Hogwarts Legacy Fandom - Blog Posts

A new story I'm working on.

(came to me in a dream..)

Beyond Time: The Shadow Trio's Adventure

(I made the art with ai sadly I can't draw that good 🤣 I wish I could but I did add the lights on the wands)

Y/n potter, Sebastian shallow, and Ominis Grant are sent into the future to help harry Potter defeat Voldemort.

I like to think that Sebastian actively seeks fights and then drags Horace into them

RAWR MOMMY

sebastian across the great hall: 👀😍👄🫠😚😉

aurélie, freshly orphaned, just arrived from france, miserable, freezing her toes off, trying survive hogwarts without falling in love with a slytherin:

🫶

Hogwarts Legacy Fandom Secret Santa 💗

Happy holidays everyone!! In Christmas spirit me and @ladyofsappho thought it’d be fun to create a Hogwarts legacy fandom secret Santa, to spread positivity and have a good time!

Edit: Submissions will be closed after 5 DAYS! (depending on participants, possibly might get extended)

How it works:

1. Through this post reblog, comment, or send me or @ladyofsappho a message that you would like to join in

2. After we have enough people to start it, we will send the participants a private message giving you your random secret Santa

3. After you get your person, for the rest of the month leading up to X-mas, you will send fun, positive little anonymous asks 💗 you can send as many as you want! And then optionally, you can create a gift for your person (ex: an art piece, a piece of writing, etc) which you will give to them after the reveal of the secret Santa’s

On X-Mas we will reveal who all the secret Santa’s are, and you can give them your optional gift as well 💗💗

If you have any questions, issues sending anonymous asks or other, concerns, contact me or @ladyofsappho for help!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS 💗🎄

Hi, I'm Lyworth! I've been writing in the HL Fandom for a little over a year now. My works are mainly about Ominis x MC (Allegra), who I've also been drawing art for here on my tumblr. Here's a masterlist of my work, with my one-shots placed under a cut to avoid having a very long post. Come say hi if you give them a read! ❤️

Green is the Color - Rated E, Complete

AO3 | Wattpad

Friends to Lovers ♦️ Found Family ♦️ Fluff and Angst

Canon-compliant retelling of the last half of Hogwarts Legacy. Follows Ominis, MC, and Seb well into their adult years. Multi-POV.

"The good thing about not having sight, Ominis Gaunt used to joke, was that he at least had good sense."

A Song of Saints and Sinners - Rated M

AO3 | Wattpad

Rivals to Lovers ♦️ Sass and Banter ♦️ Mystery ♦️Drama

A retelling of the In the Shadows questline, with aged-up characters and a darker twist on Ancient Magic. Multi-POV. Also, a dog named Cat.

“Miss Chant,” came Ominis’ tired greeting. “Why is it always you?”

“Is that it, then?” Allegra said, voice raspy. “No, ‘Are you alright? I’m so glad you didn’t die,’ or ‘What happened to you, I’m so happy you’re still alive?’”

“Are you alright? What happened to you?” Ominis echoed flatly.“I’m so glad you didn’t die.” 

The Unfortunate Inevitability of You and Me - Rated M

AO3 | Wattpad

Arranged Marriage ♦️ Pureblood Culture ♦️ Revenge

Ominis' plan has always been to run from the Gaunt name. But now she is involved, and now it is extremely personal. Or: Ominis and MC plan a heist to get out of an arranged marriage, and, oopsie, they fall in love. Ominis POV.

"But what makes this worse—what makes this whole thing worse—is that she is not a stranger, not some girl pruned and picked for this purpose. She is Ominis’ friend. His best friend, who he’s loved from the start."

Fate, Tailor-Made - Rated M

AO3 | Wattpad

Second Chance Romance ♦️ Pining ♦️ Miscommunication

Ominis misses the chance to Kiss the Girl. Nearly a decade later, he finds her working as a tailor, and everything comes rushing back.

The sensation that taunts him the most is the feeling of her lips just there , less than an inch away. He remembers her breaths puffing gently, invitingly against his mouth. Sometimes he can still hear her breath hitch as he leans in. Waiting. Wondering. Wanting, perhaps, just as much as he did.

But what Ominis remembers—and dreams of the most—is the part where he pulls away.

The Desk - Rated E

AO3

Rough Sex ♦️ Brat Tamer Ominis ♦️ Unholy Things are Done on A Desk

A fight can be resolved in many, many ways. Bending his current source of anger over a desk is just one of Ominis' favourite methods.

His hands found the seam of her stockings. They were soft beneath his touch. Allegra was a woman who was always covered in the finest silks and the softest cottons, and as delicious as she felt in them, Ominis had always wanted to–

He fisted his fingers into her stockings, shoved her legs further apart, and pulled at the sheer material until he felt a satisfying rip. 

1 New Message - Rated T

AO3

Chat Fic ♦️ Modern AU

Ominis is partnered with a near-stranger for chemistry. For the first time in his life, he finds himself checking his phone more and more often.

Allegra Chant (Chemistry)

2:47 p.m.

Pretty please? <3

Ominis

2:49 p.m.

Pretty please? Are we 12???

Of Aligning the Stars - Rated M

AO3

Pining ♦️ Drama ♦️ Fluff and Sweetness

To Allegra Chant, Ominis shines brighter than anyone else in Hogwarts. For him, she won't wait for the stars to align: she'll go up there and make them. Green is the Color spin-off.

But for now, she came to some other realization: it was incredibly pleasant to just be sitting in History of Magic with Ominis.

Anon has me over here giggling, twirling my hair and kicking my feet 🥺👉👈

no one writes ominis quite like @lyworth does with his perfect mix of sass angst and sweetness, her stories with her ominis x mc are just so well crafted that you cant help but believe in the love-you-in-every-universe trope!!

Shout out to @lyworth for their ominis fics ✨ go check them out on ao3 👇

Happy happy happy anniversary to HTMAV, the gorgeous Aurélie, and the clever author behind it all!!

🦋 Today marks one year since I published my first chapter of How to Make a Villain and what better way to celebrate than finally letting the bebes have THEIR FIRST OFFICIAL CANON SMOOCH in chapter twenty-two!!

I have many things to say about my solid whole-ass year of publishing but not enough spoons to spoon the words into coherence today, so for now here's what I think might possibly be the best paragraph I've ever written (I SAY THIS AS HUMBLY POSSIBLE BUT I REALLY PUT MY ENTIRE SOUL INTO THIS CHAPTER LOLOL)

Sebastian had always been at the mercy of some power greater than himself: the lure of the Dark Arts, the ceaseless march of Death down every avenue of his life, but never — never — had he been at the mercy of love. Stained though his heart was by Death's inky-black touch, there had always remained a tiny spark therein; a glimmer of hope that drove him forward, urging him toward something he didn't fully understand, some destination that existed not as a name or a coordinate on a map, but as a feeling. A feeling that had always remained vague and undefinable —until he found it living in her.

How to Make a Villain, chapter twenty-two. wattpad | ao3

Writing Villain has been one of the best decisions I've ever made for so many reasons, but especially because it connected me to so many incredible people in this fandom who enrich my life every day. 🫵

🥺

Oh my gooood what an honor to read on my birthday of all days!! So happy I opened tumblr! ALL THE CHEERS TO YOU ANON AND @hogwarts-legacy-hype I AM HUMBLEDDDD!

Shout out to @lyworth and her fic A Song of Saints and Sinners. A unique and captivating story. 10x10 recommend. The sass and banter are brilliant.

Shout out to @lyworth and their fic! ✨

enjoy the banter of Song of Saints and Sinners on AO3 👇

"I feel something behind me..."

*MC with a weapon ready to strike*

original meme

I couldn't help but draw them like that xD

MC: We're all gonna be safe, and we're all gonna have a great time 🎵 🎶

Seb: *casts Avada Kedavra*

MC: What in the Jesus Christ was that?

[from this clip]

Introducing my MC x OC pair, Chester and Celeste! I'm so happy with how this turned out, I'm working very hard on trying to improve my art until I can properly get what's in my mind's eye onto the page, and so far I think this is the closest I've ever gotten it! I'm also trying to get my art more out there as well, so hopefully the trend continues.

I NEEDED THIS—

Feigning Indifference

"— And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."

 (I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. 🐢🐢🐢 Anyhoo...)

Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. 🔞

Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1.8k

[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]

Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked — victorious.

Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks — they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them — not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindor’s in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.

Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teams’ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference. 

He wants to kiss the frown right off your face. 

‘There you are.’ He grins down at you. You glare up at him.

‘Seven different girls touched your shoulders just now,’ you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. ‘Two more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.’

Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. ‘Did they?’ He affects a look of innocence. ‘I didn't notice.’

‘Liar.’ You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. ‘Maybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.’

His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing — after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination. 

With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his. 

‘I wouldn't let you play Quidditch,’ he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.

Authority which you completely ignore, like always.

Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (‘Ugh, put me down, you brute! — You can't tell me what to do! — If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!’) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement. 

‘You're not the boss of me!’ you wail. You’re tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but you’re agile enough to break free if he doesn’t handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak. 

‘Yes,’ he growls in your face, ‘I am.’

Despite all the height and the strength he’s gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. — Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face. 

A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable. 

You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs. 

You're his now. You both know it. 

‘How can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?’ He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. ‘I should fuck you standing. Right here,’ — he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, — ‘right now.’

Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.

He wants to fuck the shock right off your face. 

‘R-right here?’ The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in. 

Because you always give in. 

‘Why not?’ He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth… But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks — hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper. 

‘What if they see?’ You palm his shoulders — but you're pulling, not pushing. 

‘Let them.’ His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. ‘Let them watch me fucking ruin you.’

Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder. 

‘You think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?’ He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth. 

Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. ‘You think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?’

Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. — He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy. 

He wants everyone to know you're his. 

The thought makes him fucking — lose — it. 

Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.

Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees. 

It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear — the way you make him lose control. 

‘Look at you,’ he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. ‘S'fucking good, s’all fucking mine.’

Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it — oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder. 

Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time. 

He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.

‘If only —’ he groans, ‘— they could — see you —’ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. ‘You're the — ngh — only one — oh, fuck —’

Surely you know — surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words. 

It's more than sex: he fucking loves you. 

Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows. 

this was AMAZING ???!!!! omfg I loved every second

anything you want i did see a video where he was saying you hurt my darling to Rockwood and my did things to my heart

By Right of Blood | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

RAHHHH THIS WAS FUN. I LOVE PROTECTIVE SEB. I HOPE YOU ENJOY. I admit, I got carried away and this ended up longer than I anticipated which is why it took me a hot minute to get to this but I hope it was worth it!

Fair warning: this fic is realllllly just a lot of angry, protective seb + fighting/action; very little fluff/romance/etc until the very end

A very special thank you to @newdreamlove95 for reading this over and helping me revise before posting! <3

Words: ~13,000

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Canon Divergence, Post Hogwarts, Auror Seb, Auror MC, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Confessions

The ruin was ancient—far older than the maps suggested.

You exhaled, the sound swallowed by the dense, humid air of the underground chamber. The magic here was thick, pressing against your skin like something alive. It whispered at the edges of your mind, hinting at an enchantment cast long ago.

Your wand's light flickered against the damp stone as you stepped forward, careful, methodical. Runes lined the archways, warnings etched in a dialect you barely recognized. You traced your fingers over them, murmuring a translation under your breath.

Do not enter. Do not disturb what has been sealed.

A warning, not unlike many you had seen before.

You had been breaking curses for years, navigating the remnants of forgotten civilizations, dismantling traps left behind by those who feared their own creations. It was dirty, dangerous work—but it suited you, kept you sharp, fulfilled your unquenchable need for adventure.

This ruin was no different.

The patterns in the stone, the way the air hummed—there was something familiar about it.

Ancient magic.

You stepped toward the center of the chamber, fingers brushing the edges of an inscription half-buried beneath the dust of centuries.

Then, you heard a sound.

Faint, but unmistakable. Not a ghost. Not an animal. Not the whisper of long-dead magic. It was the slow, deliberate scuff of boots against stone.

Someone was here.

You whirled around, wand gripped tightly, heart immediately hammering against your ribs, adrenaline spiking.

"Identify yourself."

The laugh that followed was slow, low at first but rising, curling around you like smoke.

You recognized it immediately. It was a sound that haunted your nightmares, woven into memories you had long tried to bury. The echo of it sent something sharp and cold twisting in your gut.

From the darkness, a figure stepped into the dim glow of your wandlight.

“Hello, love.”

Your grip on your wand tightened.

“I have to say,” the man mused, tilting his head as though appraising you, “I was beginning to think I’d never get the chance to see you again. You’ve been quite the slippery little thing, haven’t you?”

