#sebastian stand | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writingsoftarnishedsilver · 1 month ago

Note

AU where mc the night before her first day of 5th year (or age them up), she is at the three broomsticks nervous for her first day at Hogwarts. She ends up having to what she assumes is a one night stand with just another guy in Hogsmeade (he wasn’t wearing a robe so he HAD to be someone just passing through, right?). Only to find the next day, before the sorting ceremony, that the very same man is sitting at the slytherin table. And he will refuse to let her live it down, especially where they had shared intimate moments beyond sex (something he never did).

Unforeseen Attachments | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Words: ~6,900

Tags: Implied Smut, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Fluff, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance

The Three Broomsticks was warm, loud, and filled with the scent of butterbeer and spice. You had chosen it for a reason: to calm your nerves. Tomorrow, you’d finally be setting foot inside Hogwarts for the first time, starting your seventh year at a school that, until this past year, you never even knew existed. You were a newly minted witch, arriving at the very end of your academic career.

You had told yourself you weren’t nervous, but then you had downed two drinks too many, and when a smooth voice asked if the seat beside you was taken, you didn’t hesitate before saying no.

He wasn’t in robes. That was the first thing you noticed. Just dark jeans and a snug sweater. His hair was a tousled mess, his sharp features and freckles accentuated by the dim candlelight, and when he smirked at you, it was the kind of smile that promised trouble.

"New to town?"

"That obvious?" you had replied, eyeing him cautiously.

He chuckled, leaning his elbow on the bar as he studied you. “Just a little.” His voice was smooth, confident—too confident. “You’re drinking like someone trying to forget something. Or maybe trying to work up the courage for something.” His gaze flicked to your mostly empty glass, then back to you. “Which is it?”

You huffed a laugh, swirling the last bit of liquid in your glass. “Both, maybe.”

His smirk widened. “Tell me more.”

You hesitated, but something about him—the way he leaned in like he actually cared about the answer—made you let your guard down, just a little.

“I start at Hogwarts tomorrow,” you admitted, exhaling sharply. “Seventh year. Transfer student.”

For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker across his expression. But then he grinned, and it was gone, replaced by something playful. “Bit late to be jumping in, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” he said, gesturing between you. “I happen to be an expert on Hogwarts.”

You snorted. “Oh? Let me guess—alumni?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Something like that.”

He bought you another drink.

Then another.

By the time you reached your third, the nerves that had kept you rigid all night had melted away, replaced by the comfortable haze of alcohol and the easy pull of conversation with the stranger beside you. He was annoyingly charming, quick-witted in a way that made it impossible not to banter with him, and when he laughed—really laughed—it was warm and rich, something that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the firewhiskey.

At some point, his arm had draped over the back of your chair, the tips of his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder, each touch a ghost of something deliberate. It made your skin tingle, made your breath catch just slightly, but you never pulled away.

And then neither of you were talking.

You were just looking at each other, the din of the Three Broomsticks fading into the background, the flickering candlelight making the gold in his eyes gleam, his pupils blown wide beneath thick lashes.

He smirked. A lazy, confident thing. And then, he kissed you.

He kissed you like he had already decided you were his the moment he sat down beside you, like he had been waiting for this moment the entire night.

He tasted like firewhiskey and cinnamon, sharp and warm, laced with something decadent and dangerous.

A low sound rumbled in his throat when you kissed him back, fingers curling around the front of his sweater as he dragged you closer, his hands slipping down your waist like he had no intention of letting go.

He nipped at your lower lip and sighed when you let him in, and when his tongue brushed against yours, slow, teasing, entirely in control, your resolve crumbled.

“Where?” you murmured against his lips.

His lips curved against yours into something satisfied. Something certain.

"Upstairs.”

The room smelled of sweat and heat and something unmistakably him. The sheets were tangled around your legs, sticking to your skin, still damp from the mess the two of you had made of each other. Your body was wrecked; thoroughly, deliciously spent in a way that left your limbs feeling like lead, the faintest tremor still lingering in your thighs.

You stared at the ceiling, pulse still hammering in your ears.

