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The carriages had already gone.
Sebastian stood in the shadow of the main gate, trunk at his side, staring down the long path as it disappeared into the forest. The sun was sharp overhead, too bright for the way he felt. His robes were wrinkled. He hadn’t slept. Not really.
There hadn’t been a reason to board a carriage. Not when there was nowhere to go. He told himself he didn’t care. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his trunk, knuckles white. He didn’t look back at the castle. He couldn’t. Hogwarts had always been a place of wonder and safety, once. Then it became the place where everything fell apart.
Solomon. Anne.
He didn’t know what home meant anymore.
Boots crunched on the gravel behind him, slow and deliberate. He knew it was you before you even spoke. He didn’t turn.
“Staying behind?” you asked.
“Guess I am,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on the trees. “Not much use in taking a train when you don’t have a destination.”
He heard the pause in your step, the slight catch of breath like you were about to say something and then didn’t. He figured you’d tell him you were off to your parents,’ he’d assumed as much. You’d always spoken well of them.
So, when you said, “I’m heading back to Hogsmeade,” it knocked something loose in him.
He turned toward you, brows furrowed. “I thought you were going home.”
You gave a casual shrug, “didn’t really feel right. My parents won’t be home much anyways.”
He stared at you, unsure how to respond.
“Well,” he managed, trying for lightness. “Enjoy the quiet. Should be peaceful, at least.”
But then you stepped closer.
“There’s a second room,” you said.
His heart gave a thud in his chest. “What?”
You didn’t waver. “Above my shop. It’s small. Creaky floorboards. Bit of a nightmare, really. But it’s cozy. It’s safe. You wouldn’t owe me anything. You could just stay and keep me company.”
He stared. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
“I don’t want you to be alone,” you said, softly. Carefully.
His throat felt tight. Too tight.
You nudged your shoulder into his, easy and unbothered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll be there. It’ll be nice to have someone with me this summer. And you could help me and Penny with the shop.”
He wanted to say something, thank you, or no, or yes, but nothing came out.
“Are you sure?” he asked instead, voice barely above a rasp.
“Sebastian,” you said gently, “come with me.”
He felt like the ground could give beneath him, and he wouldn’t be surprised. This kindness, this offer, it didn’t feel like something he’d earned. After everything, how could you still look at him like this? Like he was worth saving?
He looked away quickly. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be…” He swallowed hard. “A mess.”
And then, without hesitation, you took his hand.
Your fingers laced into his, grounding him. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt your warmth.
“That’s alright,” you said, like it was simple.
He looked back at you. You weren’t afraid. Or impatient. Or pitying. His voice cracked when he said it, “Okay.”
You squeezed his hand. “Come on, then.”
He didn’t let go. You didn’t either. And as you turned together and walked away from the castle, sunlight trailing long shadows behind you, Sebastian realized, for the first time since he realized he had no home to return to, he didn’t feel completely alone.
Neither of you spoke on the way back to Hogsmeade.
You didn’t need to.
🐍
Sebastian stood just inside the doorway, trunk still in hand, taking in the narrow walls, the worn furniture, the faint smell of herbs, old books, and the sharp edge of dust hanging in warm light. It felt untouched by time. Lived in despite the fact that it must had sat vacant during your time at Hogwarts.
You’d pushed the door open with your shoulder, voice soft as you said, “Here we are.”
He didn’t answer.
He hadn’t said much in days, words felt clumsy in his mouth lately, too heavy, too revealing. So he kept quiet, eyes flicking across the room like he could memorize it, map every detail before someone told him it wasn’t his to remember.
You glanced back at him, voice gentler still. “It’s not grand. But it’s ours. I mean… mine. But... now yours too, I suppose. If you want it to be.”
Something tugged at his mouth. A flicker of a smile, small, brief, unsteady. He gave a shallow nod and stepped over the threshold.
The hallway was narrow, the wood floors creaking beneath each step as you led him to the spare room. The door groaned open, revealing a space that smelled like it hadn’t been used in months. It was simple, a small bed, a crooked desk, a folded quilt that looked lovingly old.
He took it in silently.