Your blood ran cold, but you kept your stance firm, refusing to let him see the way his presence set every nerve in your body alight with warning.

“You should be dead,” you said evenly.

“Should be,” he echoed, almost lazily. “But I’ve always been a difficult man to kill.”

His eyes flickered over you, and something dark and satisfied curled at the edges of his expression.

“And you—still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” His gaze drifted to the ruins around you. “I wonder… is it curiosity that brought you here? Or instinct?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, but you held steady.

“You’re a fool if you think you’ll walk away from this,” you said, voice low, dangerous. “The Ministry has been hunting you for years. You won’t leave these ruins alive.”

Another laugh.

“Oh, I rather think I will,” he replied, tipping his head in amusement. “And you, my dear, will be coming with me, in due time of course.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you moved.

Your wand cut through the air, the incantation forming on your lips—but the curse never left your tongue, because he was faster:

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through you, tremendous and searing. Your knees buckled. Your wand slipped from your fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone as your body hit the ground. Every muscle seized, your spine arching against the agony as if to escape the pain.

The world blurred, your vision tunneling as your screams echoed off the cavern walls.

It felt endless.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling, nerves raw and burning in the aftermath. The cold stone beneath you did nothing to ground you, nothing to dull the lingering agony that curled through every inch of you like a live wire.

Boots scraped against stone.

Through the haze, you saw a second figure step beside you. You tried to move. To reach for your wand. To fight. But before you could, a boot connected with your face and pain erupted again—sharp and immediate, snapping your head to the side.

A burst of light—too bright, too fast—as your skull cracked against the stone.

The last thing you heard before everything plunged into darkness was a voice, smooth and satisfied.

"Sleep tight, love."

Victor Rookwood was a ghost story.

A name spoken in hushed tones, a shadow that stretched long over the years, fading in and out of whispered rumors like a specter that refused to be laid to rest. He had haunted the edges of Ministry investigations, slipping through the cracks, a vanishing act so seamless that some believed he had died in hiding. Others swore he had fled the country, abandoning his tattered empire to rot. There were even those who claimed he had gone mad—driven into the depths of some forsaken ruin, a king without a throne, wasting away in solitude.

But Sebastian Sallow knew better.

Rookwood was too proud, too vain, too damn angry to let himself rot in obscurity. He had spent a lifetime clawing his way into power—he would not fade quietly into the dark.

Sebastian told you once, in passing, that the Ministry still had a standing order to find him. That somewhere, someone was always searching. But he never told you that he was the one leading the hunt. That it was his team tracking every cold lead, every whispered sighting, every scrap of intelligence that might finally drag the bastard into the light. He never told you that he had spent every fucking year since leaving Hogwarts with a singular purpose: to make sure the ghosts that haunted you never had the chance to crawl out of the dark.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how much you tried to leave it behind, there was one person tied to Rookwood’s downfall more than anyone else:

You.

It was why Sebastian had never questioned your decision to become a cursebreaker instead of an Auror, even when others did. Even when they called it a waste of talent. He knew why. Knew what the rebellion had taken from you—what ancient magic had cost you.

And it was why he hadn’t wanted you going alone.

Southern Scotland. Uncharted ruins. A job you couldn’t pass up.

“I don’t like it,” he had told you before you left, arms crossed, jaw tight with unease.

“You don’t like anything that involves me going anywhere alone,” you had pointed out, amused, packing your satchel with methodical efficiency.

Sebastian’s scowl had deepened. “And for good reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Cursebreaking was dangerous by nature.

And what you didn't know was that to Sebastian, this wasn’t just another expedition. He had waded through enough bodies in his time as an Auror to recognize a pattern when he saw one, and of one thing he was certain: Rookwood’s activities had increased lately.

Small things, at first—whispers in Knockturn Alley, Ministry research going missing. Then the disappearances started. Then the unsolved cases, scattered across the country, all tied together by the same faint, rotten thread. His team of Aurors was finding bodies again, burned and mutilated in ways that were too familiar. The signs were all there—Rookwood was growing bolder, the noose of his ambition tightening.

And now you were gone.

A simple owl was all Sebastian had asked for. A brief message—I’m fine. Don’t worry. Still working. It was the bare minimum, a compromise between his paranoia and your stubborn insistence that you could take care of yourself.

But the hours stretched long, the silence thickening into something unbearable.

No owl. No sign of you. And Sebastian knew. Fuck, he knew.

Victor Rookwood had you.

He'd gone through every logical excuse—maybe you’d finished late, maybe found something interesting in the ruins and got sidetracked. You had taken worse risks before, pushed the limits of your own survival in ways that made him grit his teeth and call you reckless. But you were also experienced. Brilliant. And you knew the weight of promises made to the people who worried about you.

You wouldn’t forget to owl him.

Sebastian shot up from his chair so violently that it scraped across the floor, nearly toppling over. Across the room, a few of his fellow Aurors glanced up from their desks, but no one said anything. They had learned by now that when Sebastian moved with that particular kind of urgency, it was better to stay out of his way.

He stormed through the office, his mind already sharpening, already forming the next steps: he needed resources. He needed names. He needed your fucking location.

Sebastian tore through the corridors of the Ministry, moving fast enough to nearly knock over a passing file clerk. Papers went flying, a startled protest rose behind him, but he barely muttered an apology before pressing forward, his pulse a sharp, insistent drumbeat in his ears.

The Department of Cursebreaking was quieter than his own, filled with scholars and field researchers instead of hardened Aurors. Less war, more history. It had always suited Ominis.

Sebastian stepped into his friend's office without knocking.

Ominis was already standing, his chair pushed back, his posture rigid.

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. “She’s missing.”

“I know. I tried contacting her this morning,” Ominis replied, his voice tight, each syllable measured, controlled. “No response. And there were traces of magical interference, which means whatever happened to her—” He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath came a little too sharply through his nose. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Sebastian already knew that.

"Not shit," he snapped, voice raw, hoarse. His hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely restrained fury. "Rookwood has her."

Ominis exhaled sharply through his nose, unreadable behind the usual mask of quiet control—but Sebastian knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw clenched just a fraction tighter. Ominis was worried.

Good. He should be.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was measured, deliberate. "Sebastian—"

"Don’t tell me to calm down," Sebastian cut in, already knowing what was coming. "Don’t—don’t say that I should sit tight and be rational and fucking wait while Rookwood—" His breath hitched, and he turned away sharply, hands raking through his hair. "Fuck."

Ominis’ shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained level. "I'm worried too," he said, quieter this time, as if the weight of the words might reach Sebastian through the haze of his anger. "But we can’t do anything rash. You don’t know what you’re walking into, and—"

"Rookwood has her, Ominis." Sebastian turned back to him, his gaze wild and desperate. "You know what that means."

Ominis did know. Knew it all too well. Knew what Rookwood was capable of. Knew what he had done to people before. Knew what he would do now, given the chance.

And worst of all—knew exactly what you meant to Sebastian.

He had always known.

Had seen it written in every unspoken word, every sharp breath, every stupid reckless thing Sebastian had done for you since they were teenagers. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way he always reached for his wand at the first sign of trouble, the way his whole world seemed to orient around you without him even realizing it.

And now you were gone.

"Sebastian—"

"We don't have time to wait!" Sebastian interrupted, his voice raw, shaking. "We don't even know how long she's been missing. She could’ve been taken yesterday, she could be—" His throat tightened, something painful lodging there. "We don’t know, Ominis. And you’re asking me to fucking wait?!"

Ominis exhaled through his nose, struggling for calm. "Your team is in the field," he pointed out, even, steady. "They need to be here. You need them."

Sebastian shook his head, laughing bitterly. "I need to go. Now. Before it's too late."

"You’re talking about storming into a situation blind. Without backup. Without a plan. Do you hear yourself?" Ominis’ voice sharpened. "Do you even care if you survive this?"

Sebastian stilled.

And that—that—was what made Ominis go still, too.

Because Sebastian didn’t answer. His breathing was too fast, his fists still clenched at his sides, and in his silence, Ominis knew.

Sebastian wasn’t thinking about himself at all.

Sebastian had never been good at restraint, had never known how to stop when it came to the people he loved. He had already proven, again and again, that there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do if someone he loved was in danger. And you—

You were everything.

"Sebastian, please," Ominis tried again, softer this time, stepping closer. "You going in alone is exactly what Rookwood would want."

Sebastian let out a sharp, bitter exhale. "Rookwood wants her, Ominis," he spat, voice hoarse. "And I’ll be damned if I let him have her."

Ominis hesitated. Because the truth was, Sebastian was right. They didn’t have time.

But Ominis also knew, with every shred of certainty in his body, that if Sebastian went now—alone, reckless, half-mad with fury—he might never come back.

But the Auror was already moving.

"Owl my team," he said, reaching for the door and ignoring Ominis's protests. "But I'm not waiting for them."

He stormed into the hallway, his mind a razor-sharp edge of focus. He didn’t know where you were, but he knew where to start.

The ruins. That was where Rookwood had found you. But Sebastian had never seen the ruins himself, had never been there. He couldn't apparate to a place he didn’t know.

Which meant he needed someone who did: your apprentice, Elias Vane.

Sebastian found him in the far corner of the Cursebreaking Department, hunched over a desk littered with notes, open grimoires, and a cup of tea, long forgotten.

Vane was young—barely out of Hogwarts—but sharp. Talented. You had spoken well of him before, praised his instinct, his skill. Reckless, yes, but capable. A good cursebreaker.

And right now, Sebastian needed him.

He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t stop. His hands slammed against the desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot and send a loose parchment fluttering to the floor.

Vane jolted, eyes snapping up in alarm. “Shit—”

“You’re coming with me,” Sebastian said, voice cold, clipped. His pulse roared in his ears. No time. No patience. “Now.”

Vane blinked, still disoriented. “What—?”

“The ruins,” Sebastian snapped. “The ones she went to. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

Vane’s expression flickered with confusion, then something like wariness. “Y-yeah, once, during the initial survey, but—”

“Then you’re taking me there.”

Vane frowned, still catching up. “Wait—why? Where’s—”

“She’s missing,” Sebastian cut in, his voice like flint. “No owl. No sign of her.” He straightened, shoving back from the desk. “We need to leave. Now.”

Vane paled. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the inkpot in the process, but didn’t even glance at it. “She—she’s missing? But—” His voice dropped to something unsure, something unsteady. “She’s good at this, Sallow. If something happened—”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His breath came sharp through his nose.

“She didn’t just get lost,” he said, voice dangerously low. “She was taken.”

Vane hesitated, but whatever he saw in Sebastian’s expression had him snapping his mouth shut and nodding. “Alright. But if she’s just holed up in some side chamber taking notes, she’s going to kill us both for interrupting her.”

Sebastian didn’t respond.

He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that was the case, but the dread clawing at his chest told him otherwise.

He stepped closer, gripping Vane’s arm.

“Hold tight,” Vane murmured before twisting his wand.

The world cracked apart, then Sebastian’s boots hit the stone with a sharp thud.

The ruins loomed before him, vast and desolate, and he felt it. Something was wrong.

Sebastian had been in enough places touched by dark magic to recognize the suffocating stillness that hung in the air. It was the kind of silence that only followed violence. The kind that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the surroundings while Vane exhaled beside him, eyes sweeping over the ruins. “She's supposed to be here,” he murmured. “She would have left something behind. Campfire. Equipment. A bloody note.”

Sebastian was already moving toward the mouth of the cave, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he walked. His pulse pounded, his grip tightening on his wand.

Then he saw it.

Boot prints. Many boot prints.

His stomach twisted as he crouched, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth.

Vane stepped up behind him. “What is it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. A sick feeling clawed up his throat. The confirmation of what he already knew. You'd been ambushed. The evidence was right in front of him.

Victor Rookwood had been here.

Sebastian turned to Vane, voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Tell me everything she was researching.”

Vane swallowed. “Uh, ancient warding magic. Something about sealed vaults. She was trying to cross-reference Keeper records with—”

Ancient warding magic. The same damn thing Rookwood had been stealing from Ministry archives for months.

“Fuck.” Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, his pulse roaring.

He knew what Rookwood wanted, and it wasn’t just revenge. It was your magic—the same power you had buried, the same magic Victor had lost in the rebellion. The bastard had played a long game. He had waited, plotted, and then, the moment you had gotten too close—

He had taken you.

Sebastian turned to Vane, who was still pale, eyes darting to the boot prints in the dirt. The young cursebreaker swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under his unwavering stare.

“You’re going back to the Ministry,” Sebastian ordered.