You never knew sex could feel like this. It was as if he had known you forever, as if the moment his hands met your skin, he was simply retracing familiar paths. Like in some past life, he had already learned every sound you make, already mastered the art of unraveling you.

Your breath hitched as a phantom sensation rippled through you—the memory of his mouth on your skin, the way he had taken his time, the way he had watched you, dragging it out until you were begging for him. He had been so unbearably confident in the way he touched you, in the way he held you, like he already knew how you were going to fall apart before you did.

You turned your head slightly, eyes trailing to the half-open bathroom door. The sound of running water filled the space, soft splashes as he washed up, and you stared up at the ceiling, the memory of him under the soft candlelight flashing through your mind.

You had known he was handsome. That had been obvious from the first moment he sat down beside you at the bar, but seeing him—truly seeing him—without the barriers of clothing in the way?

Holy. Fuck.

He wasn’t sculpted like some vain, preened gym rat, nor was he delicate and lean like a pureblood aristocrat bred for appearances.

No.

He was broad-shouldered and powerful, all tanned skin and freckles, his strength was earned, not ornamental—the kind built from use rather than mindless training. Muscle softened just enough to feel real, warm, solid.

And then his hands.

Calloused, experienced, fingers that had gripped your waist so tightly you were sure there would be bruises. Hands that had held you down, teased you, ruined you, and then softened just enough when you gasped for breath, like he had needed you to be okay before he kept going.

The memory made heat pool in your stomach again, and you clenched your thighs together, mortified at yourself. You had never reacted like this to someone before. You had never wanted someone again so soon after already being ruined by them.

Your breath caught as you heard the water shut off. A second later, the door creaked open.

And then he was there.

Standing in the doorway, looking like sin incarnate, toweling off his damp curls, still gloriously bare. He wasn’t even looking at you yet, just running the towel over his hair, muscles flexing with the movement, slow and unhurried.

Then he glanced up, and smirked.

"Still here, hm? And here I was, thinking you’d just sneak out while I was in the loo.”

You should have. You really should have. But—

"I can't walk yet," you muttered.

“Oh?” He tossed the towel onto a nearby chair, taking a slow step forward, utterly unbothered by the fact he was still completely bloody naked.

He padded over to the bed, moving with that same effortless grace he had when he’d pinned you down and—

You shut down that thought immediately, heart lurching as he sank onto the mattress beside you.

Because this... this wasn’t how a one-night stand was supposed to go.

He should have been getting dressed, flashing you that lazy, self-satisfied smirk before making some teasing remark about how fun it had been. You should have been making an excuse to leave, pretending like your legs weren’t still trembling, like your skin wasn’t still buzzing with the memory of his hands.

You weren’t supposed to feel attached.

But fuck. How could you not? How could you go back to anything else after this? How could you let someone else touch you, kiss you, have you when he had already set a standard that no one else could ever reach?

You swallowed hard, shifting slightly under the sheets, only to feel the telltale ache between your legs—a reminder of exactly what he had done to you.

He must have caught something in your expression because he smirked again. “Regretting it already?”

Your mouth opened, a retort on your tongue, but the words never came.

Because you weren’t.

You weren’t regretting a single thing. And maybe that was the most terrifying part.

So you turned your face toward the ceiling, exhaling sharply. “You do this often?”

He let out a soft huff of laughter, leaning back into the pillows beside you. "Sort of."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He folded his arms behind his head, ignoring your question. "What about you? You do this often?"

You wet your lips, gaze flicking between him and the ceiling. "I wouldn't say 'often', but... sometimes, I guess."

There was a beat of silence. The kind that stretched just long enough to feel heavy, not quite comfortable, not quite awkward.

He let out a slow breath. “So,” he said, voice low, casual, but too casual. Like he was about to pry.

You turned your head slightly to glance at him. “So?”

His brown eyes flicked to you. “Why now?”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You said you’re a transfer,” he mused. “Seventh year. That doesn’t happen often. So, why now?”

You exhaled sharply, fingers tightening slightly in the sheets. It was an innocent question—maybe. But it still felt like he had reached into your chest and prodded at something raw.