“You can rearrange it, if you want,” you offered. “Or take my room. I don’t mind.”
That snapped him out of it. His head turned toward you sharply.
“No. This is fine.” Too fast. Too firm. But he didn’t want you giving up anything else for him.
You nodded, watching him. He hated the way your gaze settled on him sometimes, kind, but careful, like you were waiting for him to shatter. Maybe you were. Maybe he already had.
He placed his trunk down in the corner and didn’t open it.
The silence stretched.
You shifted, hands twisting slightly in the hem of your sleeves. “I’ll… get started on dinner,” you said. “There’s not much in the pantry, but I can-”
“Don’t go to trouble,” he muttered. Reflexive. Guilt-laced.
“It’s no trouble, really.”
You left before he could find another excuse.
He stood alone in the small room for several long minutes, unsure what he was supposed to do. Sit? Unpack? Sleep? Breathe? Everything felt like it required more energy than he had.
Eventually, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. His hands trembled, faintly. He pressed them flat to his knees, trying to will them still.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember if he had.
But the smell of something cooking pulled him from his haze. He padded out into the hall barefoot, quiet, unsure if he was welcome or in the way.
You had set the table.
He blinked at it. You. He sat down. Ate very little. The vegetables were seasoned well. He couldn’t taste a thing.
You didn’t say anything about it.
Afterward, you cleared the plates. He stood there awkwardly, trying to guess if he should help, then fumbling with indecision until he ended up doing nothing. You turned at one point and caught him watching you. Not intensely. Just… observing. Grateful. A little lost.
“Thank you,” he said.
It surprised even him, the shape of the full sentence.
You smiled, small, steady. “Of course.”
He didn’t go to bed after that. Couldn’t. His mind was a locked room with the windows rattling, wind pushing through the cracks. He paced in the sitting room, each step quiet, measured, like walking might shake the thoughts loose.
It didn’t.
He eventually lay down, but sleep didn't come. His throat burned, eyes stung. The memories of everything that had happened creeping up. Solomon. Anne. Even Ominis had coldly left without even a goodbye. He turned his face into the pillow to muffle the sound of his breathing, sharp, uneven, too loud in the stillness.
He didn’t mean to cry. Not really. It just… happened. He didn’t think you’d hear him.
But you had. He heard you turn over on the other side of the wall. And then, quiet. Still. No questions. No footsteps. But he felt it anyway. Your presence. The way you stayed close without asking anything of him. The way your silence meant comfort, not absence.
He stared at the ceiling until the exhaustion finally took over.
🐍
The first thing he noticed was the rain.
Not loud. Not pounding. Just soft, steady, like fingertips tapping the windowpanes. Gentle, rhythmic. Summer rain.
The second thing he noticed was the silence.
No birdsong. No ticking clock. Just the sound of water and stillness.
For a moment, Sebastian forgot where he was.
Then it came back. Not all at once, but in pieces.
The cramped little room. The way the mattress creaked beneath his weight. The quiet breathing through the wall. The scent of tea and herbs lingering in the corners of the flat. The way you had looked at him the night before, steady, warm, not asking anything.
The sound he’d made, choking on guilt, too loud in the dark.
He sat up slowly, hands scrubbing over his face. His limbs felt heavy, like the air around him was thicker than it should be. He hadn’t meant to fall apart. Not here. Not in your space. But there’d been something about the way the silence held him, like it knew.
He pulled on a shirt. Didn’t bother tucking it. Pushed open the door with a quiet creak.
The hallway smelled faintly of toast and steam.
He hesitated at the threshold of the kitchen.
You were already there, seated at the table, cradling a mug between your palms like it was anchoring you. You didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
His eyes fell on the second mug.
Steam curled from the top. Set neatly in front of the second chair.
No ceremony. No fuss.
He crossed the kitchen without a word and sat. His fingers curled around the warm ceramic instinctively.
It was sweet. Too sweet. He didn’t care.
You didn’t ask how he’d slept. You didn’t comment on the dark circles under his eyes or the tightness in his shoulders. You just sipped your tea, eyes flicking toward the rain-smeared window. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Something quieter than peace, but gentler than grief.