Vane blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Go back,” Sebastian repeated, stepping closer, his grip tightening around his wand. “Go to Ominis. Tell him everything we saw here. He’ll know what to do.”

“But—”

Sebastian didn’t have time for hesitation. “You’ll just get in my way.”

Vane recoiled slightly, offense flashing across his face, but Sebastian didn’t let up.

"This isn’t some damn expedition," his voice was low, razor-sharp. "Do you honestly believe that when it comes down to it, you can make the call? That you can put someone in the ground before they do the same to you?" He stepped closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Because that’s what this is. It’s not research. It’s war. And I don’t have time to babysit you."

Vane opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, something in his face crumbling as the weight of reality settled in.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“You want to help? Find Ominis.”

Vane hesitated for only a second longer before nodding, his face grim. “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian barely hesitated. “I’m going after her.”

Vane’s frown deepened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Sebastian cut him off, his voice low, lethal. “And I will.”

Something in his expression must have made it clear that there was no point arguing, because Vane exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re mad.”

Sebastian didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he turned his back on the younger man and stalked toward the deeper ruins, the weight of his purpose pressing like a blade against his ribs.

Behind him, he heard Vane mutter a curse before taking out his wand. “If you get yourself killed, I’m not explaining it to Gaunt.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

With a sharp crack, Vane disapparated, leaving Sebastian alone.

The silence pressed in immediately, thick and smothering as he moved deeper. He took a slow breath, centering himself. He had to think. Had to move quickly.

Rookwood had taken you, that much was clear. But where?

His eyes swept over the ruined chamber, cataloging every detail with a hunter’s precision. The boot prints led toward the collapsed corridor ahead, vanishing deeper into the tunnel. There were too many to count—at least half a dozen men. Maybe more.

Sebastian followed them without hesitation, his movements sure.

The ruins stretched ahead, the air thick with humidity and the musty scent of mildew. Ancient carvings lined the stone, half-obscured by moss and time. The dampness clung to his skin, the scent of earth and decay filling his lungs.

Then, as he stepped into a large cavern, he stopped abruptly, his breath catching.

Blood.

It wasn’t a lot—just a smear, a faint streak against the stone floor—but it was enough.

He dropped to a knee. There were boot prints everywhere, some overlapping, some leading deeper into the ruins. And the blood... he ran a finger through the smear. Still tacky. It was fresh. Recent.

Yours?

His gut roared at the thought, a sickening, lurching thing as he forced himself to breathe.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to tear through these tunnels and hunt them down—but he couldn’t afford recklessness. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, steadying the fire burning in his chest. His wand was firm in his grip, his fingers still slick with the tacky smear of blood. He wiped them against his coat absently, his mind already working through the possibilities.

There were too many boot prints to count, but the path was clear. They hadn’t been subtle—there was no need. No one else was supposed to be here. No one was supposed to find you.

And yet, here he was.

Sebastian followed the trail. The air grew colder the deeper he went, the damp walls pressing inward like silent sentinels. The corridor narrowed, the carved runes along the stone becoming more intricate.

He stiffened at the echo of a sound ahead.

Low voices, faint but distinct. Men speaking in hushed tones as they walked, their words carried along the tunnel by the damp echo of stone.

Sebastian pressed himself against the wall, listening.

“—still unconscious. Probably won’t wake for a while.”

A rush of relief nearly buckled his knees. Unconscious. That meant you were still alive.

Another voice scoffed, rough and unimpressed. “You kicked her too hard. The boss wanted her awake.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand turned to iron.

They had hit you.

A red haze crawled up the edges of his vision, something sharp and vicious curling in his gut, coiling around his ribs like a beast that had been waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in.

Sebastian had never been afraid of the dark.

And he had never been afraid to become it.

He inhaled, long and slow, pushing the fire in his chest into something controlled, something sharp, then he moved. Silent. Swift. A shadow among the ruins.

The two men were just ahead, walking side by side, their pace easy, relaxed—unaware. Their figures flickered in the dim torchlight, heavy boots scuffing against the stone floor, their cloaks shifting with the movement.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate.

A flick of his wand, and the first man barely had time to choke before he collapsed, soundlessly paralyzed, his body hitting the ground in a dead weight.

Sebastian was already moving onto the next one.

The second man turned, mouth opening to shout, but Sebastian was faster. His wand slashed through the air.

"Diffindo."

The spell tore through the air. The man barely had time to gasp before a deep, jagged gash split across his chest, blooming red.

Sebastian stepped forward, pressing his boot against the man’s throat as he writhed, choking on his own blood. The dying wizard’s fingers scrabbled weakly against the stone, his panicked eyes meeting Sebastian’s.

Sebastian knelt over him, his wand pressed hard beneath his chin.

“Where is she?”

The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped.

Sebastian lifted his foot just slightly, allowing the man just enough space to take a breath. “Where. Is. She?” he repeated.

The man clawed weakly at his boot, his breath rattling in his chest.

Sebastian sighed, almost disappointed. He lifted his wand, tilting his head slightly. Then, without a flicker of hesitation—

"Petrificus Totalus."

The man’s body went rigid in an instant, his limbs locking at unnatural angles as the spell took hold. His eyes, wide and frantic, remained the only thing still able to move.

Sebastian watched, impassive, as blood continued to seep from the wound at the man’s side, pooling beneath him, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stone.

Helpless. Still.

The man would bleed out, unable to move, unable to take any action to save himself. And Sebastian didn’t care.

He moved deeper into the cave, following the footsteps. All the while, his sense of dread only grew, thrumming in the walls, in the air, in his bones, suffocating, unnatural, and reeking of something vile.

Then Sebastian heard it.

Laughter.

Low, amused voices, men speaking in tones that dripped with cruel delight. The sound sent ice through Sebastian’s veins. He pressed forward, inching closer to the chamber ahead. The tunnel widened into an open space, wandlight flickering against damp stone.

He counted five—no, six men, their postures relaxed, cocky. Unbothered.

Then he saw you.

Chained to a crumbling stone pillar, arms bound above your head, wrists rubbed raw and bloody against thick iron cuffs. Your head hung forward, temple bleeding, dark streaks cutting across the bruised, pallid skin of your face. Your breathing was slow, shallow. Unconscious.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

One of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak hanging open over grimy leathers—stepped closer to where you hung limp against the pillar, head tilted at a sickeningly casual angle. His wand was holstered, his hands free, because why would he need his wand for this?

His fingers found your jaw, tilting your head up so he could get a better look.

"Such a pretty little thing, eh?"

For a moment, Sebastian couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

His entire body was coiled so tightly with rage that he thought he might shatter from it, might detonate with the sheer force of it.

Another man scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t give the likes of us a second look, though,” he muttered. “Fucking arrogant bitch."

The first man’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the delicate curve of your throat, brushing past your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

"Doesn’t matter, does it?" Another man chuckled. "She ain't gonna fight back. And the boss ain’t ready for her yet."

A smirk.

"So, boys—who wants a turn first?"

Sebastian moved.

No thought. No hesitation. Only rage.

The first man—the one touching you—never stood a chance.

A bolt of magic ripped through his chest, so fast, so brutal, that he didn’t even have time to scream. The impact shattered his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the chamber as his body crumpled, folding in on itself before it hit the ground.

The second man turned, his mouth opening in shock, powerless as Sebastian twisted his wand and sent a curse flying.

It struck the man mid-turn, his body arching backward, spine bending at a grotesque, impossible angle. He let out a choked, gurgling wheeze before collapsing in a twitching, broken heap.

Then the chamber erupted.

Shouts. The sharp scrape of boots against stone. Panicked movement.

Sebastian was still moving, weaving between them like death incarnate.

A man raised his wand, but Sebastian didn’t let him speak.

"Confringo."

A scream tore through the cavern, raw and agonized as fire consumed him. He collapsed against the stone, his fingers clawing at his skin like he could rip the pain out of himself.

Sebastian turned, already raising his wand for the next.

Another man lunged, his own wand slashing through the air, but Sebastian deflected him effortlessly, stepping into his guard before driving his knee hard into his gut. The man doubled over with a strangled grunt, but Sebastian wasn’t done—he slammed the hilt of his wand against the side of his skull, sending him sprawling.

A sharp movement to his left—

Sebastian pivoted, casting Expulso with enough force to send the next man flying into the cavern wall.

The impact was sickening. A wet, meaty sound, bones crunching on impact. Blood smeared against the stone as the man slumped, unmoving.

The chamber fell into silence.

Heavy. Dripping.

Sebastian was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts. His wand was still raised, fingers tight around the handle. The taste of iron burned at the back of his throat, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood and fire.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His gaze snapped to the last man, who was trembling now, wand unsteady in his grip, eyes darting toward the exit, toward the ruins of his comrades, and then to Sebastian.

Sebastian took a slow, measured step forward.

The man sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on his wand, and then he moved.

Not toward Sebastian. Not to fight.

To you.

Sebastian’s blood ran cold. He saw it—the way the man lunged, wand flicking upward at just the right angle—

Apparition.

Sebastian didn’t think. He lunged, too.

His fingers snatched at the bastard’s cloak, curling tight in the fabric just as the magic took hold.

The world twisted. Everything spun, a brutal, suffocating force yanking him forward, ripping him from solid ground and into the crushing void of nonexistence.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the world righted itself.

Sebastian’s boots slammed onto solid ground. Cold air hit his face. The scent of damp earth, of moss and rain, filled his lungs.

They were outside.

Deep in the woods, far from the ruins. The sky overhead was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the heavy canopy of trees.

The man who had taken you staggered forward, thrown off balance by the rough landing. Sebastian wasted no time. His wand was already raised, his fury razor-sharp.

"Bombarda!"

The spell struck the man mid-turn, ripping him off his feet and sending him crashing into the nearest tree. His body crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Then silence.

Sebastian stood in the stillness, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls, his wand still raised, his fingers locked in a death grip around the handle. His heart was a drumbeat in his ears, fast and erratic, each pulse laced with fury, with need.

The bastard was dead. Good.

He turned.

His stomach plummeted.

You were in a heap on the ground, crumpled atop a bed of damp, decaying leaves. Your body was limp, your arms still bound, your deathly skin pale beneath the bruises and blood smeared across your face. The rise and fall of your chest was slow—too slow.

Sebastian’s fury shattered, replaced instantly by fear.

“Fuck, no, no, no—”

He dropped to his knees beside you.

“Come on, love,” he muttered, his voice shaking despite himself. “You’re alright. You have to be alright.”

He swore, frustration thick in his throat, turning his attention to the shackles. He had to get these off you.

His wand cut through the air again—Finite Incantatem. No reaction. Alohomora. Not even a flicker.

Sebastian’s jaw locked. Fuck magic, then.

He tossed his wand aside and lunged for the shackles, fingers digging into the rusted iron, trying to pry them off with brute strength alone.

The moment his skin touched the metal, a biting cold leached into him, unnatural and parasitic.

Sebastian gasped, his muscles seizing, his breath hitching as a sickly, creeping energy seeped into his fingertips, curling through his veins like poison. It crawled up his arms, pulling, draining—a deep, gnawing hunger that seemed to suck the very life from his bones.

Cursed. It was cursed.

Sebastian ripped his hands away, staggering backward, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His fingers tingled where they had touched the shackles, as if something had tried to stay inside him, tried to take root.

“Fuck,” he swore again, running a trembling hand through his hair, trying to clear the dizzy haze the metal had left behind.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Sebastian froze.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled. “Isn’t this touching?”

Sebastian turned slowly, wand raised, heart pounding in his chest like war drums.

Victor Rookwood stood at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow, his coat hanging open over the fine but worn layers beneath.

“You certainly do make things interesting, Mr. Sallow.” His tone was almost amused, but his eyes burned with something colder. “I do wonder, though—was it bravery or foolishness that brought you here? Love certainly makes people do strange things.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

He stood, wand still raised. His heart was a hammer in his chest, the weight of it crushing against his ribs, but his grip remained steady, his fingers curled tight around his wand.

Rookwood was watching him like a cat might watch a cornered mouse. His posture was relaxed, his stance loose, his wand held low like it was barely worth lifting. A show of control. A show of patience.

Sebastian had seen men like him before.

Men who spoke in honeyed words while they bled people dry. Men who lied with a smile, who thrived on games, on power, on knowing they were one step ahead.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to think.

He hasn’t killed her. That was the first fact that mattered. If Rookwood wanted you dead, you would already be gone. Instead, you were here, bound and unconscious, but alive.

Which meant Rookwood needed you. And if he needed you—then he wasn’t as in control as he wanted Sebastian to think.