“It’s… complicated,” you said eventually.

He hummed, unconvinced. “I’ve got time.”

You sighed. “Okay, well... long story short, I only just got my magic.”

“What?”

��I wasn’t raised in the magical world,” you explained. “Didn’t even know it existed until this year. Thought I was just some ordinary Muggle with an ordinary life. Then—” You hesitated. “Then things changed.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. His gaze burned against the side of your face, but when he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“Bloody hell.”

That made you snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“No, I mean… That’s insane. That almost never happens.”

“Yeah, well, here I am."

He let out a soft laugh. “So, let me guess. The Ministry found you, whisked you off, and now you’re here, trying to cram seven years of magical education into one?”

“Something like that."

He shook his head, whistling low. “No wonder you were drinking like a condemned woman.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were two sips away from talking to the fireplace.”

“Liar.”

He chuckled, stretching slightly. “So, what do you think of it so far?”

“What?”

“The wizarding world.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his freckled face half-illuminated by the candlelight. “Now that you’re part of it.”

You hesitated. “It’s… a lot.”

He huffed. “Sounds like an understatement.”

You turned your head to meet his gaze. “It’s like stepping into a completely different reality. I spent years thinking I knew how the world worked, and now... Now, I have to relearn everything.”

His smirk faded slightly. “That’s got to be terrifying.”

You hummed in contemplation. Because yes, it was. It was terrifying in a way you could barely put into words. But it was also exhilarating.

You shifted slightly beneath the sheets. "It's scary," you told him honestly. "But it's exciting too… like what if this is where I was always meant to be?"

He studied you for a moment, his expression softening into something thoughtful.

“I think it is,” he said, and somehow it didn’t feel like a simple reassurance. It felt like certainty. And for some reason, that made your chest ache.

You turned onto your side, facing him, searching his expression. He was still propped up on one elbow, his messy curls falling over his forehead, freckles scattered over his nose and cheekbones. He looked so… casual. At ease. As if lying naked in a rented bed, talking about your deepest secrets, was just something he did all the time.

“What about you?” you asked, tilting your head.

He arched a brow. “What about me?”

“How’d you end up at Hogwarts?”

He huffed a laugh. “Oh, you know,” he said airily, “the usual. Grew up in the magical world. Got my letter at 11. Sorted into Slytherin. Got into loads of trouble. Almost expelled—twice. That sort of thing.”

You smirked. “Trouble, huh?”

“Oh, loads.”

“What kind of trouble?”

He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All kinds. Let’s just say I have a knack for bending the rules.”

You snorted. "Not very specific."

He turned onto his side to face you again. His smirk lingered, but there was something unreadable beneath it, something just slightly off.

"Mostly I'd get in shit for sneaking off places I shouldn't."

You arched a brow. “Like where?”

He smirked, but it was a little too sharp. “Oh, you know… the Restricted Section. Cursed catacombs. The occasional abandoned ruin.”

You let out a huff of laughter. “Sounds like you were more of a treasure hunter than a student.”

He stretched, rolling onto his back again. “Something like that.”

His voice was light, but for all the teasing, all the flirting, there was something about him that felt heavy. Like there were things he wasn’t saying.

You turned onto your stomach, resting your chin on your arms. “You still do that?”

He glanced at you. “Do what?”

“Go looking for things you shouldn’t?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers traced absent patterns into the sheets, expression thoughtful. Then—

“Not as much anymore.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

“Lost my motivation, I suppose.”

"And your motivation was...?"

His dark eyes flicked to you, something unreadable lurking behind them, stormy and distant in a way that made your stomach tighten.

"My sister was sick."

The room instantly felt smaller.

You hadn't expected that.

His voice was calm, almost too even, like he was reciting a fact instead of something that had unraveled his life. His fingers still traced idle shapes into the sheets, though you suspected now it was more about keeping his hands busy than anything else.

"Was?" You asked.

His fingers stilled.

"She still is. But we... don't talk anymore."

He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling, jaw set just tight enough to reveal the tension there.

Your throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

The silence between you stretched, heavy with things left unsaid.

