Chapter Text
Mornings at Hogwarts had a particular rhythm to them. The clatter of cutlery. The low hum of conversation. The owls swooped dramatically as if every letter were a matter of life and death.
It had been more than a year since Julia arrived at Hogwarts, and somehow, in that time, the castle had stopped feeling so vast. She’d found her place in the spaces between staircases and late-night corridors, balancing the responsibility of ancient magic with the ordinary rhythm of lessons, friendships, and late nights spent studying. Hogwarts had settled around her like it always should have.
More than that, she’d found her people. A chosen family she hadn’t known she was missing until she had them. They were, she thought with quiet pride, a Slytherin force to be reckoned with. Anne was proof of that all on her own. Healthy again, finally free of the weight that had once dulled her spark, she’d become an absolute beast in Charms, mastering spells others struggled with as if she were making up for lost time. Imelda was wreaking havoc of a different sort. With Quidditch well underway, she’d taken to the skies like she had something to prove, leaving the other Houses scrambling to keep up. Gryffindor most of all.
And Ominis...is her ever gentle Ominis. A Gaunt, yes — and for some, that alone was enough to inspire wariness. There were whispers, of course. That a Gaunt was still a Gaunt. That he spoke to snakes, and might coax one into biting anyone who crossed his path. Julia found it laughable. She would kill for Ominis. Without hesitation. Of course, he probably wouldn’t be too ecstatic to hear those words out loud.
And then there was Sebastian.
To most of the school, Sebastian Sallow was trouble wrapped in a charming grin. A walking detention record. The sort of boy professors sighed about, and students whispered over.
What they didn’t see was the truth.
That he was, at heart, a complete nerd. That he devoured spellbooks like novels, argued theory for fun, and had recently walked away from his OWLs with the highest scores in their year, that his recklessness wasn’t stupidity, but confidence born from knowing exactly what he was doing.
Together, they made sense.
Which was why Julia sat at the Slytherin table that morning, feeling settled. Right up until she sensed it.
That feeling. Something is about to go terribly, publicly wrong.
Sebastian Sallow sat across from her, already on his second helping of eggs, posture relaxed, expression smug in that irritatingly awake-at-dawn way. Ominis Gaunt occupied the space beside him, fingers loosely wrapped around his goblet, head tilted as he listened rather than watched. Julia sat between them, her bag at her feet, trying very hard to enjoy the illusion of a peaceful breakfast. It shattered when Anne Sallow slid onto the bench beside Sebastian with far too much enthusiasm. Imelda Reyes followed, practically vibrating.
“Oh, splendid,” Sebastian muttered. “You both look far too pleased.”
Anne leaned in conspiratorially. “We heard something very interesting.”
Ominis sighed. “I hate sentences that start like that.”
Imelda didn’t bother with subtlety. “Gossip,” she announced. “Brilliant gossip.”
Julia froze mid-bite.
Sebastian perked up, grinning. “Well? Out with it. I’m starving, and not just for food.”
Imelda’s gaze snapped straight to Julia. “Word from the grapevine is that you were caught snogging Cormac Fawley.”
The Great Hall did not, in fact, fall silent. But Julia’s world certainly did.
She groaned, dropping her forehead straight onto the table with a dull thud. “Merlin.”
Sebastian’s reaction was immediate and visceral. Ominis sighed into his tea. “I leave you lot alone for one evening…”
Sebastian made a face. A truly appalled one. Like someone had just told him they’d found a flobberworm in his porridge.
“Of all people,” he said, voice thick with disbelief, “Fawley?”
Julia lifted her head just enough to glare at him. “So what?”
Sebastian chortled. Actually chortled, the absolute menace.
“And a Ravenclaw,” he added, sounding personally betrayed. “A Ravenclaw, Julia.”
Imelda raised an eyebrow. “That’s the part you’re upset about?”
“A Ravenclaw,” he continued with more conviction, ignoring Imelda entirely. “And not even a tolerable one. He’s a year older, walks around like he invented charm work, and I’m fairly certain he owns more hair products than sense.”