He drank. All of it.
And when you stood and started buttering toast, he didn’t look up. But when you set the plate down between you, and walked away again, he took it.
All of it.
Not because he was hungry, but because it was there and because you had set it there.
Later that morning, he heard you move past the bathroom. Then again, softer this time. The linen cupboard opening. The rustle of folded cloth. Then silence.
When he opened the bathroom door, there it was on the table:
A clean towel. A bar of soap that smelled like cedar and something older. Something familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it. Like old wood warmed by sunlight. Like home, in another life.
He stared at it for a moment, throat tightening. Then picked it up and shut the door.
He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t expect him to.
That night, he didn’t disappear into the spare room after dinner. He sat on the edge of the sofa while you curled up with a book, legs tucked beneath you, one hand resting against your cheek.
He didn’t speak. Just stared into the fire, watching it move like it might teach him something. It didn’t. But the warmth was nice.
You stood eventually, stretching.
He wanted to say something. Anything. So he did.
“Sleep well.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them, soft and unguarded.
You turned at the door. Smiled.
“You too, Seb.”
And then you left your door open behind you.
He stared at the quiet rectangle of warm light for a long time before retreating to his own room.
He didn’t close his door either.
🐍
The flat was too quiet.
Sebastian sat hunched on the edge of the bed, elbows digging into his thighs, fists pressed so hard against his knees he half-wondered if the pressure would leave bruises. His head throbbed. His chest ached in a way that no curse could explain.
He’d tried to be quiet. To stay still. To let the wave of it pass on its own. It never did.
The sob slipped out before he could stop it, a quiet, strangled sound he tried to bury in his hands. But it was too late. His body had betrayed him.
Again.
He didn’t hear you come down the hall, but he felt you. A softness in the air, like the moment just before a storm breaks. A shift in the weight of the silence.
Your footsteps were light. No words. No questions. Just the soft shuffle of your blanket trailing behind you as you entered the room.
And then you were kneeling beside him on the floor, arms already around his frame before he could even lift his head. One of your hands found his hair, fingers threading through it with slow, deliberate gentleness. Like you knew it would help.
He flinched. He couldn’t help it. The instinct to pull back, the one that screamed at him to protect himself to refuse comfort, and the one that he had lived inside for too long.
But you didn’t let go.
And that, somehow, undid him more than anything else.
You stayed, anchored, quiet, unmoving, your fingers stroking through his hair, soft and slow. You’re embrace tightening around as if you could tell each moment he felt like he was close to coming undone. You caring for him. Like he was worth the patience. Like he wasn’t something broken you were trying to fix, just someone hurting who didn’t have to hurt alone.
His whole body trembled. And then, finally, he let go. His forehead dropped against your shoulder with a breathless shudder, and the weight of it, everything he’d been holding, everything he hadn’t said, spilled out into that small space between you in sobs. His chest hitched with another breath, sharp and unsteady. Then again, this time slower.
He felt your hand circle against his scalp. Soothing. Reassuring.
You hummed something under your breath, some tune he didn’t recognize, and the sound filled the room like warmth, like magic that didn’t need a wand.
Time passed in pieces.
He didn’t know how long you stayed like that, curled into each other in the middle of the room, but the shaking stopped eventually. And when he finally lifted his head, eyes swollen and raw, you were still there. Still holding him like you meant it.
He looked at you.
And something inside him cracked, not painfully, not like before. Like a tight stitch loosening at last.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he rasped, voice barely more than air. “It’s like… it’s all closing in. Everything. And I can’t—” His jaw clenched, throat burning as he tried to stop the tears threatening again.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t fill the silence with empty comfort. You just looked at him, steady and sure, like he could fall apart and it would be alright.
“I thought if I just kept going, kept pushing… it would get better,” he said. “But it doesn’t. It just gets heavier.”
You reached up, brushed a tear off his cheek with your thumb.
“You don’t have to carry it alone, Seb,” you said, softly. Kindly. Like a truth.
He wanted to believe you. He needed to believe you. His breath shook again as he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours this time. Closer. Vulnerable.
“I’m tired,” he whispered, like a confession.