His gaze remained locked on the ceiling, jaw set, fingers curled slightly in the sheets, and you shouldn’t have cared that he looked so broken. You had no reason to care. This was supposed to be nothing. A one-night distraction. A mistake that would be left behind in the morning.

So why... Why were you scooting closer? Why was your hand reaching out before you could even stop yourself?

Before you knew it, you had pressed yourself into his side, curling against him without thinking, your fingers brushing along his arm, your lips pressing the softest, faintest kiss to his temple.

He tensed, and for a brief, terrible second, you thought he might pull away. That he might make some biting remark, twist this moment into something easy so he wouldn’t have to feel it. But then, he exhaled and his shoulders slumped, the tension in his body easing just slightly.

You didn’t say anything. You just stayed there, forehead brushing against the side of his face, fingers resting lightly over his stomach.

His hand came up slowly, hesitating just for a moment before he curled his fingers over yours.

You weren’t sure how long you lay there like that, holding him. And you didn’t know what had come over you. Where had this protectiveness come from? This strange, overwhelming fondness for a man you had known for mere hours?

This was supposed to be nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

Not when he let you stay close. Not when his fingers held onto yours just a little bit tighter, as if he needed it.

The realization made something in your chest ache.

And maybe that was why, after everything, after you had given him your body, after you had laid yourselves bare in ways that weren’t just physical—

You finally gave him your name. Softly. Just above a whisper.

He blinked, turning his head slightly to face you, brow raising just a fraction. Then he smiled, soft and genuine. He squeezed your fingers lightly, and for the first time since you had met him, he said, “Sebastian.”

The name settled over you like a spell.

Sebastian.

The bed was empty when you woke.

Sebastian was gone.

Your stomach twisted with hurt, an irrational, stupid sort of hurt that you immediately tried to shake off.

He had no obligation to stay. No promise had been made, no expectation set.

Still, as you ran a hand over the empty space beside you, the sheets cold to the touch, something in your chest tightened.

You let out a sharp exhale, trying to will it away. You knew better than this.

But then you saw it. A slip of parchment, folded neatly and left on the pillow beside you.

You swallowed hard, pulse picking up as you reached for it, unfolding the note with slightly unsteady hands.

The writing was neat, precise, slanted just slightly to the right. You read the words once. Then twice. Then three times.

I had places to be. Didn’t want to wake you—figured you needed the sleep after last night. Try not to miss me too much. See you soon. —Sebastian

See you soon? How? How could he possibly see you soon? It wasn’t like he had left a way to contact him—no address, no floo network connection, not even a vague mention of when he’d be passing through Hogsmeade again.

Just see you soon.

Your chest ached, but you ignored it. It was probably just his way of letting you down easily, a casual farewell to smooth over the edges of what was supposed to be a one-night stand.

Maybe this experience would just… live in your mind. One reckless, beautiful, unforgettable night with a stranger. One that would never happen again.

You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over your face. You needed to move. You had things to do.

The day passed in a blur of quiet errands.

You spent the morning collecting your school supplies—robes, books, parchment, quills. You took your time browsing through Tomes & Scrolls, running your fingers along the spines of textbooks that still felt foreign to you.

You didn’t know why, but you felt restless. Like something was unfinished. Like there was something you were waiting for.

You pushed the thought away and kept moving.

By the time evening rolled around, you were exhausted, and yet, the nerves had settled in your stomach once more.

The Sorting Ceremony.

Tonight, you would officially become a student of Hogwarts. You didn’t know what house you’d end up in, but you weren’t even sure if you cared. You just wanted to belong.

The moment you stepped into Hogwarts castle, you felt small.

The corridors stretched impossibly high, the ancient stone whispering with centuries of history. The flickering torchlight cast moving shadows along the walls, the very air humming with magic.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Great Hall, following closely behind Professor Weasley, your heart was hammering.

Then the doors opened, and you were not prepared for what lay beyond them.

The Great Hall was breathtaking—a vast, candlelit chamber, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the darkening sky above. Hundreds of students were seated at four long tables, their faces curious as they turned to watch you and the other new arrivals.

