path, hoping — praying — to catch a glimpse of her. Of that familiar figure in a cloak, maybe standing at the edge of the trees, watching them.
But there was only the rustle of leaves, the hush of the world waking up.
“Love…” His whisper faded into the wind. “Come home. Please.”
Sage tugged at his ear with a wet giggle, unaware of the storm in his chest. He kissed her temple, breathing her in like he could anchor himself to the moment — this moment she’d given them, this gift that said I see you. I love you. I’m still here.
He carried Sage back inside, her tiny arms locked tight around his neck, her chubby legs kicking with excitement. He nudged the big box in with his foot, setting it down by the hearth where the morning light pooled like gold.
Sage wiggled free the moment her feet touched the rug, squealing with delight as she scrambled straight to the box. Little fingers dove into the pile of soft blankets and bright wooden toys, pulling out a book and then dropping it for a stuffed dragon, all giggles and happy babble.
Sebastian knelt beside her, catching her little hands before she could tip the whole box over. “You little gremlin,” he said, voice soft with amusement, brushing a wild curl from her forehead. “Don’t go outside without your Dada, alright? You gave me a bloody heart attack.”
Sage just looked up at him with those big eyes — her eyes — and babbled, “Dadaaaa…” Then she threw herself forward, hugging the box like it held all the secrets of the universe.
Sebastian laughed under his breath, though it was rough around the edges, stretched thin by love and the ache he carried for her mother. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “We’ll eat breakfast right here on the floor, shall we? Before you tear into your mum’s gifts and lose half the pieces under the sofa.”
Sage squealed in triumph, patting the side of the box like it was alive.
Sebastian settled cross-legged on the rug, pulling Sage into his lap. He Summoned their breakfast — leftover bread, a bit of cheese, and fruit he’d chopped last night after she’d fallen asleep. Not fancy, but enough.
He fed her little bites as she wiggled and pointed at each new toy, babbling nonsense that sounded, to him, like the sweetest words he’d ever hear.
Between giggles, he caught her tiny hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Your mum loves you so much,” he murmured, more to himself than to Sage. He squeezed her close, breathing her in — warm, real, his. “And I love you more than life, little love. More than anything.”
Sage just giggled again, mouth full of bread, sticky fingers grabbing for the stuffed dragon she’d decided was her favorite.
And so they stayed — breakfast on the floor, sunlight warming the cold edges of that lonely cottage, hope tucked into the cracks like wildflowers growing through stone.
____
St. Mungo’s
“Alright, Sage, open wide — say ahhh!” Anne said brightly, her wand hovering near Sage’s mouth.
“Ahhhhhh…” Sage squealed, showing off her tiny teeth, fists planted on Sebastian’s shoulders as she perched on his lap.
“Good girl,” Anne praised, tapping her nose. Sage giggled and squirmed, hiding her face in Sebastian’s collar.
“She’s healthy,” Anne said, straightening up, jotting something down on a scrap of parchment. “Keep doing what you’re doing — but, Merlin’s sake, Sebastian, do not let the villagers sneak her any more fudge or pumpkin pastries. Too many sweets for a one-year-old—”
Sebastian huffed. “I don’t! It’s the villagers — every time I turn my back, there’s a biscuit in her mouth.”
Anne barked a soft laugh, shaking her head. “They haven’t changed. Old Agnes slipped me licorice when we were kids, remember? Broke a tooth on it.”
She took Sage’s little arm next, gentle fingers prodding the soft skin where the faint burn had once been. The mark was barely a shadow now, wrapped in fresh baby-soft skin.
“Hmm. Healed well,” Anne murmured. “The salve is doing its job. It won’t disappear completely, but it’ll be barely noticeable when she’s older.”
Sebastian let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he pressed a kiss to Sage’s temple. Sage just babbled nonsense back, fascinated with Anne’s shiny healer badge.
Anne looked up at Sebastian — really looked — and laid her hand over his forearm, her thumb rubbing slow circles. “Sebastian…”
He dropped his gaze, the smile slipping. “…Just — I worry for her, Anne. MC. Her condition — her magic. If she was alright, she’d come home by now, wouldn’t she? She’d be here. And when I’m at the Office — even then I miss Sage so much, I can’t stand to be apart from her for more than a shift. I can’t imagine…” His voice cracked, low and rough. “…I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. Not being with Sage. Not being with us.”