“I know,” you murmured. “You can rest now.”
He let his eyes fall shut.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he did.
🐍
It started with a crash.
A sharp, glassy shatter followed by the unmistakable squelch of sugar syrup hitting the floor. Sebastian had only just stepped into the hallway when it happened, just in time to see the chaos unfold.
You stood in the center of the shop's back room, a half-spilled mug of tea in one hand, three boxes of powdered lacewing flies teetering precariously in your arms, and your wand clutched awkwardly in the crook of your elbow.
Jelly slugs, enchanted, glittering, and now very much airborne, had launched themselves from the shelf like tiny, gelatinous meteors. The jar hit the ground, glass scattering, syrup splattering your boots, and the slugs flopping across the floor like wounded, wiggling stars.
For a moment, you just stood there, frozen, sticky, teetering on the edge of swearing.
Sebastian leaned against the doorway and laughed.
It caught him off guard, sharp at first, then warm and whole in a way he hadn’t felt in too long. Real laughter, the kind that started in his chest and tugged at the corners of his mouth before he could stop it.
You turned so fast you nearly upended your tea again.
“Are you laughing at me?” you asked, trying to sound affronted, but the smile twitching at your lips betrayed you.
“I’m absolutely laughing at you,” he said, still chuckling. “You’ve just been bested by confectionery.”
You looked down at your boots, syrup soaking into your socks. “They were plotting against me.”
“I saw that. A full-blown jelly slug rebellion.”
“They chose death over shelf life,” you muttered, deadpan.
That made him laugh again. Softer. But it stayed in him this time. He crouched down beside the broken jar, flicking a few shards of glass into a pile with his wand. You were still staring, he could feel it.
When he glanced up, your eyes met his, and there was something in your gaze that made his chest ache. Something gentle.
He straightened slowly. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, but your voice was quiet. Sincere. “It’s just… nice. To hear you laugh again.”
The warmth in his face faltered.
Not because of you. Because it was nice. Too nice. It felt… indulgent. Wrong, almost, to feel light in the chest when everything inside him was still laced with guilt and grief.
His throat tightened. His eyes dropped to the syrup pooling between your boots.
Then, your voice again, softer now.
“It’s okay. You’re allowed.”
Sebastian looked at you. Really looked.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You just stood there, offering nothing but space and honesty and choice. Something inside him loosened. Just a little.
He crouched again, vanishing the syrup slowly with a cleaning spell. You moved to help, and your knees brushed his as you reached for the glass. He didn’t pull back.
And maybe that was the real turning point. Not the laugh. Not the rebellion of jelly slugs. But this, the way you stayed close without pushing. The way your quiet presence carved out a safe place in a world that hadn’t felt safe in too long.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.
You didn’t mention it again. Didn’t press.
And that night, when you’d gone upstairs to check the shop ledgers and he was left alone with the till and the fading scent of spilt sugar, Sebastian scribbled a quick note and placed it beside the half-eaten jelly slug on the counter:
One survived the massacre.
He asked for asylum.
He didn’t wait to see you find it.
But when you passed him later in the hall, he caught the faintest tug of a smile at your mouth. The one that said you’d seen it.
🐍
The morning light filtered into the kitchen, soft and golden, pooling across the floor like a blessing.
Sebastian stood at the counter, hands busy with a sprig of thyme, carefully stripping the leaves from the stem before turning to the rosemary. The motion was repetitive. Calming. The scent clung to his fingers.
He didn’t look up when he heard the door open.
But he felt you there, familiar now, in a way that made his shoulders ease without thinking.
You cleared your throat, setting a small basket down behind him. “Need a hand?”
His lips curved, just a little. The sound of your voice always did that.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
You were already pulling the apron over your head before he finished the sentence.
You stepped beside him, and something in his chest quieted at the way you slipped into the rhythm of it without hesitation. Without instruction. Like you both had done this every morning of your lives.
He handed you a knife. Your fingers brushed. His heart did something traitorous and soft.
“Garlic,” he said, pointing toward the cloves.
You got to work, and he returned to the chopping block, pretending the moment hadn’t made his chest feel warm.