Your stomach twisted, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for what happened next. Because as your eyes swept over the sea of unfamiliar faces—

You found him.

Sebastian.

Sitting comfortably at the Slytherin table, elbow resting on the back of the bench, tie loose around his collar. His brown eyes locked onto yours immediately, and the moment they did—

That smirk.

Your stomach dropped.

He winked.

Realization crashed over you like a tidal wave.

"See you soon."

He knew. He had always known.

You had spent the last twenty-four hours wondering if you’d ever see him again, replaying last night in your head like a memory you’d have to cherish and lock away forever, and he had known the whole time.

You were going to kill him.

Right after you figured out how to survive this moment without combusting from sheer mortification, that is.

You walked on autopilot toward the front of the hall, and all the while, Sebastian watched you. His eyes were fixed on you with unabashed amusement, his elbow propped lazily on the table, his fingers drumming against the wood.

You tore your gaze away. Tried to focus. Tried to ignore the heat creeping up the back of your neck, the way your entire body burned at the realization that the man who had ruined you last night was a student at Hogwarts. Another seventh-year.

Your luck was atrocious.

You inhaled sharply, trying to keep your expression neutral as Professor Weasley led you to your seat. The Sorting Hat sat on its stool nearby, looking far too unassuming for something that was about to dictate your entire future.

Then, one by one, the first years were sorted.

You barely heard the names being called, the cheers erupting from the different tables, the applause that followed each new addition. Your heart was hammering too loudly in your chest.

And then your name.

A hush fell over the Great Hall.

You swallowed thickly, stepping forward.

The Sorting Hat was placed on your head, and before you could even prepare yourself, a voice murmured in your ear.

"Ah… interesting. Very interesting indeed."

Your breath caught.

"Curious mind… sharp, determined… a fire in you, yes, I see it… and yet… You long to prove yourself. To carve your own place in the world. Oh, yes… yes, I know where to put you…"

Your stomach twisted.

"Better be... Slytherin!"

The word rang out across the hall. Your entire body locked up. The Slytherin table erupted into cheers. You barely heard them. The only thing you could hear, the only thing you could process, was the sound of one single clap.

Slow. Mocking. Infuriating.

Sebastian was lounging in his seat, his smug, insufferable grin stretching ear to ear, hands coming together in deliberately slow applause.

Your stomach sank. Because of course. Of course this was happening. Of course you were going to be stuck in the same house as him.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you actually considered turning around and walking straight back out of the castle.

But instead you inhaled sharply. Steeled yourself. And with as much dignity as you could possibly muster, you marched toward the Slytherin table, taking a seat as far away from Sebastian as humanly possible.

You had survived the first week.

Barely.

It had been a long, painful, excruciatingly humiliating five days at Hogwarts, thanks to one person and one person alone.

Sebastian Sallow.

The smug, insufferable, walking nightmare who had made it his personal mission to ensure you would never forget what had happened that night in Hogsmeade. And worse, he was having fun doing it.

It was already bad enough that you had unknowingly shagged a classmate before you had even set foot inside the castle, but Sebastian had known. He had known the entire time that you were going to be classmates and he had deliberately chosen not to tell you.

And now he was using it against you.

Every day. Every bloody day, he found new and creative ways to remind you of that night in the Three Broomsticks

You tried to ignore him. You really did. Because Merlin knew you had bigger problems.

Adjusting to Hogwarts was hard enough as it was. The magic, the culture, the sheer weight of it all—it was suffocating.

You were trying to catch up on seven years of magical education in just one.

Every subject felt impossibly advanced, the lessons moving faster than you could process, the spells and theory and history so overwhelmingly foreign to you that it left you exhausted by the end of each day.

You had spent your entire life thinking you were just an ordinary person, and now you were expected to master magic in a world you barely understood.

You didn't have time for distractions. You didn’t have time for him.

And yet Sebastian was everywhere, taking every opportunity to hold this not-so-little secret over your head.

In Potions, when Professor Sharp had assigned you partners for the term, you’d silently prayed to any higher power that you’d be paired with literally anyone else.

You were not that lucky.