Anne bit back a laugh — then very deliberately didn’t. “Merlin, Sebastian, you sound as though he’s committed a crime.”
Ominis tilted his head slightly towards him. “You do sound personally offended.”
“I am,” Sebastian said firmly. “Deeply.”
Anne hummed, thoughtful. “Honestly? I’d snog him purely to irritate you.”
Sebastian stared at her. “You would not.”
“Oh, I absolutely would,” she said lightly. “I might even make a point of enjoying it.”
Imelda grinned. “I’d pay to see that.”
“Seriously?” he said, unrepentant. “You can’t tell me you don’t find it even slightly concerning.”
Julia leaned back, using one arm to support herself, “Concerning how?”
“Well, for starters,” he said, ticking points off on his fingers, “he’s smug, he’s known for flirting with anything that breathes, and he once tried to explain a spell to me incorrectly.” Ominis murmured, “A truly unforgivable offence.”
“Last I checked,” she said lightly, “I don’t need a vetting committee.”
Sebastian scoffed. “I’m not a committee. I’m a concerned citizen.”
“A concerned citizen who looks like he’s swallowed something foul.”
“That’s because I have—the mental image,” he said while shuddering.
Sebastian leaned forward, arms crossed, expression settling into something sharp and sarcastic. “I just can’t believe you fell for the honey trap.”
Julia shot him a look. “The what?”
“You know,” he said airily. “The smiles. The confidence. The reputation carefully cultivated to make people forget he’s utterly egotistical.”
She scoffed. Inside, though, her thoughts churned.
Julia smirked despite herself. So what? She was eighteen, nearly nineteen. Sixth year. Survived a goblin rebellion, dark magic, and more near-death experiences than she cared to count. Was she really supposed to pretend she’d never wanted to kiss someone just because Sebastian had opinions? Was it a crime to be curious? To want something uncomplicated for once? No cursed vaults, no ancient magic, no looming catastrophes. Just… a moment. Out loud, she said, “I wasn’t kidnapped, Sebastian.”
“That almost makes it worse. You did it willingly.”
Ominis cleared his throat delicately. “For the record, Julia, you don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
She glanced at him, grateful. “Thank you.”
Ominis waved a hand. “That said, I am judging you.”
“Bugger off, Ominis,” she scoffed.
“That you could have snogged literally anyone,” Sebastian put his hands on his face. “And you chose Cormac Fawley.”
Imelda laughed outright now. Anne hid her smile behind her cup. Julia will never hear the end of it.
They left the Great Hall in a loose cluster, swept along with the rest of the sixth years funnelling toward the doors. Sebastian fell into step beside Julia easily, as if it were instinct. Anne and Imelda walked a few paces ahead, still whispering and laughing. Ominis trailed just behind them, his wand angled slightly toward the floor, the faint red glow at its tip guiding his steps.
“So,” Sebastian said, lowering his voice, “It’s Thursday.”
She didn’t look at him. “I know.”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Yes, Sebastian.”
“Library.”
“Briefly,” she added. “In and out.”
He hummed, amused. “Straight to the Undercroft.”
“We’ve been caught enough times to start a collection of warnings,” Julia said. “I’d rather not add to it.”
“Madam Scribner does seem to be developing a personal interest in our education,” Ominis remarked mildly.
Sebastian snorted. “She enjoys the chase.”
“No, Sebastian, you enjoy the chase,” she corrected. He whispered back, “So do you, Julia.”
It had started months ago, almost by accident. A shared curiosity. A mutual disregard for rules that were, in Sebastian’s words, suggestions at best. Every Thursday, after curfew, they slipped into the library, pilfered a spell from the Restricted Section, and raced back to the Undercroft to master it before the other. It wasn’t always anything dramatic. No curses, no explosions. Sometimes it was a transfiguration charm. Sometimes, an obscure enchantment made objects behave in deeply inconvenient ways. Once, a spell that caused teacups to hum if held incorrectly.