The silence between you wasn’t empty. It never was. It was full of things unspoken, shared thoughts, quiet understandings. The kind of silence people earned, not stumbled into.
When the meal was finished, you moved together like clockwork. He set the table, folding the napkins into those little triangles you liked without really thinking about it.
You noticed. He caught the way your gaze lingered for half a second.
After eating, you reached for the dishcloth, already moving to clear the plates, but he caught your wrist gently.
“I’ll do it,” he said, softer than he meant to.
You blinked, about to argue, then simply handed the cloth over and let him have the moment. That was another thing he liked about you. You never made a scene out of small kindnesses.
The flat grew quieter as the day wore on. You left to stock the back room. He found himself in the corner of the shop, surrounded by old tomes and loose parchment, thumbing through a book on magical theory he hadn’t looked at since early fifth year.
The floor creaked.
He looked up. You stood there, wiping your hands on your apron.
“Got a minute?” he asked, holding the book open.
You nodded and knelt beside him without hesitation.
He turned the volume toward you, pointing at a passage about spell destabilization. “This part, here. Am I overthinking it or is it just poorly written?”
You tilted your head, reading. He watched your eyes move across the page, the little furrow in your brow that always appeared when you were thinking hard. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch again.
You offered your thoughts, smart, insightful, right, and your voice was soft, close, like the two of you were tucked into a world of your own.
The conversation wandered, as it always did. From spell theory to shop inventory to nothing in particular.
You stayed close. You folded laundry together. Tidied the shelves. Rearranged a few things behind the counter. Every so often, your hands would brush. Sometimes he’d catch your scent when you passed behind him.
And sometimes, when he forgot to guard the softness in his throat, he’d murmur your name under his breath. You never called him on it. But he noticed the way your hand would pause mid-fold. Just for a second.
By evening, the shop was in order, the flat was warm, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and wood polish.
Sebastian sat on the sofa with a book in his lap, but he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were on you.
You moved through the space like you belonged to it. And maybe you did. Maybe you both did.
Because when he thought about the way your shoulder brushed his in the kitchen, or the way your voice settled the noise in his head, or the way your door always stayed slightly open now, it felt like you’d been here all along.
And for the first time in a long time, he let himself believe:
This was what it could feel like to come home.
🐍
The late August sun spilled warm and low through the tall windows of the flat, catching the dust motes in lazy spirals and gilding the hardwood floor in gold. The quiet was thick in that soft, end-of-summer way, just tea and parchment and the last stretch of stillness before everything changed again.
You were curled up in between his legs on the couch, head leaned back onto the crook of his shoulder, back pressed against his torso, your weight warm and familiar. One of his arms rested around your waist, the other sprawled uselessly across the crossword you’d both abandoned after bickering for ten full minutes over a six-letter plant used in potion-making.
He hadn’t cared about the answer. Not when he had more pressing issues on mind.
Sebastian stared at the empty trunks in the corner of the room, one hand resting absently on your back where you still lay curled into his side.
He should’ve been moving. Folding clothes. Finding his robes. At least pretending to organize the disaster he called a school bag.
But he couldn’t seem to make himself let go of the quiet.
Couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to wake up in the Slytherin dorms again. Alone.
All summer, you’d been right there. In the kitchen, on the floor of the shop, on the other side of the sofa, or closer, on the same bed, tucked beneath his arm like you belonged there. And at night… that’s what he’d miss most. The easy rhythm of you beside him. Sharing warmth under mismatched blankets. That wordless understanding that you could simply drift, bodies just close enough to keep the ghosts away.
That wouldn’t exist at Hogwarts.
Even with you in the same house, Slytherin (thank Merlin), he knew things would shift. There’d be other people. Rules. Eyes. Dormitory walls that didn’t care how much you meant to him, how you had quietly become the soft center of everything that kept him grounded.
He wasn’t sure how to hold onto this version of himself, the quieter one, the almost-whole one, when the castle came back into play. When corridors echoed again with expectation and ghosts he’d tried all summer to outrun.
He’d spent too long unraveling. What if this was the only place he could hold himself together?