Sebastian had grinned when his name was called next to yours, sliding onto the bench beside you, his voice too low, too smooth as he leaned in and murmured, “Guess we’re stuck together for a while, sweetheart. Good thing you’re good with your hands.”

You had nearly dropped your cauldron.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, when you had been paired for dueling exercises, Sebastian had grinned and leaned in close, murmuring, “Not the first time you’ve let me pin you down, is it?”

You had nearly hexed him on the spot.

But Sebastian found your anger amusing, your embarrassment endearing. So when you stomped into the Slytherin common room after dinner Friday night, you were determined to avoid him, determined to find a quiet corner and pretend he didn’t exist.

Except of course he was there. Leaning back on the couch by the fire, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his gaze already fixed on you the moment you entered.

You froze. His smirk widened. You turned on your heel.

“Oh, don’t be like that, love.” His voice was too smooth, too damn smug.

You ignored him, marching toward the dormitory stairs.

“Running away?” he called after you. "And here I thought you found me irresistible."

You exhaled slowly, whirled around, and stalked toward him, stopping just short of where he lounged on the couch.

“You,” you hissed.

“Me,” he agreed, completely unbothered.

“You have been insufferable all week.”

“I’ve been charming all week,” he corrected. “You, however, have been avoiding me.”

“Because you’re impossible.”

“I prefer relentless.”

You scowled. “You’re an ass.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He stretched, muscles flexing beneath his sweater. “Besides, you’re acting like I did something terrible, but as I recall, you weren’t exactly shy about how much you enjoyed yourself."

Heat flared across your cheeks, and Sebastian barely had a second to react before your fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, yanking him up from the couch with far more strength than he had expected. His smirk faltered for a second before he recovered, letting you drag him toward the exit of the common room.

The moment you stepped into the dimly lit corridor beyond the common room entrance, you shoved him back against the stone wall, your grip still tight on his sweater.

“You let me humiliate myself.”

Sebastian actually had the audacity to look offended. "Humiliate?"

"You knew we were going to be classmates, and you didn't tell me!" you spat, your fingers still curled into the front of his sweater. "You let me walk into Hogwarts completely blind, thinking I'd never see you again. And then you spent the entire week taunting me about it!"

Sebastian’s smirk faltered, if only for a fraction of a second. It wasn’t much, just the tiniest flicker of something uncertain in his brown eyes, but for the first time since this nightmare began, you saw something other than amusement behind his teasing.

Guilt.

His lips parted slightly, as if to say something, but then he hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was debating whether or not to lift them, to touch you, to do something other than stand there pinned against the wall.

And then, finally, he sighed.

“I didn’t mean for it to be cruel,” he admitted. “I swear, I didn’t.” Sebastian ran a hand through his curls, looking surprisingly sheepish. “I—” He hesitated again, exhaling sharply before he finally said, “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Your fingers loosened slightly in his sweater. “…What?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he repeated, a small, rueful chuckle slipping from him. “How was I supposed to bring that up? Oh, by the way, I’m actually a student too. See you in class.”

Your scowl deepened. "Sounds to me like you just wanted a shag and didn’t care what happened after."

Sebastian winced, his mouth pressing into a tight line, and for a moment, he actually looked hurt.

"That’s not—" He ran a hand over his face. "Merlin—that’s not what it was."

"Could have fooled me."

His jaw tensed. "Do you really think I’m that much of a bastard?"

You hesitated. Because—yes? No? You didn’t even know anymore. The Sebastian you had met at the Three Broomsticks—the charming, charismatic, thoughtful man who had listened to you so intently, who had kissed you like he had already decided you were his—felt like an entirely different person from the one who had spent the past week tormenting you. And yet… was it really so surprising that they were one and the same?

For all his teasing, for all his insufferable smugness, there had been moments where you had caught glimpses of that same man beneath it all. The one who had made you laugh, who had leaned in close like he couldn’t help himself, who had unraveled you with a single look.

And for all your frustration, all your exasperation, you couldn’t get that night out of your head.

The way he had touched you. The way he had looked at you. The way he had made you feel, like you were something to be devoured.

