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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 8 days ago

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Playing for Keeps | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Chapter 4

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Words: ~4,300

Tags: Modern AU, Reader Insert, Seventh Year, Female MC, No Y/N, Slytherin MC, Enemies to Lovers, Trope-y, Slow Burn, Angst, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Coming of Age, Body Image, High School Drama, Beater Sebastian, Seeker MC

The Quidditch pitch buzzed with energy as shouts and laughter carried on the crisp autumn breeze. The smell of damp grass mingled with the scent of wood and broom polish while from the broomsticks, and Sebastian hovered near the sidelines. Arms crossed, he watched the chaos unfold, his sharp eyes tracking players as they took their turns on the field.

He’d seen plenty of tryouts over the years, but this one was proving to be more captivating than most. And the reason for that was you.

Sebastian wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he’d doubted you when you showed up to Slytherin tryouts. Given your build—curvy, with a frame that didn’t scream “athlete”—he’d figured Quidditch might not be your strong suit. After all, he’d seen enough Chasers over the years to know that most of them were lean, long-limbed types who seemed to glide effortlessly on their brooms. He couldn’t help but assume that you'd struggle with the agility and precision that the game required, and that the sheer physicality of it might overwhelm you. He even imagined he'd be watching you fumble at the tryouts, a little out of your depth.

But Sebastian had been wrong. So, so wrong.

From the moment the whistle blew, you owned the pitch. You were fast—shockingly fast. The quaffle seemed to become an extension of your arm, your movements so fluid and precise they left even Imelda pausing mid-sentence to take notice.

Sebastian caught himself staring. More than once. And unfortunately, his distraction came with consequences.

“Bludger, Sallow!” Imelda’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and irritated.

He snapped his head around just in time to see the ball hurtling toward him. He swung his bat on instinct, the impact jarring his arm as he sent the bludger flying back toward the opposite end of the pitch.

“Pay attention!” Imelda called, glaring at him as she sped past. “Tryouts, not nap time!”

He muttered a curse under his breath, gripping the bat tighter as his gaze snapped back to you. You were a blur of motion now, weaving through the air with startling ease, two players on your heels trying—and failing—to stop you.

Sebastian’s grip on the bat tightened further as he watched you dive to intercept a Quaffle mid-pass. You pulled up at the last second, executing a sharp twist that sent your opponents veering off course, scrambling to regain their balance. It wasn’t just impressive—it was damn near professional.

Sebastian tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as an idea began to take form. Every turn you made, every dive, was executed with almost surgical precision. You had an uncanny ability to read the pitch, anticipating not just your opponents’ moves but also where the quaffle—or even a bludger—might be at any given moment. Watching you, it wasn’t hard to imagine you chasing something even smaller... a golden snitch, perhaps.

Sebastian swung his bat lazily as he considered the idea, sending a bludger back toward the keeper’s end of the pitch without much thought. A seeker needed more than speed—they needed sharp reflexes, a strong sense of the field, and an almost obsessive ability to tune out the chaos around them. You had all of that in spades.

He leaned forward on his broom, letting the thought settle before glancing toward Imelda, who hovered near the goalposts, blowing her whistle and shouting orders like a miniature dictator. With a subtle shift, he steered toward her.

“Imelda!” he called, catching her attention as he approached.

“What now?” she snapped, her tone sharp but not entirely unfriendly. “Need me to remind you how to hit a Bludger?”

“Funny,” he shot back, rolling his eyes. “No, it’s about her.” He nodded toward you, who had just executed another clean pass before banking into a tight turn.

Imelda followed his gaze, her eyebrows lifting slightly. “What about her? She’s killing it out there.”

“I don’t think Chaser’s her best position.”

Imelda’s head whipped toward him, her eyes narrowing as she flew closer. “Since when do you care about her? You two barely tolerate each other.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying we’re best mates, Reyes. I’m trying to say she’s better suited for seeker.”

Imelda’s eyebrows shot up, and she crossed her arms, looking skeptical. “Seeker? Parson’s been gunning for that spot for months. He’s fast, experienced—”

“And sloppy,” Sebastian cut in, his tone firm. “You saw him last term. Missed the snitch twice in the same game last term because he couldn’t track the other seeker. Chouette's got better reflexes, better field awareness, and a sharper eye.”