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, as if he could see the thoughts forming in real-time. “Not even a word?” He tsked softly, shaking his head. “I must say, Sallow, I expected more given your reputation."

Sebastian didn't falter. “Let her go.”

Rookwood let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Ah. Straight to business.” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped in the dirt, before returning to Sebastian. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. “Then I'll kill you where you stand.”

Rookwood actually laughed at that. A slow, smug sound, low and indulgent. “Oh, you could.” He gestured vaguely, as if the idea was nothing more than a passing thought. “But let’s be realistic, shall we? You and I both know it’s not that simple. The curse on those shackles won’t lift without me.”

Sebastian stiffened. Shit.

"So tell me, Sallow," Rookwood’s voice was unhurried, easy, as if they were discussing the weather over tea. "What’s the play here?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as breathe the wrong way.

It was obvious now.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was a game. A dangerous, calculated game, and if Sebastian wanted to win, if he wanted to get you out of here alive, then he had to play it right.

Rookwood watched him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Do you even know what those shackles are doing to her?” His tone was conversational. “I imagine you’ve already felt it yourself. That creeping little rot in your bones.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Must be excruciating, hm?”

Sebastian barely stopped himself from looking at you. Because that was what Rookwood wanted, wasn’t it? To make him look. To make him see how helpless you were, to force him to feel that panic tighten around his throat like a noose.

But the problem was Rookwood wasn’t lying. You were dying. Slowly, yes, but it was happening. So what the fuck was the right move here?

Every instinct in Sebastian's body screamed to attack, to kill him where he stood, but if the curse needed to be lifted manually, then Sebastian might as well carve your fucking tombstone himself.

His fingers twitched. He forced himself to breathe.

“Fine,” he bit out. “What do you want?”

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He took a slow step forward, watching Sebastian like a cat toying with a mouse. “It’s simple, really. You’ve been such a thorn in my side. Constantly investigating me, tracking me down, sending your little Auror friends after me." His expression darkened, the amusement fading into something more calculating. "So, here’s my offer: you leave. You walk away. You stop chasing me, stop meddling in my affairs, and, most importantly—” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped and dying in the dirt. “—you forget you ever saw me. And when I'm finished with her, you'll get her back alive."

The words slithered through the cold night air, wrapping around Sebastian like a chokehold. His stomach twisted, nausea curling tight beneath his ribs, but his face remained unreadable.

“I think,” Sebastian said slowly, voice even, steady, “that you have me confused with someone who bargains.”

Rookwood’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something else beneath it now. A flicker of something colder.

“Oh?” he mused, tilting his head, as if truly considering. “Then I suppose I'll just need to persuade you."

A curse slammed into Sebastian’s chest before he could react.

Pain exploded through his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sharp, violent burst. The force of the spell sent him flying, his body crashing against the damp earth, his wand slipping from his grip and skidding across the forest floor.

For a moment, his vision swam—dark spots blooming at the edges, the world tilting on its axis. Cold night air bit at his skin, but his chest burned, ribs screaming with each ragged inhale.

Rookwood was on him in an instant.

A boot slammed down against Sebastian’s wrist, grinding it into the dirt, keeping him pinned, helpless, his wand just out of reach.

“I should’ve known better than to waste time talking,” Rookwood muttered, his voice low, almost disappointed. "Men like you—"

Sebastian moved. Fast.

Before Rookwood could finish his sentence, Sebastian wrenched his body to the side, twisting hard despite the searing pain in his ribs. He gritted his teeth, ignored the screaming protest of his muscles, and lunged—

His hand snatched at Rookwood’s ankle, yanking with every ounce of strength he had. The older man staggered, his balance thrown, his weight shifting just enough—

Sebastian ripped himself free, shoving himself up from the ground in a single fluid motion. His shoulder slammed into Rookwood’s torso, driving him backward, but the older man recovered fast.

Rookwood’s wand snapped up. Sebastian ducked. A jet of red light seared past his ear, narrowly missing him, splintering the bark of a nearby tree.

Sebastian didn’t let him cast again.

He surged forward, slamming into him, sending them both sprawling into the dirt in a brutal scramble.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as Sebastian's his fist connected with Rookwood’s face. Blood smeared across his knuckles, and Sebastian pressed forward, his other hand grappling for Victor’s wand, fingers brushing against the handle.

Then pain erupted through his side.

Sebastian gasped, his body jerking as something hot and burning sliced through his ribs.

Rookwood had a knife. A dirty, wicked-looking thing that he'd hidden beneath his coat.

Sebastian’s chest rose and fell in sharp, heaving breaths, his ribs screaming, his side burning where the knife had carved through him. His wand was still somewhere in the dirt, just out of reach. He shoved Rookwood back and forced himself upright, muscles trembling from the effort.

Rookwood now stood a few feet away, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

And he was grinning.

“That’s quite the right hook you’ve got there,” he mused, flexing his jaw. “And here I was beginning to think the Ministry had gone soft.”

Sebastian said nothing. His breath came slow and deliberate, fingers twitching for his wand—

Rookwood smirked.

“Eight years,” he mused, pacing leisurely in front of him. "It took you eight years to finally come face to face with me. Your entire career’s work—tracking me, investigating me, sending your little Auror friends after me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And yet, despite all that effort, here we are. And I must say—” He tutted, tilting his head. “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? That you're just so bloody weak."

Sebastian clenched his jaw so tight it ached.

Rookwood continued, his voice smooth, almost pitying. “The Ministry is so slow, isn’t it? Always a step behind. Always cleaning up messes instead of preventing them.” His smile widened. “It took you eight years to catch up to me. And now you’re here. Wandless. Bleeding. Powerless.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists.

“You talk too much,” he rasped, his voice raw.

Rookwood chuckled. "Personally, I think I'm being quite charitable, Sebastian. Your life is about to end, surely you want to know what it is I've been working towards all this time, hm?"

Sebastian swallowed against the sharp taste of blood at the back of his throat.

“Ancient magic is such a fascinating thing, don’t you think?” Rookwood mused. "Older than the Ministry. Older than the Hogwarts founders. Power that predates our understanding of what magic even is.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was listening. Because that was the thing about men like Rookwood, they always wanted an audience, and right now, every second he spent talking was another second Sebastian had to think.

Rookwood exhaled, long and thoughtful, tilting his head. “You know, the real shame of it is that she never even stopped to consider what that power could do if properly harnessed." His gaze flicked toward you, still unmoving in the dirt. “She feels it. Wields it. And yet was still too much of a coward to reach for its full potential."

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, slow and steady. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rookwood tutted, shaking his head. “Come now, you already know.” He gestured broadly, as if to the very world around them. “The Repository. Sealed. Hidden away. Even though ancient magic is my goddamn birthright.” He clicked his tongue. “The Ministry likes to pretend she warded it off for good. How naive."

Sebastian inconspicuously scanned the forest floor for his wand, finally locating the green and black handle laying a couple meters to his right.

“The problem, of course,” Rookwood went on, “is that the only one who can open it is her."

His gaze flicked toward you again.

“Because she’s special. I imagine you’ve known that for a long time." Rookwood's smirk deepened.

“So what?” Sebastian spat. “You think she’s just going to help you?”

Rookwood chuckled. “Oh, Sebastian.”

Sebastian hated how easily he said his name.

“She doesn’t need to help me," Rookwood continued. "She simply needs to be there.”

A cold dread curled at the base of Sebastian’s spine. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Rookwood hummed. “I’m saying that she is the key. Quite literally. You see, I don’t need her consent. I don’t need her to willingly give me anything." He tilted his head. "I just need her alive long enough to get me in."

Sebastian’s vision went red. His mind screamed for him to move. To lunge. To tear Rookwood apart.

Eight years ago, before Auror training, before he had learned restraint, he would have. He would have thrown himself at Rookwood with all the reckless fury he had in him, would have clawed and ripped and killed him with his bare hands if he had to.

And it would have gotten him killed.

But now—

Now, something cold settled into his chest. Not quieting his rage. Not taming it, but focusing it.

Sebastian couldn’t afford to be reckless, not while he was wandless and bleeding and Rookwood held a winning hand. He just needed to break Rookwood’s composure. Needed to goad him into making a mistake.

Then he’d gut him.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked toward his wand, half-buried in damp earth.

"Must be exhausting," Sebastian said, forcing a breath past the sharp pain in his ribs. "Still clinging to old failures, knowing you were bested by a fifteen-year-old all those years ago."

Rookwood’s jaw tensed. Sebastian smirked.

"You’re desperate," Sebastian continued breathlessly. "That’s why you need her. Ancient magic is beyond you, and you know it. You’re just a desperate, pathetic bastard trying to steal power he doesn’t understand."

That did it.

Rookwood’s eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Sebastian had seconds. Maybe less.

Rookwood lunged, knife in hand—but this time, Sebastian was ready. His heel dug into the dirt, and he dove sideways, landing with a heavy thud.

His fingers wrapped around his wand, and before Rookwood could even think, Sebastian flicked his wand, "Depulso!"

The force of the spell slammed into Rookwood’s chest, sending him staggering back. He barely had time to recover before Sebastian staggered to his feet.

"Expelliarmus!"

Rookwood’s blade flew from his grasp, falling to the ground, and for the first time, Rookwood looked genuinely surprised.

But Sebastian wasn’t finished.

"Bombarda!"

The force of the blast sent Rookwood hurtling backward, his body slamming into a tree. Leaves floated down around him, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.

Sebastian stalked toward him, wand steady, fury burning white-hot through his veins.

"Like I said, you talk too much," he growled.

Rookwood lifted his head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his smirk weak but still present. "And you… are entirely too predictable."

Before Sebastian could react, Rookwood’s fingers barely twitched with wandless magic—and you flew across the clearing. The air whooshed past, and in an instant, you were wrenched from where you lay and pulled into Rookwood’s grasp like a ragdoll.

No.

No, no, no.

Sebastian's fingers flexed around his wand, and the rest of him—his body, his mind, his fury—all locked into place, caged by the sight of you limp in Rookwood’s arms, unconscious, barely breathing.

Rookwood smirked, his hand curling around your throat—not tightly, not choking, but firm enough to send a clear message.

Sebastian's mind raced, working through every possible scenario, every hex, every fucking spell that could fix this—

But there was nothing. Not while Rookwood held you like a human fucking shield.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. "You're going to let her go."

Rookwood smirked, tilting his head. "And what, pray tell, will you do if I don’t?"

Sebastian gritted his teeth. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression blank, to push back the fear clawing at his throat. He couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give Rookwood anything.

"I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Rookwood laughed a full-bodied laugh, low and indulgent, like this was entertainment to him.

“You are delightful,” he mused. "Truly."

Sebastian’s pulse was a steady, furious drumbeat in his ears. He needed a plan. Needed to separate you from him.

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you, keeping you firmly between himself and Sebastian. "Tell me—are you willing to gamble with her life?" He hummed, considering. “Because I will snap her neck if you make a single wrong move."

Sebastian felt sick. His muscles were coiled tight, his every instinct screaming to act, to fight, to rip Rookwood apart piece by piece—

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He's bluffing.

"You won't do it," he said, voice low, razor-sharp.

Rookwood lifted a brow. "And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you need her alive. You said it yourself."

Rookwood hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "That’s true. I do need her."

Sebastian could feel the shift, the subtle tug-of-war, the way Rookwood was toying with him.

"But you—" he tightened his grip around throat. "—you need her more."

Sebastian’s wand was steady, unwavering, but inside—inside, something cracked.

The bastard would kill you.

Because the game had changed.

This was no longer about Rookwood getting you to the Repository.

No.

This was about Rookwood staying alive.

Sebastian hadn’t realized it at first, hadn’t put the pieces together because of the rage clouding his vision. But now, with Rookwood wandless, his weapon gone, his body pressed against the bark of a tree with you limp in his grasp—

Now, Sebastian saw it.

Rookwood wasn’t in control anymore. He was stalling. Because of course he was. He was self-important, arrogant, an entitled little bastard who thought the world owed him its power. Your death would be an inconvenience to him, yes—a massive fucking setback to his ambitions—but between your death and his?

There was no question which life he valued more.

Sebastian swallowed against the raw fury pressing against his throat.

“You’re scared,” he said.

Rookwood’s smirk twitched, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sebastian took a slow step forward.

“You should be.”

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you slightly, shifting his stance. “Bold of you to say, given the circumstances.”

Sebastian tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked onto his. “Is it?”

Rookwood’s fingers flexed against your throat, as if he thought the subtle pressure might rattle Sebastian. Might make him desperate.