Now, standing here, chest to chest, his voice lower, his smirk absent, the way he was looking at you wasn’t taunting, certainly wasn’t cruel. It was something else entirely.

"I don’t know," you admitted finally.

Sebastian inhaled sharply. He tilted his head back against the stone wall, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to collect his thoughts, like he was trying to find the right words, something he clearly never struggled with. But then he exhaled, his hands finally moving, coming up slowly to curl loosely around your wrists, the weight of them warm and solid.

"I should have told you," he said. "I should have. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care."

You swallowed hard. "Then why?"

Sebastian sighed, a rueful smile tugging on his lips. "Because I liked you. I liked you the second I sat down next to you, and I didn’t want to tell you."

You stared at him, but Sebastian wasn’t looking at you anymore. His gaze had drifted somewhere over your shoulder, jaw tight, lips pressed together in frustration.

"I knew the second I told you, it would ruin everything," he continued. "I knew you’d look at me differently. That it wouldn’t be real anymore. That you'd... pull away from me."

Sebastian’s eyes flicked back to yours. "But that night, before you knew… you looked at me like I was..." His voice softened, almost distant. "Like I was worth your time."

You swallowed thickly, pulse hammering in your ears.

Sebastian’s grip on your wrists tightened just slightly, his thumbs brushing against your skin before he sighed and let go, running a hand through his hair.

"I’m sorry," he muttered. "Truly. I know I... I should have told you, I was an ass, you're right," His mouth quirked slightly, but there was no arrogance behind it now, only something almost self-deprecating. "But, for what it’s worth… this week has been fun."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Fun for you."

He grinned, but the sharpness had dulled. "And for you, if you’d just admit it."

You rolled your eyes, but the irritation wasn’t quite as strong anymore. He wasn’t... wrong.

The tension between you shifted. It didn’t dissolve, not entirely, but it wasn’t as jagged now. It lingered, softer at the edges, something else creeping in.

Sebastian Sallow, with all his arrogance and relentless teasing, wasn’t just a menace. He was charming. He was dangerous. Not because he was cruel, not because he was some heartless rake who played with people’s emotions for sport, but because he actually meant it.

Because beneath all the games and the insufferable smirks, there was someone real. Someone who had wanted you, who still did. And worse—Merlin help you—you wanted him too.

You inhaled sharply, pushing past the thoughts threatening to sink their claws into your already-weakened defenses. “I’m not saying I forgive you completely,” you muttered. “But… I guess I understand why you did it.”

Sebastian grinned. “Progress.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Liar.

But he was watching you carefully now, his expression something almost hesitant, and he shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, does this mean we can start over?”

You frowned slightly. “Start over?”

He straightened, suddenly standing tall, clearing his throat before extending his hand between you.

“Sebastian Sallow,” he said, voice deliberately formal. But his brown eyes were warm, playful, and somehow earnest. “Seventh-year. Slytherin. Excellent duelist. Top of our class in Dark Arts. And, apparently, your Potions partner for the foreseeable future.”

You stared at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Can't be that bad," he mused, still holding out his hand, "you haven’t walked away.”

Your lips pressed together, but you couldn’t stop the smallest tug at the corner of your mouth. You sighed, then reached out, slipping your fingers into his.

You met his gaze. “But for the record, I was trying to walk away from you all week.”

Sebastian smirked. “And yet.”

You groaned, trying to tug your hand back, but he held on, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a way that made something dangerous flutter in your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you huffed, finally giving in. “Truce.”

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Truce.”

He finally let your hand go, and you ignored the way your skin still tingled from the contact.

But before you could even process what this meant, what he meant, Sebastian tilted his head, considering you for a long moment.

“Still,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, smoother. “I can’t help but wonder…”

You arched a brow. “Wonder what?”

His gaze flickered, dropping just slightly to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

“If you’d still look at me the same way," he murmured, "now.”

You stiffened.

You knew exactly what he meant. Exactly what he was asking.

That night in the Three Broomsticks, you had looked at him like he was something worth wanting. Like he was someone worth keeping. And now—now that you knew who he was, now that you’d spent the past week despising him, pushing him away, trying and failing to ignore the way he made you feel—did you still want him?