Imelda hesitated, her eyes flicking back to you as you intercepted a pass midair, pulling up with a precision turn that left your opponent flailing. “You’re serious about this?” she asked, glancing at Sebastian. “You, of all people, think she should be seeker?”

Sebastian shrugged, though his tone was resolute. “Look, you know I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t sure. I’ve been watching—she’s got the instincts. Parson doesn’t stand a chance.”

Imelda stared at him for a long moment, clearly torn between amusement and suspicion. Then, with a resigned sigh, she blew her whistle, signaling the current round to end. "Let's see if you're right."

Players began flying toward them, some looking winded, others energized. Sebastian adjusted his grip on his broom, his gaze trailing you as you approached. He hated how easy it was to pick you out of the crowd—how your movements were so fluid, so precise, that they naturally drew his eye. He shook the thought off, focusing instead on the task at hand.

As the players gathered, Imelda crossed her arms, her sharp gaze scanning the group. “Alright, listen up!” she barked, her voice carrying across the pitch. “You’re going to split off for drills. Laps around the pitch for half of you, passing drills for the rest. Move it!”

The crowd began to scatter, but Imelda raised a hand, pointing toward you and another player—a wiry sixth year with an angular face and a confident smirk. “Not you two. Chouette, Parson, stay put.”

You exchanged a puzzled glance with Parson, then looked back at Imelda. “What’s going on?”

Imelda tilted her head toward Sebastian, her expression smug. “Sallow here doesn't think you're cut out to be a chaser."

Your brows shot up, surprise flickering across your face before it was replaced with something sharper—defensiveness. “Does he now?” you asked, your voice edged with irritation.

Sebastian opened his mouth to respond, but Imelda cut him off, her grin widening. “Before you hex him, let me finish. He thinks you’re better suited for seeker.”

Parson stiffened beside you, his smirk twisting into something sour. “Excuse me?”

Imelda ignored him, gesturing to Sebastian. “Apparently, our resident expert here has been paying close attention and thinks Chouette's a better option for the position.”

Your gaze snapped to Sebastian, eyes narrowing. “And you decided this… when, exactly?”

Sebastian shrugged, his expression cool, though his knuckles tightened slightly on his broom handle. “After watching you dominate the pitch for the past hour."

Parson scoffed, stepping forward with his arms crossed. “She’s not a seeker. I’ve been training for this position for months. I know how to play it.”

“She’s faster,” Sebastian said simply, his tone cool but confident. “Better reflexes, sharper instincts. But if you're as good as you say, you’ll have no problem showing us I’m wrong.”

Imelda smirked. “There you have it, then. A little friendly competition. I’ll release the snitch. First to catch it wins. Easy enough, yeah?”

Parson huffed, gripping his broom tighter. “Fine.”

You, on the other hand, hesitated, your brows knitting together. “But I've never trained for seeker. What if I don’t want to?”

“Then Parson gets the spot uncontested,” Imelda said with a shrug. “Your call, Chouette.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he watched you deliberate. The irritation in your expression was clear, but so was the determination beginning to creep into your eyes.

Finally, you sighed. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Imelda smirked, clearly enjoying the tension. She held up the practice Snitch, its wings buzzing faintly as it struggled against her grip. “Alright, no fouls, no excuses. Clear?”

Parson nodded curtly, gripping his broom with white-knuckled intensity. You simply gave a short nod, your jaw set.

Imelda grinned. “Good. Ready? Go!” She released the Snitch with a flick of her wrist, and it darted into the air, vanishing in a blur of gold.

Parson shot off immediately, his movements sharp and deliberate, scanning the field with practiced efficiency. His strategy was obvious—stay in constant motion, cover as much ground as possible, and rely on his training to keep him one step ahead.

And as Sebastian’s gaze shifted to you, he felt a flicker of doubt creep into his chest. You hovered in place, your grip on the broom tight, your eyes darting uncertainly across the pitch. The hesitation was unlike the player he’d been watching all afternoon, and for a second, Sebastian wondered if he’d misjudged everything. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe—

Then he saw it. The shift.

Your expression melted into focus, your gaze sharpening as you watched Parson’s erratic movements. It wasn’t just determination in your eyes—it was calculation. You were studying him. Observing. And then, instead of mimicking Parson’s dynamic, sweeping movements, you veered upward, climbing higher and higher until you were well above his chaos below.