His fingers traced lazy circles along your waist, a habit now, one of many he hadn’t realized he’d picked up. The thought of having to break those habits, of sleeping in a different bed, of waking up without you there, made something in his chest ache. Silly, maybe. But real.
And then there was Ominis.
Sebastian exhaled, slow and quiet, like breathing too hard might summon the weight of it all at once. He hadn’t told you how much he was dreading it. He’d written, over the summer. Several times. Not long letters, just fragments. Sebastian hadn’t known what to write. What could he say after what he’d done? After everything that had gone wrong?
And Ominis had written back. Short replies. Not angry. But nothing that felt too welcoming either. Just… formal. He’d read them so many times the creases in the parchment had nearly worn through. They hadn’t spoken properly in months. Not really. Not since before. Before everything cracked open.
He wasn’t sure if Ominis wanted to forgive him, or just didn’t hate him enough to ignore him entirely.
Sebastian hadn’t asked you if he’d written to you too. He figured Ominis probably had. The two of you shared that same thread of understanding he’d once had with Ominis. It stung a little, if he was honest, but he couldn’t blame either of you.
Still, there was a tightness in his chest when he thought about walking into that common room. About seeing Ominis seated by the fire or stepping into the dorms and pretending like nothing had ever broken between them. He wasn’t ready. Not really.
But summer was ending whether he liked it or not.
His grip around you tightened slightly, and he dipped his head to press a quiet kiss into your hair. You shifted in response, murmuring something unintelligible and warm, and he felt the ache in his chest ease just a little.
Sebastian let his fingers trail across your waist, drawing more slow, unconscious shapes. He really didn’t want to break the silence, really didn’t want to admit what time it was, what day it was, but the thought slipped out anyway, low and quiet against your temple.
“I suppose we’ll need to start packing soon.”
You made a soft noise in response, half acknowledgment, half protest.
“Back to the castle we go,” you murmured.
He exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Feels strange,” he said, fingertips still tracing you. “I’ll miss this place. It’s like home.”
There was a pause. You curled a little tighter against him, voice quieter now. “It is home. Our home, Seb. Even if it’s just for the summer.”
He didn’t answer at first.
Because he didn’t want just the summer. He let the silence stretch before trying, too casually, “What do you plan to do with the shop while we’re away?”
You stirred slightly, lifting your head just enough to glance up at him. “Same thing I did last year. Penny’s more than capable of running it while we’re away.”
He nodded once, quickly, as if he’d expected that. “Right, right. She practically runs the place anyway.”
Your smirk was immediate. “Jealous?”
He snorted. “Of course not.” Then, after a beat, softer, “Do you think… maybe we could come back? Just for a night. On the weekends, maybe.”
The question left his lips before he could think better of it. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, pretending not to care too much about your answer.
You shifted again. “Sebastian Sallow, are you saying you haven’t gotten sick of me yet?”
He rolled his eyes and tugged you back down, hiding his flustered smile in your hair. “Not even close.”
Your laugh was a bit muffled, warm and light and everything he wanted to bottle and keep with him at school.
“Alright,” you said, voice quieter now, “if we don’t get caught, I wouldn’t mind sneaking back. Just for a night.”
He smiled, really smiled, cheek pressed to the top of your head.
“I could never get sick of you, pet,” he murmured, letting the words slip before he could think better of them. He nuzzled gently at the space where your jaw met your neck, letting himself linger there a little longer than he probably should. “Even if I tried.”
And it was true. He’d tried. To shut everyone out. To protect whatever broken, bitter part of him still felt the weight of his guilt like it was fused to bone. But you hadn’t let him. You never had.
He tightened his arms around you, feeling you breathe.
“Just as long as you don’t start snoring,” he laughed.
You snorted. “Deal.”
The sun dipped lower outside, the shadows stretching long across the floorboards.
Sebastian closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, he let himself stop counting the hours. He let himself feel safe. Wanted. Whole.
In that soft, golden stillness, with you in his arms, he didn’t think about Hogwarts. Or the cold stone walls. Or what waited for him back in the castle.
He thought only of you. And this. And how he’d get to come back here again. Every weekend, if you’d let him.