Sebastian had won most of the time. Infuriatingly so.
They hadn’t gone far when Julia felt it again. That prickle between her shoulder blades. The unmistakable sense of being noticed.
“Julia.” She turned to find Cormac Fawley leaning against the wall near the stairwell, arms folded, expression already arranged into something smug. He pushed himself upright with infuriating ease. “Morning,” he said, drawing the word out.
She forced a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fawley.”
Up close, she could see it now. The practised charm. The way his gaze lingered a fraction too long, as if he were waiting for a reaction.
“Didn’t expect to see you so early,” he added, smirking. “Thought you might be avoiding the corridors today.”
She immediately regretted everything.
“Oh, don’t,” Sebastian said, stepping forward before she could reply. “It’s far too early for whatever this is.”
Cormac’s eyes flicked to him, amused. “Relax, Sallow. Just saying hello.”
“Yes,” Sebastian said pleasantly. “You do strike me as the sort who says it to everyone.” Imelda stifled a laugh. Anne tugged Julia gently away by the sleeve. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
Julia didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. The warmth had already drained from her cheeks, replaced with something closer to embarrassment.
Merlin.
What was I thinking?
By the time they reached the Potions classroom, she was firmly resolved never to make a decision based on curiosity again. Professor Sharp stood at the front, arms folded, gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “Take your seats,” he snapped. “Today, we’ll be working in pairs.” Sharp’s eyes swept the room. “Mr. Sallow, you’ll be working with Ms. Morgan.”
Sebastian immediately grinned, “Excellent.”
She shook her head, despite herself. This is going to end very badly.
Julia barely noticed how quickly Potions unravelled. One moment, they were brewing in relative order, trading quiet remarks and pointed looks, and the next, they were decidedly not following the instructions at all. Somehow, between Sebastian’s confidence and her own curiosity, they’d gone off-script entirely, attempting a modification they’d once learned from a witch they’d met near Keenbridge.
In hindsight, that should have been a warning. Never trust strangers, she thought wryly, as Professor Sharp’s patience evaporated and the word detention was delivered with surgical precision.
Tomorrow.
As if that wasn’t enough, tomorrow’s lesson would involve brewing an Invisibility Potion. Julia already felt the phantom stickiness on her hands. Troll bogeys had a way of lingering long after the cauldron was scrubbed clean, and Sharp was nothing if not thorough when it came to punishment.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. By the time night fell, Potions already felt like a distant mistake — irritating, but done.
The Restricted Section, at least, went flawlessly.
Quick hands. Quicker footsteps. A borrowed book was tucked neatly under Sebastian’s arm. No lectures, no sharp-eyed librarians. They didn’t linger, slipping away with practised ease and making straight for the Undercroft as they’d planned.
There, in the familiar stone chamber, they set to work.
Bombarda Maxima was ambitious, even by their standards, but the thrill of it hummed through Julia’s veins as she tried to shape the magic, pushing and refining it, willing it into something precise rather than destructive.
Sebastian, infuriatingly, got it first.
The spell thundered through the room, controlled and clean, leaving the far wall scorched but intact. He turned, triumphant, and chalked another mark onto the tally scratched into the stone.
“That makes it three points ahead,” he announced cheerfully.
Julia groaned. “Unbelievable.” Sebastian walked back to where Julia was sitting. The Undercroft looked different these days. Not dramatically so, but enough that Julia noticed it every time she stepped inside. A low table here. A rug there. Tonight, a rather respectable-looking couch sat against the wall, conjured with a spell they’d nicked weeks ago and refined through trial, error, and mild structural collapse. Still, progress is progress. Sebastian dropped down beside it instead of sprawling as he usually did, stretching his legs out in front of him. The firelight caught in his hair, softening the sharpness of his features.
“So,” he said, far too casually, “seriously. Cormac Fawley?”
Julia shot him a look. “Let it go, Sebastian.”
“Not one bit.”
She sighed, sinking onto the couch and leaning back. “Why does it matter?”