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, his voice lower now, softer. “Well?”

Your breath came a little quicker. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the way he was so close but not quite touching, waiting. The way his breath was just the faintest bit uneven, like he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted you to believe.

You opened your mouth—whether to deny your feelings, to tell him to shut up, or to say something else entirely, you weren’t sure—but you never got the chance. Because in the next breath, Sebastian’s hands were on your cheeks, and then—then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t like in the Three Broomsticks. That had been confident, assured, dripping with the kind of arrogance that came with knowing exactly what he wanted and knowing he could have it.

This was different. This was hesitation wrapped in want. Caution tangled with need.

His lips pressed against yours, firm but searching, waiting—waiting for you to push him away, waiting for you to tell him this was a mistake.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The moment his mouth met yours, the world tilted, and suddenly, you were back in that dimly lit inn room, back to firewhiskey-slicked lips and burning fingertips, back to the way his body had felt beneath yours, against yours.

Back to the way he had unraveled you.

A quiet sound escaped your throat—something between a sigh and a surrender—and in response, Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers slid into your hair, pulling you closer, kissing you like he had just won something, like he had been waiting all week for you to cave, to crack, to give in.

And maybe he had. Maybe you had too.

Your hands found their way to his sweater, curling into the fabric, holding onto him as his lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, tasting, savoring.

His fingers curled tighter at the nape of your neck, and you let him tilt your head, let him deepen the kiss, let him tease his tongue along the seam of your lips until you parted for him with a soft, breathless gasp.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and Merlin help you, you let him.

The warmth of his body, the scent of his skin, the way he kissed you—firm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth—it sent a slow, delicious heat curling through your stomach, pooling low in your core.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, tangled in him, lost in the quiet hum of pleasure simmering just beneath your skin.

Long enough that your lungs burned for air. Long enough that your fingers had found their way into his curls, threading through them, tugging just enough to earn another deep sound from his throat.

And then, just as you were about to lose yourself completely, Sebastian pulled back.

Barely.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breathing uneven, his hands still gripping your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

His lips were red. Swollen.

So were yours.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence was thick, charged, the only sound between you the soft, rapid inhale of your breaths.

Then finally Sebastian let out a quiet chuckle, low and breathless, his lips still close to yours.

“Well,” he murmured, voice rough with something sinful. “Guess I got my answer.”

You swallowed thickly, still trying to catch your breath, still trying to process what had just happened, what this meant, what this was.

“…Shut up,” you muttered.

Sebastian grinned. “Make me.”

You almost did. Almost kissed him again, almost let yourself fall right back into the warmth of his mouth, his touch, the way he felt against you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you shoved lightly at his chest, your breath still uneven, your mind still spinning, and turned on your heel.

"You're carrying all my books to class next week," you shot over your shoulder, trying desperately to regain some semblance of control, to pretend like your heart wasn’t still hammering in your chest, like your lips weren’t still tingling from the way he had kissed you.

Sebastian let out a low chuckle behind you. “Oh? Is that my punishment, then?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, still walking away, because if you turned around, you might actually go back to him.

You heard him shift, could practically feel the smirk in his voice when he said, “Hardly seems fair. You enjoyed that just as much as I did.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, fists clenching at your sides. You inhaled sharply through your nose, then exhaled, willing yourself to ignore him, willing yourself not to let him see just how right he was.

Behind you, Sebastian hummed. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ll carry your books.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I’ll carry your books,” he repeated, and when you finally turned to look at him, he was grinning, mischievous and infuriating and undeniably pleased with himself. “Happy to do it, actually. Gives me an excuse to walk you to class.”

Your stomach did something embarrassing.

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, I know,” he cut in smoothly, rocking back on his heels. “But that’s what you’re getting.”

You groaned, turning around again, determined to put as much space between you and his smugness as possible. “You are impossible.”

"You still kissed me. Again."

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. Because even as you left him standing there, even as you stormed away, your lips still burned with the memory of him.

And something told you this was only the beginning.

Banner Credit

263 notes · View notes