Anne’s eyes softened, the lines around them pinching as she squeezed his arm. “I know.” She glanced at Sage, who was blowing spit bubbles and grinning at them like nothing in the world was wrong. “She’s the strongest person we know, Sebastian. She’s trying to protect you both in the only way she can right now. If there’s a way back — she’ll find it.”
Sebastian kissed Sage’s hair again, breathing her in like an anchor. He didn’t say anything more — just nodded, eyes shining with a hope he was afraid to name out loud.
_____
Diagon Alley always felt too loud after St. Mungo’s — the clatter of footsteps, the rush of robes, the distant hum of shopkeepers calling out specials. But Sebastian barely noticed any of it. All he could focus on was the soft sniffles of Sage in his arms, her little fists gripping the collar of his cloak like he might vanish if she let go.
“Oh, come on, love…” he murmured, bouncing her gently against his chest as he weaved through the crowd. “You had to drink that potion. It’s for your health, you stubborn little thing. Would you rather have had the needle like the older boy did, hm?”
“Nooo…” Sage whined, burying her splotchy face against his neck, her breath hiccuping against his skin.
He huffed a laugh, pressing a kiss to her warm forehead. “Thought so. Now,” he said, tipping his head so she could see the shop fronts lining the cobbled street, “Dada will make up for that awful bitter potion with cake, yeah? A nice slice of chocolate — just don’t tell Auntie Anne or she’ll hex me.”
“‘Kay…” she sniffed, voice small but hopeful.
He rounded the corner, the familiar tea shop with its bright windows already in sight — but something prickled at the back of his neck. He froze mid-step, adjusting Sage higher on his hip. His Auror instincts flared — the faintest shift of a shadow across the stone wall behind a stack of crates. Too steady. Too still. Watching.
“Dada?” Sage’s voice was a little whisper against his jaw.
Sebastian forced a smile, eyes scanning the alley without turning his head. Calm. Don’t spook her. Don’t spook them. “It’s nothing, little love,” he murmured, pressing her closer.
He stepped into the tea shop, the warm air wrapping around them like a blanket. He turned just as the bell jingled behind him, catching a final flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye — a cloak vanishing behind a pillar, gone in the blink of an eye.
He pressed his lips to Sage’s temple again, her small hand fisting in his hair. “We’re alright,” he whispered, though his pulse thundered in his throat.
Sage didn’t understand. She just looked up at him with her wide, tear-bright eyes and pointed at the pastries in the glass case.
“Kay Dada.”
He laughed — a thin, raw sound — and kissed her cheek. “Yeah, alright, little gremlin. Cake it is.”
******
Another year had slipped through Sebastian’s fingers like sand. Sage was two now — taller, chattier, a little force of nature that left the cottage warm in all the ways it hadn’t been for so long. And like clockwork, when her birthday came, there was a box on the porch before dawn — toys, tiny cloaks sewn with star patterns, books full of dragons and moonlit adventures. But never a letter, just a note that wishes her a happy birthday. Never her mother’s face at the door. Just proof that somewhere, somehow, she was still watching them from the shadows.
Today, Sebastian’s boots crunched along the familiar path to the little Feldcroft daycare, his mind still half on the Auror paperwork he’d left scattered across his desk. He hated being late — the pit in his stomach never failed when he pictured Sage waiting for him, that wide hopeful smile dimming each second he wasn’t there.
He turned the corner by the old garden wall and spotted her straight away — perched on a bench beside Ms. Daisy, the kindly witch who ran the place with a patient hand and a bag of sweets always tucked in her pocket.
“Sage!” he called, voice warm despite the bite of the wind.
“Daddy!” she squealed, flinging her chubby arms wide. He scooped her up as if she weighed nothing, burying his face in her hair that still smelled faintly of biscuits and the lavender Ms. Daisy liked to dab behind the children’s ears.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, love. I missed you so much.” He glanced at the older witch. “Ms. Daisy, I’m sorry — work ran over again, I—”
“Oh, hush now,” Ms. Daisy said, waving him off with a soft laugh. “You Aurors keep our little hamlet safe. I’d rather have you chasing down dark wizards than watching the clock.”
He breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you. Really. She’s a handful, I know.”
“Oh, she’s an angel, Sebastian,” Ms. Daisy said, smiling fondly at Sage, who was now squirming in his arms, tugging at something in her hair.
“Look, Daddy!” Sage said, proudly holding out her tiny fist. “Clip!”
“Clip?” He furrowed his brow, brushing a curl away from her face to see — there, nestled by her temple, was a delicate hair clip. Silver filigree shaped like a blooming moonflower. It glittered in the late afternoon sun — too fine, too new.