He shrugged. “I’m curious.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’m appalled.”
She snorted. “Of course you are.”
“But really,” he went on, turning slightly toward her, “why him?”
Julia dragged a hand down her face. “Who cares? No one really has a memorable first kiss.”
Sebastian blinked. “Mine was.”
She turned, surprised despite herself. “Oh?”
“Fourth year,” he said lightly. “Adelaide Oakes.”
Julia pulled a face. “Well, we’d better ask Adelaide if it was as memorable for her.”
He laughed, undeterred. “Oh, Julia. You know, when I do things, I do them well.”
She rolled her eyes. “Modest too.”
He cleared his throat then, the bravado dimming just a fraction. “So… how was Fawley?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Sloppy.”
Sebastian choked on a laugh.
“Too much tongue, far too quickly,” Julia continued, grimacing. “I had to leg it out of Mr Moon’s broom closet. He followed immediately, of course. Cressida was right outside.”
Sebastian burst out laughing, proper laughter, head tipped back. “Of course she was.”
“That gossiping bitch,” Julia muttered.
He wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “Merlin, that’s utterly tragic.”
“I know.”
The laughter faded, settling into something quieter. The couch dipped slightly where they sat, close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him without touching. Sebastian glanced at her, expression softer than before. “Jokes aside, Morgan,” he said, voice lower, steadier, “you deserve proper snogging.” His grin returned, sharp and playful. “If you want,” he said lightly, “I can give you lessons. Free of charge. Perks of being best friends with Sebastian Sallow. Limited time offer.”
Julia snorted. “You’re unbearable.”
“Generous,” he corrected.
She should have rolled her eyes. Should have laughed it off. That was what he expected — a groan, a shake of the head, an easy escape back into banter.
Instead, she turned to face him properly.
“Fine,” she said. “Kiss me.”
“…What?”
She raised an eyebrow, emboldened now. “Scared, Sallow? Come on. Give me a good Sebastian Sallow snogging.”
He stared at her, and for half a second, she almost took it back. Almost laughed and pretended it was all a joke that had gone a step too far.
Then Sebastian exhaled softly.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice low and suddenly serious, “what you just asked for.”
Before she could reply, he moved. One hand came up to her cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing just beneath her ear. His other hand followed, cradling her face with surprising gentleness. No rush. No clumsy eagerness.
Then he kissed her.
Nothing about it was hesitant or fumbling; it arrived with the inevitability of a curse. He held her head like it was the world’s greatest treasure, lips meeting hers at first with a patience that seemed almost surgical. The first taste, soft as a secret, shattered her composure. He didn’t rush—no, he was methodical, precise, like he’d mapped this out through a thousand fevered daydreams and now was only confirming the details.
He tilted his head and brushed her mouth open, slow, the flick of his tongue on her lower lip an explicit challenge. A small noise—humiliation, exhilaration—escaped her. She felt his mouth shift into the ghost of a smile against hers, a silent acknowledgement that he’d heard and liked every note of her reaction. His hands—one cupping her jaw, thumb stroking the hollow below her ear, the other winding into her hair and pulling just enough to remind her of the strength he held in check—made her dizzy.
She kissed back, but it was the desperate, greedy kissing of someone who knew they were outmatched. Sebastian had no interest in winning; it was clear he was only interested in seeing what she might surrender. He licked her lip again and nipped—she gasped, and he used it, tongue pushing deeper, exploring, conquering. He pulled back just enough that their lips barely touched, breath mingling, and she tasted the edge of his laugh as he whispered, “Like that?”
She should have said something withering, should have regained control, but her mind was static, white-hot, all sensation. He kissed her again, harder, her arms scrambling for purchase around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back through the starched fabric of his shirt. She could feel the tension in him, the restraint. He was holding back, barely. Every movement of his mouth, his hands, was an act of violence wearing the mask of tenderness.