“Interesting,” Imelda murmured beside him, tilting her head as she watched you.

While Parson darted frantically from one end of the pitch to the other, staying in constant motion, you hung in the air like a bird of prey circling above its hunting ground. And Parson, oblivious to your strategy, kept up his frantic pace.

He was fast, no question—but for him, this was a game of endurance, while for you, it was a game of strategy. And the moment the snitch came into view again, a golden blur darting near the far goalposts, you moved.

With a sharp twist, you angled your broom downward, launching into a vertical dive so fast and precise Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Bloody hell,” Imelda whispered, her eyes widening.

Parson noticed the snitch too, but for all his experience, he didn’t stand a chance. You were already locked in, your path direct and unwavering. Every second that passed made it clearer: you were in complete control.

And then, in one fluid motion, your hand shot out, fingers closing around the Snitch with a decisive snap. You hovered midair for a moment, catching your breath, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Sebastian smirked, though his chest still felt tight, his heart pounding from more than just excitement. “Told you,” he said, nudging Imelda with his elbow.

Parson hovered near you, his face a storm of frustration and disbelief. He fixed you with a glare, muttering something under his breath before turning his broom sharply and flying off in a huff. Whatever he said wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, but Sebastian saw it—the flicker in your expression.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but it caught Sebastian off guard. A tightness in your jaw, a flash of something that could’ve been irritation or frustration, maybe even anger. Something that wasn’t your usual calm, collected self.

You always brushed off Sebastian's insults, cut him down with words sharper than any hex, always unfazed, always composed. So, to see you react at all, to see that brief tension in your body, made him pause. What the hell had Parson said to rattle you like that?

Imelda, oblivious, called after Parson with her usual flair. “Don’t feel bad! There’s always next year!”

You flew closer to them, your usual confidence seemingly intact, but your shoulders were set just a fraction too stiffly, tension radiating from them in a way that wasn’t like you.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he considered saying something, but Imelda spoke first. “Not bad, Chouette,” she said with her usual smug grin. “Not bad at all.”

You raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "So that’s it? I’m in?”

“Do you want me to make you duel someone for it too?” Imelda quipped, clearly enjoying herself.

Your gaze flicked briefly to Sebastian then, and you smirked, something wry and familiar. "No point," you said dryly, arching an eyebrow. "Sebastian’s the best you’ve got, and we both know I’d wipe the floor with him.”

The corner of Sebastian’s mouth twitched, amusement and something else warring within him while Imelda snorted, spinning the snitch in her hand.

“True enough,” she agreed. “Alright, well, you’re officially our new seeker. Welcome to the team! Don’t screw it up.”

You arched an eyebrow, your expression wry as you gently punched her in the shoulder. “What a heartfelt welcome.”

Imelda laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s as sentimental as I get and you know it. Now, go shower.”

With a quick nod and a playful salute, you descended to the grass, disappearing into the dressing rooms as the drills carried on without you.

By the time tryouts wrapped up, the sun was sinking low in the sky, casting golden light and long shadows across the pitch. The shouts and laughter that had once filled the air had faded into silence, leaving Sebastian alone. Assigned to cleanup duty—lucky him—he moved methodically, collecting pylons, pinnies, and quaffles that had been left haphazardly around the field.

He leaned down to scoop up a stray quaffle, spinning it absently in his hands before tossing it into the equipment chest with a hollow thud. His thoughts, as they had been all afternoon, drifted back to you. You’d exceeded every expectation he hadn’t even realized he’d set. Watching you take control of the pitch, dominate Parson, and catch the snitch with such precision had been… well, frustratingly impressive.

But what really nagged at him was Parson.

Whatever he had muttered to you before flying off had clearly struck a nerve. Sebastian had seen it, even if you’d tried to hide it, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

The sound of a door creaking open snapped him from his thoughts. He straightened, frowning slightly as he turned toward the source. From the direction of the dressing rooms, you emerged. Your hair was still slightly damp from the shower, strands curling against your neck, and your Quidditch robes were gone, replaced with a loose hoodie and leggings that clung to your hips and ass in a way that was… distracting.

Sebastian blinked. “Didn’t Imelda send you home an hour ago?”

You startled at his voice, clutching your broom tightly as your head whipped around to find him. “Putain,” you muttered, your voice breathless. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

He chuckled, leaning casually against the goal post. “Sneaking implies intent. You’re the one who decided to skulk around after hours.”