But Sebastian didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he let his gaze flick—just for a second—toward Rookwood’s empty hands. Just a cornered rat, grasping for anything to keep himself from getting eaten alive.

“Do you know what I think, Rookwood?”

The bastard said nothing. Sebastian smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make it mocking.

“I think you know you’re already dead.”

He could see the moment Rookwood understood. The moment his arrogance cracked, the moment he finally saw the board for what it was, and realized he was out of moves.

Sebastian lunged forward, his hands fisting into the fabric of Rookwoods coat in a white-knuckled grip as he dragged him forward and apparated.

The world lurched.

Magic pulled tight around Sebastian’s ribs, wrapping around him like a vice as the weight of Apparition crashed over them both. He pulled Rookwood with him, his grip unbreakable. 

And then they landed. 

The world snapped back into focus. The bright light, the desks, the walls lined with maps and case files. The scent of ink, parchment, and freshly brewed tea clashed violently with the blood and dirt smeared across his skin.

The Auror Department had been buzzing before—anxious, tense conversation rippling through the air as Sebastian’s team and Ominis scrambled to form a plan to go after him.

But now? The second they appeared—Sebastian, you, and Rookwood—

Silence.

Total. Utter. Fucking. Silence.

And then—

Chaos. Pandemonium.

A crash of chairs and desks as Aurors surged forward, wands raised.

"GET HIM RESTRAINED!"

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

"IS THAT—? THAT'S ROOKWOOD!"

Sebastian staggered, his grip ripping away from Rookwood as Aurors descended on the bastard like a pack of wolves, yanking his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees as enchanted restraints snapped tight around his wrists.

Sebastian's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts, his fingers shaking from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

Then Rookwood laughed. A slow, breathy chuckle, low and condescending, even now, even fucking now, after everything.

Sebastian's wand clattered to the ground as his rage overcame him, his fist connecting with Rookwood’s face before anyone could react.

The impact was brutal. A sickening crack as knuckles met bone, as Rookwood’s head snapped to the side. Blood splattered against the Auror Department’s pristine floors.

Another hit. Another.

Sebastian didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Just swung.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"You filthy fucking bastard!" Sebastian roared. His voice was hoarse, frantic, furious. His hands ached, knuckles split and raw from the force of his own rage.

Rookwood spat blood, still grinning, his lips split, his nose crooked from the sheer force of Sebastian’s attack.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he rasped, voice wheezing from the damage.

A snarl ripped from Sebastian’s throat as he drove his fists into Rookwood’s face, over and over. Blood splattered across his knuckles, staining his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The world had narrowed into a singular, blistering point of rage—a fire that burned so hot it consumed everything else.

Because Rookwood took you. He hurt you. He was going to kill you.

And Sebastian couldn’t fucking stand it.

The room around him was filled with shouts and barked orders and hands gripping at his coat, but none of it registered.

All he could see was Rookwood. Bloodied. Laughing.

Even as multiple sets of hands dragged him backward, it didn’t matter. Sebastian fought against them with everything he had, his body twisting, muscles coiled tight with rage, his knuckles dripping with blood—his own, Rookwood’s, he didn’t fucking care.

"Get off me!" he snarled, wrenching free for just a second—just enough to grab the bastard by the collar and slam his head back against the floor, hard enough to hear the crack of impact.

Rookwood let out a wet, choking sound, blood bubbling between his teeth, but that smirk—that fucking smirk was still there.

“Sebastian, enough!” Ominis yelled—but even he didn’t sound convinced it would work.

Sebastian twisted, his hand snapping toward his wand on the floor, fingers closing around the handle, the weight of it grounding him, feeding into the burning need.

"Crucio."

Rookwood screamed.

A raw, inhuman sound, his back arching violently, his limbs spasming against the enchanted restraints, his body writhing in agony as the curse took hold.

Sebastian watched. Breathing heavy. Eyes dark. Hands steady. And fuck, it was satisfying.

No one moved. No one dared move.

Aurors, seasoned war-hardened witches and wizards, stood still, stunned into silence, their wands raised but motionless.

Ominis—Ominis—was silent.

Sebastian didn’t care. Didn’t feel a damn thing beyond the pure, burning relief of watching Rookwood suffer. Of watching him break. Of making sure the last thing this filthy fucking bastard felt before he died was pain.

When he finally dropped the curse, the silence was suffocating.

The only sound left was Rookwood’s ragged, shaking breath, the way his body twitched, the way he tried and failed to push himself upright.

Sebastian crouched low, gripping Rookwood’s collar in his fists, jerking him just slightly forward—enough to make sure he was listening.

And then, voice low, voice calm, voice filled with everything he meant—

"You were dead the second you laid a fucking finger on her."

Rookwood’s eyes barely flickered. His mouth opened, but whatever smug retort had been forming died the second he saw the way Sebastian lifted his wand.

A breath. A heartbeat. Then—

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

Rookwood’s body jerked and then stilled. Lifeless. Dead.

The room remained silent. No one moved. No one spoke.

Sebastian didn’t feel an ounce of fucking regret.

And then—

"Sebastian."

Ominis’ voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Sebastian turned, slow, sluggish, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the sheer finality of what had just happened.

His gaze landed on you.

Still on the floor. Still unconscious. Still dying.

"Fuck—" He dropped to his knees beside you so fast the impact jarred through his bones, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care—his hands were already reaching, shaking, desperate as they curled around your wrists, your shoulders, cupping your face, tilting your head back slightly, searching for any sign—anything—that you were still with him.

"Come on, love," he muttered, barely aware of his own voice, the way it cracked, the way his breath came too fast, too sharp. His thumb brushed against your cheek, tracing the bruises, the cold sweat on your skin. "You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright."

No reaction. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Ominis—" his voice cracked, breath hitching, and then he was looking up, wild-eyed, desperate. "Ominis."

Ominis was still standing in place, his wand gripped tight in his hands, the only sign that he was even processing what had just happened.

Sebastian didn’t have time for that.

"The shackles," he rushed, words tumbling out too fast, too frantic. "They’re cursed. They’re killing her—I tried to take them off, and I—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Do something!"

Ominis hesitated.

Sebastian saw it. Saw the way his lips parted, saw the way his fingers twitched, the uncertainty bleeding into his normally measured expression.

Sebastian lost it.

"You’re a fucking Cursebreaker, Ominis!" he roared, his voice cracking with something raw and ragged. "So do something!"

Ominis' mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression grim, but finally—finally—he moved.

He dropped beside Sebastian, already drawing his wand, already tracing over the metal shackles with precise, practiced movements. His lips moved in near-silent incantations, magic thrumming low and steady through the air, golden light weaving intricate, delicate patterns against the iron.

Meanwhile, Sebastian snapped his head up, wild, furious, helpless.

"Someone get the fucking Healers!" he barked, his voice a whip crack in the stunned silence. "NOW!"

Aurors scrambled. People rushed, bodies moving too slow, too fucking slow, and Sebastian turned back to you, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, pleading.

"Come on, love," he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered over your body. "Come back to me."

Ominis was still working, his wand tracing over the metal in sharp, methodical movements, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

"I need time," Ominis muttered, his voice tight. "It’s layered magic—whoever did this knew what they were doing."

"We don’t have time!" Sebastian snapped. "She doesn’t have time!"

And he didn’t mean to—he didn’t mean to lash out at Ominis, but fuck, he was drowning in this, the weight of everything crushing him, suffocating him. Because he had been here before. Kneeling over someone he loved, begging the universe to give him one more chance.

Anne, after she was cursed—her body wracked with pain, her screams tearing through his skull, his useless hands gripping hers as she trembled beneath his touch.

His parents—dead before he even got to try to save them.

And now you.

The realization hit him, slamming into his ribs like a blade—sharp, vicious, undeniable.

You were everything. Had always been everything.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years of standing beside you, watching you grow into the force you were now. Ten years of chasing the same battles, fighting the same wars, of laughing together, bleeding together, of existing in a world where, no matter what happened, no matter who came after you, he had always been there. You had always been there.

And not once—not once—had he ever fucking said it. Not once had he looked at you and admitted what had been rotting inside of him since the day he met you.

That he loved you. Had always loved you.

And now, when you were slipping away from him—when your body was cold beneath his hands, when your lips were parted but there was no sound, no whisper of recognition, no sign that you even knew he was there—

Sebastian realized he might never get the fucking chance.

His jaw locked. His breath hitched.

"Ominis," he said again, voice raw, pleading, his entire body vibrating with the weight of everything he never said. "Please—"

"I'm working as fast as I can," Ominis snapped, but even he sounded frayed at the edges, his voice tighter than usual, his magic straining against the curse.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, fingers clenching around your wrist, grounding himself in the weak, faint pulse beneath your skin.

Still there. Still beating.

But for how long?

"She's dying," Sebastian whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "She’s dying, and I can’t—I can’t fucking—" His voice broke, sharp and raw, and fuck—he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

Ominis’ jaw tightened, his wand moving faster, the golden light flaring brighter against the rusted iron of the shackles.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Because Ominis could feel it too.

The same dread. The same fear.

Sebastian swallowed, his throat aching, his lungs burning with every sharp inhale. He wanted to scream. Wanted to fight something, wanted to rip the world apart until it gave you back to him.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, gripping your hand too tight, his fingers threading through yours as if holding you hard enough would tether you here, force you to stay.

"Please," he murmured, barely a whisper, forehead pressed against your temple, pleading into your skin. "I need you."

More than he had ever needed anything.

Ominis swore under his breath, shifting as the shackles clicked, magic flaring violently before it shattered, sending a wave of heat pulsing outward, knocking dust from the ceiling.

The spell broke.

Sebastian jerked forward, pulling you into him as life snapped back into your body. Your limbs twitched. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

"Thank fuck—" Sebastian’s grip tightened, his body curling around you, anchoring you against him like he could force your soul to stay inside your fucking body.

"Sebastian," Ominis muttered, voice thick, tired. "She still needs—"

Finally, the Healers rushed in.

Sebastian barely registered them. His arms were still locked around you, his body curled over yours, keeping you anchored against him like some desperate, helpless thing.

"Sir," a sharp voice cut through the air, firm but cautious. "We need to assess her condition."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge them. One of the Healers reached for his shoulder, intending to physically pry him off—

"Don’t bother." Ominis's voice was sharp. A clear warning.

The Healers hesitated.

"He’s not going to let go," Ominis said, voice resigned. "So don’t waste time arguing. Just work around him."

Sebastian heard that. Felt it. But his grip didn’t loosen. Not even as hands moved over your body, casting diagnostic spells, pressing against your ribs, checking for internal damage. Not even as a warm glow filled the air, as magic hummed through you, as one of the Healers sighed in relief and muttered something about stabilization.

Another set of hands pressed against him this time—his ribs, his chest, fuck—he barely managed to bite back a hiss when something sharp burned at his side.

Right. He’d been stabbed.

Healers were already diagnosing him, murmuring between themselves, muttering about blood loss and fractured ribs.

Sebastian barely processed it. His eyes were on you. Only on you. The rise and fall of your chest.

"You’re gonna be fine," he whispered against your temple, barely audible, his voice still raw, still thick with something unbearable. "You’re okay."

The Healers worked. The Aurors still lingered. The world around him was moving, spinning, shifting—

"Sebastian."

Sebastian finally looked up.

Ominis was standing now, his wand gripped in one hand, his face carved from stone, but Sebastian knew him too well.

There was tension there. A weight behind his expression that was dangerous.

"I’m going to fix this," Ominis said simply.

Sebastian frowned, his mind still sluggish, too caught up in you, in keeping you here, to fully process what he meant.

Then it hit him.

Crucio.Avada Kedavra.

Sebastian had cast two Unforgivables in the middle of the fucking Auror Department.

Ominis sighed, running a hand down his face before muttering, "Merlin, you make my life impossible."

Sebastian managed a short, breathless laugh.

"Don’t move," Ominis said. "Stay with her."

Sebastian didn’t plan on going anywhere.

Ominis exhaled through his nose, turning on his heel, and then he was gone, already making his way across the room, already stepping into whatever bureaucratic fucking mess Sebastian had left behind, already handling it.

One of the Healers, still somewhat exasperated by the fact that Sebastian refused to let go of you, sighed. "Sir, can you stand?"

Sebastian barely glanced up. His fingers were still curled around yours, tightly, like if he so much as loosened his grip, you’d disappear.

"Yes."

The Healers exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced. One of them muttered something under her breath, but aloud, she only said:

"Then follow us. She’s stable, but both of you need to be under observation. And we’ll need to speak with her when she wakes."