Sebastian’s stomach twisted. He knew every clip, every ribbon she owned. He’d spent countless nights on the cottage floor sorting them into boxes and cursing the ones that snagged her curls. This one wasn’t his.
“Where’d you get this, little love?” he asked softly, smoothing the clip with his thumb.
“Pretty lady!” Sage chirped, nodding so hard the clip nearly fell out. “Pretty lady gave Sage clip. Said ‘stay pretty for Daddy’.”
Ms. Daisy leaned in, peering over her spectacles. “Hmm… that’s curious. I don’t recall any visitors this afternoon — certainly not anyone dressed to be handing out something like this. It’s… well, that looks expensive, Sebastian.”
He felt the blood rush in his ears, a faint roar beneath Sage’s delighted babble. Pretty lady. Stay pretty for Daddy. He could see her, clear as day, standing just beyond the fence, hidden in the shadows of the old trees — close enough to tuck a clip into her daughter’s hair, but not brave enough to step through the gate.
He swallowed hard, pulling Sage tight against his chest. “Thank you, Ms. Daisy,” he murmured. His voice was steady, but his heart hammered so loud he was sure Sage could feel it.
“You alright, dear?” Ms. Daisy asked, touching his arm.
He managed a small, raw smile. “Yeah. Just… I’ll get her home.” He pressed another kiss to Sage’s hair, breathing in the faintest trace of wildflowers he hadn’t smelled in years.
Later that evening, the cottage smelled of warm stew and sweet rolls — two dinners, of course, because Sage had decided tonight she was twice as hungry as usual. Sebastian had long given up trying to ration out portions for her. If she wanted seconds, she got seconds.
He stood at the sink now, sleeves rolled up, steam curling around his hands as he washed the last of the bowls. Over his shoulder, he watched his daughter twirling in front of the small mirror by the hearth — the delicate silver hair clip glittering like moonlight against her dark curls, her little dress spinning out around her knees.
One of the dresses her mother had sent. Hand-stitched. Tiny embroidered flowers dancing around the hem.
“Sweetheart…” Sebastian called softly, scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the ladle. “If you want to wear that dress tomorrow, you shouldn’t get it dirty tonight.”
Sage just twirled faster, giggling at her reflection. She stopped, tipping her head to the side, hair clip catching the lamplight. “Sage is pretty,” she declared proudly, lifting her chin. “Pretty like Mama!”
Sebastian’s chest tightened. He set the ladle down, drying his hands on a rag as he crossed the room. He knelt by her, smoothing the skirts of the little dress, careful of the clip that meant more than Sage could ever know.
“Yes, you are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her soft cheek. “You’re just like your Mama. Pretty. Brave. Stubborn as a Hungarian Horntail.”
She giggled, not understanding the weight of it — just happy to be called her mother’s child.
Later, after teeth were brushed and Sage insisted on one more story (and then one more after that), he tucked her into her toddler bed beside his. She was almost too long for it now — little feet nearly touching the edge. He made a mental note to start saving, to build her a big girl bed in her own little room. A room she could fill with all the love she carried in her laugh.
“Night-night, Daddy,” she murmured, half-asleep already.
“Night-night, little love.” He brushed his knuckles across her warm cheek. “Dream sweet dreams of Mama, yeah?”
She hummed, thumb slipping into her mouth as her eyes drifted shut.
When the cottage had gone quiet — just the soft pop of the embers in the hearth and the sigh of the wind outside — Sebastian sat at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea in his hands. He hadn’t touched Firewhiskey since the night Sage arrived. Not a single drop. She was all the warmth he needed now.
Still, his eyes drifted to the window. To the shadows beyond the frost-flecked glass. Hoping. Wishing. Imagining the brush of a cloak, the silhouette of the woman who haunted every corner of this house, even now.
His voice barely broke the hush of the room.
“Love… come home.” He closed his eyes, pressing the rim of the mug to his lips like a prayer. “Please. Come home.”
But the wind didn’t answer. Just the faint giggle of Sage in her sleep — dreaming of a mother who loved her so much she stayed hidden in the dark.
******
Another year slipped by on the winds that battered Feldcroft’s fields. Sage was three now — all wild curls and cheeky smiles, a tiny hurricane in her pink boots. Trouble seemed to follow her like a loyal Kneazle, and Sebastian, for all his Auror training, had learned he was no match for a three-year-old with her mother’s cunning grin.