You glanced away, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “I wasn’t skulking,” you muttered, your voice quieter than he’d anticipated. “Just… taking my time.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed slightly. “Taking your time doing what?”

You shifted your weight, your grip on the bag tightening. “If you must know, I don’t like changing in front of other people, alright?” The words came out quickly, almost as though you were rushing to get them over with. You didn’t look at him as you spoke, your gaze fixed firmly on the grass at your feet.

Sebastian blinked, trying to reconcile the fierce, sharp-tongued girl he knew with the one standing before him now. You’d always seemed so confident, so sure of yourself, yet now, you seemed… vulnerable.

“Oh,” he said, the usual smugness in his voice replaced with something softer, more uncertain. “Right. Uh... Fair enough.”

Before he could think of anything else to say, you cleared your throat, straightening your posture and brushing the moment aside as if it had never happened. “Anyway,” you said briskly, “do you want any help with this?” You gestured to the scattered gear around him, clearly eager to change the subject.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “You want to help me?"

You rolled your eyes, gesturing to the mess of equipment scattering the field. "You look like you could use it, but if you'd rather do it alone, be my guest."

Sebastian’s lips quirked into a small, pleased smirk despite himself. “Well, since you’re so eager to pitch in, who am I to say no?”

You shook your head with a soft huff, stepping closer to grab a few stray pinnies from the ground. “Let’s not get carried away, I wouldn't call it 'eager'."

Sebastian bent down to pick up a stray pylon, tossing it into the equipment chest as he glanced sideways at you. You were folding shirts with methodical precision, your face neutral, but the tightness in your posture hadn’t gone unnoticed. He decided to test the waters with small talk, hoping to ease the tension.

“Classes going alright?” he asked, his tone light, casual.

You shrugged, barely looking up. “You’re in them all with me, surely you already know.”

Not exactly a riveting response, but Sebastian pressed on. “Ominis mentioned you paired up with Weasley for the Potions project. Reckon that’ll be explosive in more ways than one.”

A faint twitch of your lips. Progress.

He leaned against the chest, smirking. “You know, you really did well today,” he added. “Even Imelda was impressed, and as I’m sure you know, she doesn’t normally hand out compliments unless there’s a bribe involved.”

You glanced at him then, an eyebrow raised. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to thank you for the seeker position?”

Sebastian straightened, trying to play it cool. “Not at all,” he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dirt off his sleeve. “But I wouldn’t object if you wanted to acknowledge my brilliant instincts.”

“Right. Of course.”

The conversation stalled for a beat and Sebastian cleared his throat, shifting gears. “You seem awfully skeptical. What, you think I’m not capable of being nice?”

You tilted your head, giving him a pointed look. “I mean, this is a bit out of character for you, isn’t it? You’ve spent the past two weeks antagonizing me at every turn. Critiquing my spellwork in Defense, mocking my wand movements in Charms, knocking over my cauldron in Potions—”

“That was an accident,” he interjected weakly.

“—and redirecting a Venomous Tentacula toward me in Herbology,” you finished, glaring at him. “Accident too?”

Sebastian winced, rubbing the back of his neck. Of course he knew he was a pain in the ass toward you—he’d done it on purpose. It was easier to push you away than deal with what he really felt. Easier to act like you didn’t matter, even though you did. But hearing you lay it all out like this, the reality of just how far he’d gone to push you away, twisted something in his chest.

“I’m not that bad,” he tried, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

You snorted in response and he found himself fidgeting with a quaffle, spinning it idly in his hands. “Look,” he said, his voice softer, “I wasn’t trying to make your life miserable or anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you muttered.

The silence that settled this time was final, heavy, and uncomfortable. The only sounds came from the faint rustle of fabric and the dull thud of Sebastian tossing stray quaffles into the chest. He didn’t press further, at least not immediately, though his gaze kept flickering toward you.

He wasn’t used to feeling guilty, and yet, there it was, sitting heavily in his chest. He wanted to say more, to explain why he'd been such a prick in a way that didn’t make him sound like an idiot, but the reality was he was an idiot.

So instead, he focused on the task at hand, letting the quiet stretch between you. Minutes passed before his curiosity finally got the better of him.

“What did Parson say to you?” he asked suddenly, his voice carefully neutral as he glanced up from the chest.