Sebastian forced himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest, his ribs aching, his knuckles raw, his vision swimming for just a second before he locked his knees and shoved through the pain so he could carry you down the hall.

He hardly remembered the walk to the Hospital Wing.

All he knew was that the moment you were in a bed, he was there. Hovering. Watching. And when they tried leading him to another bed across the room, he tugged his own bed directly next to yours.

The Healers sighed. One pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "For the love of Merlin—"

But they let him.

They moved around him, murmuring amongst themselves as they worked—closing the gash along his ribs with precise, practiced wand movements, mending the bruised muscle beneath his skin, forcing him to drink something vile that numbed the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Someone cast a spell to soothe the soreness weighing down his body. Someone else checked his vitals.

It all blurred together.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the room settled into silence.

The Healers left.

The heavy weight of magic in the air dissipated, leaving behind only the dim glow of the lanterns and the quiet hum of distant voices from the hall.

Sebastian lay still. Exhausted. Sore.

His body felt like it had been dragged through hell. Every inch of him ached, the phantom pain of adrenaline still lingering in his bones, his knuckles still raw despite the Healers' best efforts. But his mind—

His mind wouldn’t stop.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the patterns in the stone swirl and shift under the flickering light, but all he could see was you.

The moment he realized you were gone. The blood smeared across the ruins. The way your body looked lifeless under the weight of those cursed shackles. The fucking fear. How close he had come to losing you.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric as his chest tightened with something raw, something suffocating.

He was never going to let this happen again. Never. He would never go another day without telling you the truth: that he loved you. That he had always loved you. That you were the only thing in this godforsaken world that mattered.

His head turned, gaze drifting to you. Still asleep. Still too pale.

But alive.

The breath that left his lungs was shaky, uneven. A ghost of a thing. Then—

A movement. A stir.

Sebastian’s eyes snapped to your hand, watching as your fingers twitched against the blankets.

He shot up immediately, the sudden movement making his ribs scream in protest, but he ignored it, pushing himself onto his elbows, heart slamming against his ribs as he watched you.

Your eyelashes fluttered. Your head shifted slightly against the pillow. And then your eyes opened.

Sebastian froze.

For a moment, his brain refused to process what was happening. He had spent the last eternity—hours but what felt like years—trapped in a suffocating haze of fear, pain, and fury. But then your eyes opened.

His chest caved in.

"Fuck—" The word barely left his lips, broken and shaky, a raw, wrecked thing. He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, his entire body locked so tightly with tension that now—now that you were looking at him, alive, breathing—he thought he might actually fall apart.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump clawing up his throat. He had to keep his voice steady. He had to.

"Hey, sweetheart," he rasped, and fuck—he wasn’t doing a good job of it, wasn’t doing a good job of anything, because his breath shook the second the words left him, and suddenly it was taking every bit of strength in his body to keep himself together.

Your brow furrowed, your eyes dazed, unfocused, barely tracking his face as you blinked sluggishly.

"Sebastian?" Your voice was hoarse, raw from disuse, but it was you. It was your voice, alive, and he nearly lost himself right then and there.

"Yeah, love," he breathed, nodding quickly, reaching for your hand as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to make sure you stayed here, tethered, with him. "I’m here."

You exhaled a slow, uneven breath, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, blinking as you tried to place yourself. "Where—" A pause. A slow inhale. "What happened?"

Sebastian opened his mouth, then shut it, his throat tightening.

Where the fuck did he start? How did he say it? That you had been taken, that you had been chained up and cursed and dying in his arms, that he had nearly lost you—

That he had murdered a man because of it.

"You—" His voice cracked. He sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling through his nose, forcing himself to steady. "You scared the shit out of me, that’s what happened."

Your brow furrowed again, still groggy, still trying to process. Then, after a long pause, you sighed, your voice scratchy.

"You look like shit."

A wet, breathless laugh punched out of him before he could stop it, something caught between relief and absolute fucking devastation.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sebastian moved, shifting onto his knees, ignoring the way his ribs screamed in protest, the way his body ached from the fight, from the blood loss, from every single fucking injury he had ignored.

It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered except you.

Sebastian climbed over the narrow gap between the beds and into yours.

"Seb—"

You barely had time to react before he was pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you, pressing himself against you.

His body curled over yours, his fingers clutching too tight, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"You scared me," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked, trembling. "You scared me so fucking bad."

You shifted slightly beside him, your body still sluggish, still weak from everything, but your hand moved, sliding up to rest against the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, your touch so fucking gentle it made his chest ache.

"I’m here, Sebastian," you murmured.

His breath hitched. Then he broke.

A sharp, ragged inhale. A violent, shuddering exhale. His fingers fisted into your clothes, gripping so tightly it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

And then the first tear slipped free.

It hit the bare skin of your shoulder, vanishing into the fabric of your hospital gown, but another followed. And another. His face twisted, his breath coming uneven, shaky—his entire body trembling with the force of what he had been holding back for hours.

His chest ached, physically ached, with the sheer weight of it all. With the terror. With the helplessness. With the image of you—chained, barely breathing, slipping away from him—burned into the back of his skull like a nightmare that would never fade.

A choked, wrecked sound clawed its way up his throat, something between a sob and a breathless gasp, and fuck—he couldn’t stop it.

His shoulders shook as more tears spilled over, hot and unchecked, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he cried.

He hadn’t cried in years.

Not when he had stood over Solomon’s lifeless body. Not when he had nearly lost himself to grief, to rage, to everything wrong inside him. But this—

His breath stuttered again, a broken, gasping thing, his tears falling freely now, soaking into your skin as he held you so tightly it should have hurt, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him.

"I love you," he whispered, voice cracked, wrecked, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. "I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry I never said it sooner."

His entire body shuddered with the weight of it. With the relief. With the fear. With the unbearable, suffocating truth of how close he had come to never being able to say it at all.

He felt your fingers twitch against his back, hesitant but there, like you weren’t sure what to do with him like this—because this was something no one had ever seen.

Sebastian breaking. Sebastian weeping. Sebastian, who had spent years hiding behind sharp grins and reckless bravado, now unraveling, falling apart in your arms.

And he didn’t care, because fuck hiding. You had almost died, and he had almost never gotten the chance to tell you.

So he did. Again.

"I love you."

He had never meant anything more in his entire fucking life.

Sebastian felt your fingers tighten against his back, your grip weak but still there, still trying. It was barely anything, just the faintest pressure against his spine, but it sent something wrecked and aching curling through his chest, something raw and unbearable.

You were holding him.

And after a beat, after a long, quiet moment, you pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

There were tears in your eyes. Not from pain, not from fear—but something else. Something that made his pulse trip over itself, something raw, something knowing.

Your lips parted, voice hoarse, cracked, still heavy with exhaustion.

"I remember now," you murmured, blinking slowly, your expression distant for a moment as if piecing it together in real-time. "It was Rookwood."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something tight in his chest releasing at your words—relief, fury, heartbreak, he wasn’t even sure what the fuck it was. He just knew he never wanted to hear that fucking name again.

His hand came up, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch almost desperate in its gentleness,

"He’s dead."

You blinked at him, your breath hitching just slightly as his words settled over you. Then something shifted in your expression. Not relief, not satisfaction, but a quiet, unshaken certainty.

Because of course he was.

Your lips curled—just barely, wobbly and weak and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

"You came after me," you murmured, like it was something you’d just now realized, something that settled over you like a slow-burning warmth.

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing together for a moment before he said, "Of course I did." His voice was still hoarse, still raw from everything, but there was something steady beneath it. Something true. "I’d follow you anywhere."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really looked at him.

"I love you too."

Sebastian swore the entire fucking world stopped. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse stuttering violently in his chest, his entire body locking up because—

You loved him too.

His eyes burned, his throat tightened, his fingers shook where they were still clutching onto you.

And then—he was kissing you.

Soft, desperate, aching.

His hands cupped your face like you were something holy, something irreplaceable, his lips pressing against yours like he was trying to carve himself into your very fucking soul.

It was a kiss that held everything—the fear, the relief, the love neither of you had spoken aloud until now. It was unsteady, a little broken, but it was real.

When he finally pulled back, it was only because you both needed air, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath still uneven. His thumb brushed against your cheek, so painfully gentle it made something deep inside you ache.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered.

Sebastian let out a soft, breathless laugh, one that barely even sounded like him. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raw. “I think I’m gonna be shaking for a while.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices outside the infirmary walls, the rhythmic, steadying beat of your heart against his. The world had been so loud—so chaotic, so terrifying—but here, in this fragile, stolen moment, there was only silence. Only you and him.

Then, softly, you said, “I’m okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure he believed you, like he wasn’t sure he ever would, but his fingers tightened against your back, and after a moment, he just nodded.

“Yeah. But I’m still never letting you out of my sight again.”

A weak laugh tumbled from your lips, breathless and exhausted, but real. “I figured.”

Sebastian huffed, but there was something warm beneath the sound, something a little less raw now, a little less wrecked. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple, letting it rest there, like a silent promise.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he muttered against your skin.

Your fingers curled in his shirt again, holding him close, feeling the steady, unshaken certainty in his words.

“Good.”

I love a good comfort fic

*insert Elmo in flames meme*

Ahhhh! I'd be happy to give you some Ominis fic ideas 😁🩷 of course, you could just scrap this altogether but I was thinking 🤔 could we have a 7th year Ominis being able to gain financial freedom from his family because MC gave her Hogsmeade shop to him? I know a lot of people want him to escape to America but Hogsmeade just feels so cozy and perfect for him being a shopkeeper.

And MC realizing her feelings for him during one instance when she had to return to him to replenish her supplies from her travels, and maybe decides it's time to be with him? 😣💕

It's okay if you don't like this plotline but I just finished the Haunted Hogsmeade quest, and I immediately thought of Ominis being its owner!

Thank you so much!!

Threads of Fate | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Anon, I hope this is everything you hoped for! Thank you for the request and inspiration <3 it was my absolute pleasure writing this.

Words: ~6,700

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post Canon, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Fluff, Fluff AGAIN

“You’d think after all these years I’d be better at writing letters, but somehow, I still find myself pausing, trying to decide how to start. Then again, you always make it easier when you write first. Your last letter was… exactly what I needed. You have a knack for saying the right thing, even when you don’t realize it.”

“Anne stopped by the shop recently. She told me to stop ‘hovering like a nervous bird’ over your enchanted scarves and to start charging more for them. Apparently, she’s appointed herself my business manager, whether I wanted one or not. She also asked about you—how you’re doing, where you are, why you haven’t written her back, and, most importantly, when you’re finally coming home. I told her I didn’t know, but she was unimpressed by my answer. Honestly, I’m not impressed either.”

“Sebastian, meanwhile, has decided that I’ve become too boring for his liking. He keeps trying to convince me to pack up and visit you, as though I could just leave the shop to run itself. His words, not mine. It’s ridiculous, of course, but I wonder if there’s something to it. You’ve been gone so long now, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a part of this place missing.”

“Speaking of which—are you planning to come back anytime soon? You told me six months, and that was, what, six months ago? You’re not terrible at keeping promises, but you’re testing the limits here. I’ll forgive you if you write soon with some good news—or better yet, with the promise of coming home.”

“The shop is still standing, though I’ve made a few small changes here and there. I hope you won’t scold me when you see them. It’s funny, even when you’re not here, I find myself thinking, ‘What would she do?’ And sometimes, I swear I can hear your voice, usually chiding me for something I’ve misplaced or forgotten. I wonder—did you know, even then, how much this shop would mean to me? …Did you know how much you mean to me?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you? Though I doubt I need to remind you. You’ve always been reckless, but you’ve never been careless. But I can’t help worrying about you—it’s impossible not to.”

“Write soon, or better yet, come home. I’d like to see you again. I’d like to… well, there’s plenty I’d like to say in person.”

Yours, always, Ominis

The letter, over a month old now, was worn at the edges, its parchment soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. Your fingers traced the familiar loops of Ominis’ handwriting, lingering over the slight smudge where his quill must have hesitated.

Even as the train carried you closer to Hogsmeade, you felt guilty. You hadn’t written back. But you hadn’t trusted yourself to put quill to parchment, not even to Anne or Sebastian, neither of whom could be trusted to keep your long awaited return a secret.

Six months. You’d promised him six months, and here you were, long past that mark. You’d wanted to return sooner—Merlin knew how much you’d wanted to—but there had always been one more ruin, one more curse to break, one more excuse to stay away.

It wasn’t just the work, though. The truth you hadn’t dared admit to yourself was that the thought of walking into Stitches and Draughts again, of seeing Ominis after all this time, terrified you. What if things had changed? What if the delicate balance of your friendship—of your stupid, traitorous feelings for him—had changed?