“Sage Sallow!” he barked, half-laughing, half-mortified as he dashed after her down the lane. “You give that back right now!”
Sage squealed with mischief, bare legs flashing under her flowery skirt, her small hand clutching the baker’s unfortunate toupee like it was some priceless relic. The poor old man’s shouts drifted behind them as Sebastian sprinted to catch up, bread loaf abandoned on the stall counter.
“You little gremlin—!” he huffed, closing the gap. “Sage—”
She didn’t hear him. She’d already skidded to a halt at the edge of the town square, the stolen toupee forgotten, slipping from her grasp onto the cobblestones.
Sebastian slowed, his chest heaving, confusion replacing his exasperation when he saw her frozen there — small shoulders squared, curls bouncing as she tilted her head.
“Sage?” he called, softer now.
She didn’t turn. Her eyes — so much like hers — were locked on the sight in front of the fountain: a young mother perched on a bench, blanket spread across her knees. In her arms, a tiny newborn, blinking up at the morning sun as the woman hummed something sweet and low.
For a moment, the square seemed to hold its breath. Children laughed by the old well. Villagers traded gossip near the bakery. But Sage stood still as stone, staring.
“…Sage?” Sebastian reached her side, hand brushing her shoulder. She leaned against his leg, small fingers curling around his coat hem but her gaze never leaving the mother and child.
“Baby,” Sage whispered. Her voice was so small it hurt. “Mama’s baby.”
Sebastian’s throat closed. He sank into a crouch beside her, pulling her into the circle of his arms. “No, little love,” he murmured against her hair, voice raw with the truth he could never hide. “No… that’s not Mama’s baby. That’s their baby. Mama’s baby is you.”
Sage blinked, lashes wet, confusion and something deeper stirring behind those wide eyes. She looked up at him, her small hands pressing to his cheeks as if she could anchor herself there. “Mama… see Sage?”
Sebastian’s chest cracked. He glanced up — half-expecting to see a figure beyond the fountain, tucked into the shadows as always. But there was only the sun, the breeze, and the echo of a woman who loved them enough to stay gone.
He kissed Sage’s forehead, holding her tight. “She sees you, sweetheart. Always.” His voice broke. “Always, always, always.”
The mother on the bench cooed at her baby, rocking them gently. Sage pressed her face into Sebastian’s collar, and for a moment he wished he could press the world back into shape — to wrap her mother around her like a blanket, to stitch that missing piece back where it belonged.
But all he could do was hold her, the warm weight of his daughter heavy in his arms — proof that hope could still grow in the hollows of a heart that refused to stop waiting.
Auror Office
“Sallow.” The Head Auror’s voice cut through the droning clack of quills and the low hum of conversation in the corridor. Sebastian paused, half-turning from his cluttered desk. “You should take on more of the harder assignments. Dark magic cases — even the bigger cross-border operations. You’ve got the skill for it, and it’ll shoot you up for a promotion. Might even put you on the shortlist for Head Auror one day.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He looked down at the report he’d just signed — minor magical theft, nothing complicated. Easy. Safe. Safe.
“I can’t, sir.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “My daughter… Sage. She’s three. I don’t have anyone to leave her with. I need to get home on time. In one piece. Every day.”
The Head Auror studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got so much potential, Sallow. But I understand. Family’s family.”
Sebastian didn’t trust himself to say more. He just nodded, snapped his case folder shut, and left before his heart could betray the worry always thrumming under his ribs.
⸻
Outside, the London air was cold, sharp with the promise of rain. He tugged his coat tighter around himself, boots echoing on the wet cobbles as he headed for the Floo that would take him back to Feldcroft. It’s fine, he told himself. Easy. Simple. Get her. Take her home. Safe.
But the thought wouldn’t leave him. His work — the dangers that lurked just around every corner. If something ever happened to him, Sage would have no one.
His chest tightened as the daycare came into view — the tidy white fence, the toys scattered in the yard. But his steps faltered when he saw a woman he didn’t recognize, locking the gate with brisk, unfamiliar movements.
He frowned, pulse ticking up. “Excuse me?”
The woman turned, surprised. She looked young — mid-twenties, maybe — with a kind, apologetic smile and a satchel slipping from her shoulder. “Oh! Hello. Are you one of the parents? I’m Ms. Daisy’s niece — she wasn’t feeling well today, so she asked me to look after the children.”
Sebastian’s frown deepened. Ms. Daisy had never mentioned family before. He forced a polite nod, though his stomach churned. “I see. Well — I’m here for my daughter.”