You froze for half a second, barely perceptible, before resuming your task. “Why do you care?”

Sebastian leaned his weight against the chest, crossing his arms. “I saw the way it got to you.”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, your tone clipped. Too quickly.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” he pressed, watching you carefully now.

You sighed, dropping the pile of pinnies onto the bench beside you before finally meeting his gaze. “It’s not worth repeating.”

“If it bothered you,” he said, “then it is.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek before finally letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “You know,” you said, your voice sharp, “maybe you and Parson would get along. Seems like you both have something against people like me.”

Sebastian blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “What are you talking about, 'people like you'?”

You raised an eyebrow, your gaze like a dagger as it landed on him. “Moderation,” you said flatly, the word dripping with disdain. “Remember saying that in the Great Hall? Not even five minutes after we met? You know, when you critiqued everything from my accent to my education?”

His stomach twisted uncomfortably, guilt clawing its way up his chest. Of course, he remembered. How could he forget? He’d been so taken aback the first time he saw you in the Great Hall that his first instinct had been to say something deflective, something to put distance between you.

He’d gotten shit for his thoughtless comment immediately, from Nerida, Grace, Imelda, and Ominis, but it was your fiery, pointed retort that had really silenced him. He’d told himself the guilt he’d felt in that moment was enough of a punishment, that it was over and done with.

But it clearly wasn’t.

His careless remark had lingered, stuck with you. And now, he was realizing that Parson had taken that same knife and twisted it further.

You continued on, your voice quieter but no less biting. “If you really need to know, Parson said I’m too fat to play seeker. That I’d embarrass myself if I tried.”

The words hit Sebastian like a bludger to the chest. The anger was immediate—Parson had no bloody right to say something like that, to try and tear you down when you’d more than proven you belonged on that pitch. You had the skills, the drive, the resilience.

But then the guilt hit—because Sebastian had made the same assumptions. He’d looked at you, at your build, at your size, and figured Quidditch might not be your strong suit. He had doubted you. And sure, he hadn’t said it to your face, but his internalized judgment had been there, just below the surface.

The hypocrisy stung.

“He seriously said that?” he asked softly, his usual confidence stripped away. The biting wit, the smug demeanor—gone.

You snorted, shaking your head as you grabbed the last pile of folded pinnies and tossed them into the chest with more force than necessary. “Why would I make that up?” you muttered.

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as his mind raced, a chaotic mix of anger, guilt, and something uncomfortably close to shame. “Parson’s an idiot,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “He’s a bitter, insecure prick who couldn’t catch the snitch if it landed in his lap.”

You didn’t look at him, your focus still on the chest in front of you. "How rich, coming from you."

Sebastian flinched as if you’d slapped him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond. Because you weren’t wrong. How rich, indeed.

“Look,” he started, his voice low, almost pleading. “What Parson said… it’s bullshit. You’re one of the strongest players I’ve seen, regardless of... of your size.”

You froze, your hands still resting on the chest. Slowly, you turned to face him, your expression unreadable but your eyes blazing. “What are you doing? Trying to play the hero now?”

“No,” Sebastian said quickly, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to—just—damn it, would you listen for a second?” He raked a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting—not at you, but at himself. “I’m saying Parson’s wrong. And I was wrong, too."

Your eyes narrowed, the distrust clear on your face. “What are you talking about?”

“I shouldn’t have said what I did in the Great Hall,” Sebastian admitted, the words tumbling out of him in a rush. “About… about you eating in moderation. It was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say, and I didn’t mean it. I'm sorry I said it."

You stared at him for a long moment, your gaze flicking across his face as though searching for something—what, Sebastian wasn’t sure. Sincerity, maybe. Or the punchline to some cruel joke.

Finally straightening to your full height, you slung your bag over your shoulder, your expression still unreadable but your eyes colder than he was used to.

“Well,” you said dryly, the word cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Thanks for the… chat.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance. Without waiting for an answer, you turned on your heel and began walking across the field, your stride purposeful.

And then you were gone, disappearing into the twilight as you made your way back toward the castle.

Sebastian stood there for a long moment, the empty pitch stretching out around him. He’d meant what he said. Every word of it. But it didn’t matter if you didn’t believe him. If you didn’t trust him. If he’d burned the bridge between you before it had even been built.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

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