Merlin knew you had.

You caught your reflection in the train’s window, and for a moment, it felt like looking at a stranger. The girl you once were, the one with the boundless energy and effortless grace of youth, was nowhere to be found. Gone was the lithe figure and carefree ease that had come with an 18-year-old’s metabolism, replaced by a version of yourself you were still learning to accept. The life of a cursebreaker hadn’t been kind to your body—or your soul. Years of chasing dangerous leads, grueling physical labor, and long nights spent deciphering ancient scripts had taken their toll. Meals were often hurried, whatever you could grab between assignments, and the relentless travel left little room for rest. You were softer now, and your body bore the marks of your journey—an ache in your shoulders from carrying too much weight, faint scars from brushes with danger, and an exhaustion that felt carved into your very bones.

You turned away from the window, forcing your reflection out of sight. The sight of it only dredged up insecurities you had no business indulging—not now, not when you were so close. It was stupid to worry about it, you told yourself. What did it matter whether Ominis found you attractive? Seven years had passed. Seven years of separate lives, separate paths. You couldn’t expect him to still see you as he once might have—or to have waited for you at all.

Back then, you were just kids, after all. Even when your friendship had danced on the edge of something more, neither of you had ever been brave enough to take that final step. You thought of the moments that had felt like more—his hand brushing yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d linger in the shop late into the night, his head tilted toward you as though he could hear the shape of your smile. But those moments were fleeting, always followed by silence or a change of subject. Neither of you had ever said the words.

And now? Seven years was a long time to expect someone to wait for something that was never truly spoken aloud.

Still, the thought haunted you, gnawing at your resolve. Would he notice the changes in you? Would he care about the extra softness to your curves, the faint lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there before? The idea that he might—that he’d look at you with anything less than the quiet warmth you remembered—made your stomach twist.

The train jolted, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts as it slowed to a screeching halt at Hogsmeade Station. The sound of the brakes, sharp and familiar, was like a spell breaking. You rose stiffly from your seat, clutching your bag as you tried to gather yourself.

The platform was just as you remembered it: bustling with witches and wizards, steam curling in the crisp air, and the faint smell of coal mingling with the fresh, wintry scent of snow. Twinkling fairy lights hung from the lampposts, casting a warm glow on the frosted cobblestones, while festive garlands of holly and enchanted mistletoe draped along the edges of the station roof. You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped off the train, your boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground.

The walk into the village was surreal, like stepping back into a dream you hadn’t dared let yourself miss too much. The bustling streets, the cheerful glow of the shop windows, the distant chatter of students—every detail tugged at something deep inside you. It looked the same, as though no time had passed, and yet that was precisely what unsettled you.

Time had passed. Seven years, to be exact.

Seven years since you’d walked these streets as a Hogwarts student, clutching a bag of Honeydukes’ sweets or ducking into the Three Broomsticks with your friends to escape the cold. Seven years since you’d stood inside Stitches and Draughts as its owner, turning your ideas into enchanted creations, the room filled with the warmth of softly glowing candles and the sound of laughter. Seven years since you’d worked side by side with Ominis, his sharp wit cutting through Sebastian’s dramatic tales of Quidditch triumphs, all while the three of you shared late nights in the shop as though the world outside didn’t exist.

But even then, you’d known the shop wasn’t meant to be your forever.

The decision to give it to Ominis had come in the quiet months of your seventh year, after countless conversations where he’d confided in you about his family, his fears, and the cage he felt he could never escape. You’d listened as he spoke of the suffocating expectations of the Gaunt name, how every aspect of his life had been dictated by tradition and duty.

And money.

It wasn’t fair. Ominis deserved more than that. Far, far more.

Your Ominis deserved everything.

The idea had taken root during one of those late nights in the shop. He’d been helping you charm a batch of scarves to repel rain when you’d caught him standing at the counter, running his hands over the worn wood. There’d been a wistful look on his face, one that had stayed with you long after the candles were extinguished and the shop had gone dark.

By the time graduation loomed, the decision felt inevitable.

You still remembered the day you handed him the deed, the way his pale fingers trembled as he unrolled the parchment. His expression had been unreadable at first, his face carefully composed as he scanned the document.

“What is this?” he’d asked, his voice low and wary.

“It’s yours,” you’d replied, keeping your tone light even as your heart pounded. “The shop. Everything in it. Consider it a… graduation gift.”

The silence that followed had been deafening. Ominis had stared at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You can’t be serious,” he’d said finally. “This is yours. Your work. You can’t just—”

“I can,” you’d interrupted, placing a hand over his. “And I am. You’re the only one I trust to take care of it. To make it more than I ever could.”

He’d tried to argue, of course. Ominis always argued. But you’d stood your ground, knowing in your heart it was the right choice.

“It’s not just about the shop,” you’d said softly, looking into his unseeing eyes. “It’s... about giving you a way out. A chance to build something that’s yours—not theirs.”

That had silenced him.

He’d accepted the deed reluctantly, his gratitude laced with disbelief. And though you hadn’t admitted it aloud, you’d known you were giving him more than just the shop. More than just securing his freedom. You were giving him a part of yourself, a way to stay connected even when you left.

And now, as Christmas loomed all these years later, your legs carried you through the village, back to that very same place. You were almost on autopilot, even as your heart pounded erratically in your chest with every step that brought you closer to the shop. Around you, the village bustled with holiday cheer, but all of it faded into the background, a distant hum drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

And then you were there.

And Stitches and Draughts looked beautiful.

The building had been freshly painted, its trim gleaming with a soft, snowy white that contrasted perfectly with the deep emerald of the shop’s sign—still the same one you’d painted years ago, but lovingly restored. The doorframe was draped with enchanted holly garlands, the bright red berries twinkling like tiny stars. The windows sparkled in the glow of lights strung carefully along the eaves, and the front display was nothing short of magical.

Inside the glass, enchanted scarves floated gracefully in midair, their threads shimmering with subtle, festive embroidery—snowflakes that danced along the hems, holly leaves that twisted and turned like they were caught in a gentle breeze. Beside them, self-heating gloves sat arranged in neat little bundles, their tags tied with golden ribbons that seemed to hum faintly with charmwork.

It was perfect. Too perfect. And the sight of it, so familiar and yet so undeniably different, had your heart aching in your chest. This wasn’t just a shop anymore—it was his shop. Every detail spoke of Ominis’ care, his precision, his thoughtfulness. He’d taken what you’d built and turned it into something so much more.

Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked between the display and the freshly polished door handle. The urge to turn and flee surged through you, but your feet remained rooted to the spot. You’d faced cursed ruins, ancient traps, and magic designed to kill, but nothing—nothing—had ever felt as daunting as the prospect of walking through that door.

Would he even want to see you? Would he welcome you after all this time, after the months of silence and unfulfilled promises? Or had the years widened the distance between you too far to bridge?

The bell above the door jingled as someone exited the shop, their arms laden with carefully wrapped packages. They offered you a polite smile as they passed, but you barely noticed, your gaze fixed on the door that had swung closed behind them.

Your legs felt heavy as you took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

With a deep, unsteady exhale, you pushed the door open, the familiar chime of the bells above echoing like a memory brought to life.

The warmth of the shop enveloped you immediately, the scent of cedar and lavender mingling with something faintly sweet—probably from a batch of enchanted candles near the counter. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of fabric, potion bottles, and racks of neatly displayed scarves and gloves. The hum of magic thrummed softly in the air, a comforting, familiar sound.

But none of it mattered, not really.

Your eyes were drawn to the figure standing behind the counter, his back to you, the blond of his hair catching the golden light.

"Be with you in a moment," he said, his voice smooth and warm, but it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

It had been so long—too long—since you’d last heard his voice, and even now, it was exactly as you remembered, richer with age but still undeniably Ominis. It overwhelmed you, the weight of it pressing down on the breath you tried to draw, stealing the words you’d thought you’d prepared.

And then he turned.

The sight of him was truly your undoing.

Ominis was taller than you remembered, his frame lean but strong, elegant but unyielding. He was wearing a soft sweater in a deep charcoal gray, the fabric snug across his broad shoulders and loose around his narrow waist, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp angles of his wrists and the pale skin of his forearms. His blond hair, a touch longer than it had been when you’d last seen him, was still combed back, though a strand at the front had fallen to rest against the curve of his face.

Time had only refined the sharpness of his cheekbones and the strong, angular line of his jaw. His features were striking in a way that felt almost unfair, the kind of beauty that drew the eye and held it captive.

And yet, there was something softer about him, too—something that hadn’t been there before. The rigid tension that had so often defined him in your Hogwarts years seemed less pronounced, replaced by a quiet ease as he worked. He looked… content.

It was too much.

You’d imagined this reunion a hundred different ways, but none of them had accounted for the way it would feel to see him again, to hear his voice, to stand so close and yet feel the weight of all the time and space that had separated you.

“My apologies for the delay. Welcome to Stitches and Draughts,” he said, his tone polite and practiced, yet warm in a way that made your chest ache. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening more intently. “What can I help you with today?”

The words hung in the air, impossibly ordinary for a moment that felt anything but.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. All the carefully rehearsed greetings, the lighthearted explanations you’d planned for why it had taken so long to return, evaporated.

Your silence stretched just a second too long, and you saw the faint furrow of his brow, the slight tilt of his head as he picked up on your hesitation.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softening, concern creeping into his tone.

That was what finally broke you.

“Ominis,” you managed, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it.

His lips parted as though to say something, but no words came, and his sightless eyes, usually so calm and focused, seemed to search for you in the space between.

“Is it—” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. “Is… it really you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and relentless. You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see the gesture.

“It’s me,” you managed.

Ominis moved before you could register it, stepping out from behind the counter with a swiftness that made your breath catch. “You’re here,” he murmured, his voice filled with something close to wonder. “You’re actually here. But you… you didn’t write back. I thought—”

“I know,” you said quickly, guilt flooding your chest. “I’m sorry, Ominis. I—” Your voice faltered. How could you possibly explain everything? The silence, the distance, the fear?

Before you could try, Ominis closed the gap between you. His hands reached out, tentatively searching, as though he were afraid to reach out and find nothing there. When his fingers brushed against your sleeve, he inhaled sharply, and then his hands moved upward, settling on your shoulders.

You watched as his expression crumbled. The carefully constructed composure he’d always worn fell away, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re home,” he said, his voice trembling. “How long have you been planning this?”

The crack in his voice broke something inside you. “I… for months,” you whispered, your own voice shaking. “I'm so sorry, it took so long—”

Your words were cut off again as Ominis pulled you into him, strong arms wrapping around you with a desperate urgency, his hands firm against your back as if he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away again. The suddenness of it made you stiffen, your insecurities flaring instantly to life.

He’d know.

He’d feel the difference—the softness of your curves where you’d once been lithe, the weight you carried now, both physical and emotional. The image of what you’d been years ago, the version of you he might still hold in his mind, clashed violently with the reality of who you were now.

But then there was the feel of him.

Him, warm against you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his characteristic cologne—it was all so achingly familiar, so Ominis, that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the way you’d changed.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you let yourself sink into his chest, your arms lifting to wrap around his waist. You clung to him, the years of distance and silence collapsing between you as if they’d never existed.

His hand moved gently, brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm that made your heart ache. “I missed you hopelessly.” He murmured, his voice muffled by your hair

“I missed you more than anything,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him, tears still streaming freely down your cheeks. “I thought about you every day.”

Ominis pulled back slightly, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. His sightless eyes searched your face as though he could somehow see you, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. You felt his thumb brush against your sleeve, as if he needed the tactile confirmation that you were truly there. One of his hands slid down to grasp yours, his fingers curling firmly around yours as if to anchor you both in this moment.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you spoke.

Then, without a word, Ominis turned toward the shop’s entrance, your hand still firmly in his. He moved quickly, his steps sure as he crossed the space to the door. Releasing your hand only briefly, he flipped the sign to Closed and twisted the lock with a decisive click.

“To hell with work,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The words caught you off guard, pulling a startled laugh from you—a sound you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back.

When he turned back to you, his expression softened further, though there was still an edge of something you couldn’t quite name in the set of his jaw. Relief, perhaps. Or the determination of someone who wasn’t about to let this moment slip away.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The shop can wait.”

He didn’t give you a chance to argue—not that you would have—before leading you to the small staircase tucked behind the counter. His hand stayed in yours as he guided you, his grip firm but gentle, like he was still afraid to let go.

The stairs creaked faintly under your feet as you followed Ominis into the flat above the shop. The scent of cedar lingered here too, mixed with something faintly herbal—his cologne, no doubt.