She brightened. “Oh, of course! Marie, right? Lovely girl—”
“No.” His tone cracked sharper than he meant. “Not Marie. Sage. Sage Sallow.”
Confusion flickered across her face. “Sage…?” She shuffled through the sign-out ledger clutched in her hand, lips moving soundlessly. “But — I — I’m sorry, sir, but your wife already picked her up.”
The world seemed to tilt under him. Wife. The word landed like a curse. He stepped closer, too close, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “What did you say?”
She flinched, the ledger nearly slipping from her hands. “A woman! She signed her out — she said she was Sage’s mother, she— she had papers. I remember she had a scar—”
Sebastian’s heart stopped. His mouth went dry. Scar.
“My wife doesn’t have a scar,” he hissed, every muscle locked tight. His mind raced — faces he’d seen in shadows, rumors of dark witches stealing children for coin, people who knew he worked for the Ministry— No. No, no, no.
“I— I don’t know, sir,” the girl stammered. “She— she seemed so kind, and Sage went with her, she didn’t fuss—”
Sebastian’s hands fisted at his sides, knuckles bone-white. His vision tunneled, the world dissolving into the thunder of his heartbeat.
“Where did they go? How long?” Sebastian barked, his breath ragged, his mind already tearing through every horrible possibility.
The young caretaker flinched, clutching the ledger to her chest. “O-only an hour ago, sir. She — the lady — she said she was taking Sage into the village. I thought—”
But he didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving. Boots pounding down the worn path, heart a wild thing in his chest. Please, gods — let it be her. Let it be true. Let it be real this time.
The village came into view in the wash of early dusk — chimneys puffing lazy smoke, the last market stalls closing up for the day. And there — through the hedgerow that marked the lane to his cottage — he saw it: a thin trail of chimney smoke curling into the cold sky.
His chest clenched. His feet carried him faster than thought. He reached the old wooden door, breath harsh, ears ringing — and paused.
Inside, a giggle. Sage’s giggle. Soft, high, safe.
He flung the door open.
“Daddy!” Sage squealed from her place on the kitchen counter, tiny feet kicking against the cabinets. “Daddy! Mama’s home!”
For a heartbeat, the world stopped. He saw her — standing by the stove, back to him, hair loose and shining in the warm lamplight. A cloak draped over the chair, boots by the hearth — like she’d never been gone.
“…MC?” His voice was barely more than a breath, fragile with disbelief.
She turned. Gods — she turned. A little older, shadows under her eyes, a thin scar that ran from her right cheekbone down to the curve of her collarbone — but her smile was the same. That smile that had once built him whole again when he thought the world had taken everything.
“Hello, love…” Her voice cracked on the last word, her eyes shining in the hearth’s glow.
He crossed the room in three steps, hands trembling as he cupped her face — brushing his thumbs over the scar, the tear slipping free from the corner of her eye. He took in every change, every line, every proof she’d fought like hell to find her way back.
“I know,” she whispered, covering his hand with hers. “I know I look different. I got these… training to contain the Repository’s power. It fought me — but I fought harder. I can control it now, Sebastian. I swear to you — I even have this.” She lifted her wrist just enough for him to see the band of goblin silver snug against her skin — etched with runes that glowed faintly in the hearth light. “It locks the magic if it ever tries to surge. But it hasn’t. Not in months. I’m safe now. I can be with you — with our daughter — for real this time.”
He laughed, a rough, broken sound that shuddered through him. “You’re still as beautiful as the day I lost you.” His thumb brushed the curve of her mouth, the scar, the faint tremor at her jaw. “More, even. Gods, love — you came back…”
She opened her mouth — maybe to say more — but he was already pulling her in, pressing his lips to hers. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, clumsy with tears, his arms caging her against him like he’d die if he let her slip away again. She kissed him back just as fiercely — one hand fisting in his hair, the other cupping his jaw as if to feel every second of it.
When they broke apart, gasping, forehead to forehead, Sage giggled again — her tiny voice piping up behind them. “Mama’s home!” she squealed, clapping her hands.
MC laughed through her tears, pressing her cheek to Sebastian’s chest. “I’m home,” she whispered, voice steady now. “I’m really home.”
Sebastian buried his face in her hair, pulling Sage close too, their small family a tangled knot of arms and laughter and the soft crackle of the hearth behind them.
“Yes, you are,” he breathed, pressing kisses to her hair, her temple, the top of Sage’s head as she squealed in delight. “Yes you are, love. Welcome home.”