“Forgive the state of things,” he said quickly, his tone uncharacteristically self-conscious as he gestured toward the room. “I wasn’t exactly expecting... well, anyone. Least of all you.”

But as your eyes roamed the space, you couldn’t find the “mess” he spoke of. The room was tidy, cozy, and so very him. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, lined with neatly arranged tomes you recognized from your Hogwarts years, alongside a few newer additions. A comfortable-looking armchair sat in one corner, its seat draped with a soft, worn throw blanket. A half empty mug of tea sat forgotten on the small table beside it, next to what appeared to be a half-finished crossword puzzle.

There were small signs of his life everywhere: a folded sweater resting on the back of the chair, a walking stick leaning against the wall by the door, a well-cared-for violin resting in its case near the bookshelf. The window was framed by simple curtains, their edges charmed to shimmer faintly in the light, a detail that felt unmistakably him.

“It’s perfect,” you said, turning to him with a soft smile.

He let out a huff of disbelief. “Hardly. It’s small, and I wasn’t expecting guests, so it’s a bit—”

“No, really,” you insisted, stepping further into the room. “It’s... you. I mean that in the best way.”

His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, his free hand gestured vaguely at the space. “I haven’t had much reason to bring anyone up here,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “I usually keep to myself unless Sebastian or Anne drag me out for something."

You turned back to him, catching the faint blush dusting his cheeks as he moved to straighten a few items on the table near the armchair. The sight made your heart ache in the best way, the years falling away as though you’d never been apart.

“It’s nice to see you’ve kept up the crossword habit,” you teased, gesturing toward the table.

Ominis smirked, his confidence returning just enough to quip, “It’s either that or let my mind wander, and we both know that can only lead to trouble.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, "That's true."

He gestured toward the couch near the window, its cushions plump and inviting. “Sit,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “I'm sure you’ve been traveling all day.”

You hesitated, still standing near the door, but Ominis stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Please,” he added, his voice quieter now.

With a nod, you set your bag down near the door and crossed to the couch, sinking into its cushions. It was as comfortable as it looked, and you let out a quiet sigh as the tension in your body began to ease.

He moved toward the kitchenette. “Tea?” he asked, his head tilted slightly in your direction.

“Yes, please,” you said quickly, your voice softer than you intended.

Ominis nodded, his movements fluid and purposeful as he filled the kettle and set it on the small stove.

“I’ve got chamomile, mint, and… some Earl Grey that Sebastian swore I’d love but tastes like someone soaked socks in bergamot,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk.

You laughed softly, leaning back into the couch. “Chamomile sounds perfect.”

He nodded, plucking the sachet from its place with an almost practiced precision, his hands moving with the same quiet grace you remembered so vividly. Despite the ease of his movements, you could see the faint tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated before reaching for the mugs.

"Did Sebastian and Anne know about you coming back?" Ominis asked, his voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of curiosity.

You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of the couch cushion. "No," you admitted softly. "I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t… want them to spill the secret. I thought it might be better this way."

He turned slightly, his sightless eyes tilted in your direction, one brow arching faintly. “Better for whom?”

You huffed a humorless laugh, biting your lip. "Me, I guess. I thought if I just showed up, it would be easier. Less... complicated."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words, his fingers brushing the rim of the mug as he prepared your tea. "You thought sneaking back into Hogsmeade unannounced would be less complicated?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the knot of nerves in your chest. "Okay, maybe not less complicated. But at least it meant I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Sebastian. You know how he gets."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine, and it warmed something deep inside you. "Indeed. He is relentless," he said, placing the mug of chamomile tea in front of you on the low table. "Though, I can’t say I’d have been any better. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything else."

You looked up at him, startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t smiling anymore, his expression open and unguarded as he sat down across from you, his own mug cradled in his hands.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait,” you said softly, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “I just—” You paused, your words catching in your throat. "I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm here now."

Ominis’ lips pressed together for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly as though he wanted to press further. His hands tightened almost imperceptibly around his mug, the tension in his shoulders betraying his thoughts.

But then he exhaled softly, the lines of his face smoothing as he nodded. “You’re here now,” he repeated, his voice quiet but steady, though you could hear the unspoken for how long? lingering in the air.

You quickly took a sip of your tea, the warmth a welcome distraction as you scrambled for something that would steer the conversation elsewhere. “This tea is lovely,” you said, offering a smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Everything is. The flat, the shop... it’s all incredible. You must be so proud of what you’ve built.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost amused. “That’s kind of you to say, but I hardly think a well-stocked tea shelf qualifies as incredible.”

You laughed, grateful for the easy banter. “It’s not just the tea shelf, though it is very impressive. The shop looks amazing—I noticed the display when I walked in. And the enchanted holly on the door? It’s such a nice touch. It’s all so... you.”

He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I did have some help with the holly—Anne insisted. She thought it might ‘soften my cold, foreboding reputation.’”

You grinned, picturing Anne bustling around the shop, her infectious energy clashing against Ominis’ quieter demeanor. “I think it works. Though I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re 'foreboding'.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said dryly, his smirk deepening. “Anne says I scare away the first years who stop in. Apparently, my ‘stern demeanor’ doesn’t pair well with curious children looking for enchanted scarves.”

You laughed, the image of wide-eyed first-years inching cautiously into the shop playing vividly in your mind. “I’m sure you’re not that bad,” you teased. “Maybe they just don’t appreciate your charm.”

Ominis quirked an eyebrow, his smirk softening. “Charm, is it? I’ll be sure to tell Anne you said that next time she accuses me of being the ‘shopkeeper equivalent of a Boggart.’”

That earned another laugh, lighter this time, and you shook your head. “If she really thought you were a Boggart, she wouldn’t have helped with the decorations.”

“She likes to keep me humble,” he replied, his tone full of wry affection.

But even as Ominis joined in your banter, you could see the way his fingers drummed absently against the side of his mug, his thoughts clearly turning over something unsaid. He was playing along with your attempts at small talk, but you knew he wasn’t fooled.

Still, for now, he let it go, his quiet smile lingering as he said, “So tell me, how does it feel to be back?”

The question caught you off guard, and your smile faltered slightly. “It feels... surreal,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Like I’ve been gone forever, and yet somehow nothing’s changed.”

Ominis nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Hogsmeade does have a way of staying the same. But you..." He hesitated, and his words hung in the air, unfinished but heavy with meaning.

You’re different.

He had noticed. Of course he had. Ominis was nothing if not perceptive.

You lowered your mug to the table, your hands curling into your lap as if that could somehow steady you. The warmth that had spread through your chest moments ago was now replaced with a twisting unease, a voice in the back of your mind whispering, This is it. This is when he sees what’s changed and decides it isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough.

"I know I’m different," you murmured, your voice trembling under the strain of your nerves. It cracked as you spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I’m not the same person I was when I left. I know I’m not exactly how you remember me, and I—" Your breath faltered, hitching as you shook your head, your thoughts spiraling. "I just didn’t want you to be disappointed."

“Disappointed?” Ominis’ voice broke through your spiraling thoughts like a sudden, sharp wind, and when you looked up, his sightless eyes were fixed on you, his expression taut with something between shock and frustration. "Is this... is this why you've taken so long to come home?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting, like the edge of a blade poised to strike. You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came. The truth was tangled in your chest, knotted with years of insecurity and fear, and the weight of it pressed down on your throat, stealing your voice.

Ominis’ expression softened as he straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening as though he were holding back his own frustration—not at you, but at the very idea that you could feel this way. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his mug before setting it aside with deliberate care.

“Is that really what you’ve been carrying all this time?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You thought I’d be... disappointed? In you?”

The lump in your throat grew heavier. "I’ve been gone so long... and you’ve built this incredible life here, and I—” You hesitated, your breath catching as you fought to steady yourself. “I didn’t know if I’d still fit into it.”

“You think I could ever—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin’s beard, don't you have any idea how much of this life exists because of you?”

Ominis leaned forward further, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His fingers curled and uncurled against one another, as though he were searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm.

“Do you know what I thought when you walked into that shop today?” he asked, his words deliberate.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No,” you whispered.

“I thought I’d finally woken up from the longest, most frustrating dream of my life,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "And now, you’re sitting here, telling me you’re afraid I’d notice you’ve changed. Of course you’ve changed. I’d be more worried if you hadn’t. Life does that to people. It changes them. But just because you're different doesn't mean..." he swallowed, his words catching for just a moment before he pressed on, his voice quieter but laced with conviction. “Just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean you’re any less.”

He paused, his fingers tightening where they rested, his knuckles pale with the effort. His expression softened as his words seemed to tumble out, as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, actually.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

Ominis sat back slightly, his hand running through his hair in a rare display of bashfulness. “It’s been seven years,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Seven years, and in the brief time I’ve had to—to touch you, to hear you, to smell that very same perfume you always wear, you’ve only… Merlin, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding foolish.”

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly, but the intensity in his voice made it feel as though he could see every piece of you, laid bare and vulnerable.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly in your direction as he gathered his thoughts. “You’ve only improved,” he said finally, his voice low but unwavering. “Despite whatever ridiculous notions you’ve been carrying around, you haven’t diminished. You haven’t become ‘less.’ If anything, you’re... more.”

“You’ve been away, yes," he continued. "You’ve faced things I can only imagine. And yet here you are, sitting in front of me, as strong and resilient and...” He hesitated, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “As breathtaking as the day you left. You think I’d notice the changes and find fault with them? How could I, when every single one is just another piece of the person I’ve been missing for so long?”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your vision blurring with tears. "Are you... you sure? You really don't have to say this, I—"

He shook his head, raising a hand to stop you, though his touch hovered just shy of reaching across the small space between you. “Of course I'm sure,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “I’ve never been more certain of anything."

He drew in a slow, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as though he were steadying himself for a duel.

“I’ve spent seven years wondering if I’d ever get the chance to say this,” he admitted. “To say all the things I was too much of a coward to admit before you left. And I won’t waste it by letting you believe for even a second that you’re anything less than extraordinary," his voice softened, trembling at the edges as he stood from his chair. For a moment, he simply stood there, his sightless eyes cast downward as though steadying himself for what he was about to do. Then, slowly, he moved forward, kneeling on the floor in front of you with a grace that made your breath catch.

His hands reached out, tentative but deliberate, brushing over yours where they rested in your lap before curling around them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly, his voice raw with emotion. “But I need you to hear this. I need you to understand.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, cutting you off gently.

“I love you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, his thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. " I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to. And I know I should’ve said this before. I should’ve told you when we were still at Hogwarts, when you handed me the shop, when you left. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared I’d ruin what we had. And then you were gone, and I thought… I thought maybe I’d lost my chance.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might shatter through your ribs.

“But now you’re here,” he said, his words almost a whisper. “And I can’t let you leave again without knowing how much you mean to me. You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known, and I’ve spent seven years building a life that, no matter how complete it might seem from the outside, has always been missing you.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the world seemed to slow around you. The face you’d waited seven years to see again—its every detail etched into your memory but now somehow more vivid, more real—was right before you. The faint furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips as though bracing himself for your response, the glisten of unshed tears in his sightless eyes.

It was all so achingly familiar, and yet time had made him even more beautiful in his quiet, unassuming way.

And you loved him.

You always had.

The years apart, the missed chances, the countless letters you’d written and rewritten but never sent—it all fell away, leaving only this moment. This man. The only person who had ever made you feel like you belonged.

“I’ve loved you too,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips unbidden, your voice trembling but resolute.

Ominis stilled, his brows furrowing further as though he hadn’t quite heard you. “What?”

You reached out, your hands shaking as you cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw. His breath hitched, his sightless eyes searching the space between you as though trying to see what your touch already told him.

“I love you, Ominis,” you said again, your voice steadying as you saw the hope flicker to life in his expression. “I always have."

His lips parted, his breath catching audibly as he tilted his head toward your hands, leaning into your touch as though it were the only thing grounding him.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You smiled through your tears, leaning closer until your forehead rested against his. “I love you,” you murmured, your voice soft but sure.

A shaky laugh escaped him, a sound filled with so much relief and joy it sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks. His hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent and tender as his thumbs brushed away your tears.

“Merlin,” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I can’t believe... after all this time...”

“Believe it,” you said, your voice filled with quiet certainty.

His grip tightened slightly, his hands trembling as he pulled you closer. “Promise me,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Promise me you’ll stay—I’m begging you—don’t leave again. Merlin, I... I can’t go another seven years without you. Not knowing where you are, if you’re safe, if you’ll ever come back.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”