She broke away for air, but he followed, kissing a line along her jaw, down the side of her neck. She felt his teeth, the heat of his breath, the dangerous promise of his tongue. He bit, gently, at the pulse point, and she cursed his name, clawed at his shirt, anything to break through the exquisite torture. This was nothing like Cormac’s kissing, all tongue and noise and headlong crash—this was slow poison, an undoing.
“Sebastian,” she managed, breathless, her voice not her own. She wasn’t asking him to stop.
He grinned, then buried his face in her neck, sucking at her skin until she felt the blood rush to the surface. His hand slipped from her jaw to the small of her back and pulled her flush against him, bodies flush in a way that made every line of his intent clear. The other hand ran up her thigh, thumb stroking the inside as he hitched her skirt just enough to provoke, not enough to scandalise.
She shuddered at the cold burn of his fingers on her skin, the way he seemed to know exactly how to touch her. He let go of her hair to anchor both arms around her waist, and with a showy little flourish, lifted her onto him in one easy motion. Her skirt rode up, and he leaned back on the couch to give her easier access to his body.
He watched her face the whole time, hungry, waiting for her to break. She bit her lip and met his stare, refusing to look away, as she straddled his hips.
“Are you scared?” he asked, voice low, the words vibrating against her throat.
She shook her head, defiant, but he caught her chin in one hand and kissed her again. This time, there was nothing patient about it. He kissed her like he was starving, pulling her deeper, closer, until she wondered if he meant to devour her entirely. She let him. She wanted to see how far he would go.
His hands roamed, exploring, mapping the terrain of her back and thighs with single-minded focus. He found the edge of her blouse, slipped warm fingers underneath, and dragged his nails lightly along her spine. She gasped and clawed at his hair, yanking him tighter until they were both half-mad with need. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest, frantic, and it thrilled her to know she’d done that to him.
He kissed down her neck, to the collarbone, biting lightly at each freckle in his path. His hands splayed along her ribs, holding her steady as he worked his way back up, mouth never far from her skin. She wondered if he could taste the adrenaline in her blood, if he could feel the way she trembled.
She wanted to tease, to push him back and say something clever, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was feel: his lips, his hands, the way his body pressed so perfectly against hers. She rocked her hips against him, once, and heard the sharp intake of his breath. He smiled against her mouth, wicked, and pushed back, grinding until she felt his hard length through layers of cloth. It sent a shock through her, and she moaned, unable to hide it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice tight with effort.
She liked the power of it, the control she felt even as he held her captive in his arms. She slid a hand under his shirt, tracing the lines of his abdomen, and he shivered at her touch. For a moment, they just stared at each other, faces bruised and rosy from kissing, both of them panting, the air between them thick with want.
Then—
The gate.
Metal scraped loudly against stone as it was pulled open, the familiar grating sound echoing through the Undercroft.
Both of them froze.
Julia’s eyes flew open. If that’s Anne, she thought, I’ll never hear the end of it. Breakfast tomorrow would be unbearable. The looks. The whispers. The smug satisfaction.
If it was Ominis, though… that was different.
Either way, panic won.
They scrambled apart, attempting to sit properly on the couch in an entirely unconvincing way. Julia moved too quickly, misjudged the distance, and promptly knocked the back of her head against the stone wall with a dull thunk.
“Oh—bloody hell,” she hissed.
Sebastian bit his lip, failing miserably not to laugh. She started laughing too, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it.
“Are you all right?” he whispered, leaning in.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Just incredibly graceful.”
He reached out without thinking, fingers brushing her hair aside, and pressed a gentle kiss to the spot she’d hit.
Her heart, already racing, gave an entirely undignified flutter.
The gate creaked again as it closed.
“Honestly,” Ominis said as he stepped inside, his wand light glowing faintly red, “if Duncan Hobhouse ever figures out how to stop panicking over puffskeins, I’ll be amazed.”
Julia and Sebastian both froze again.
Ominis went on, entirely unfazed, “I swear, one of these days I’m just going to throw one at him and see what happens.”
Sebastian cleared his throat, casual to a fault. “Rough evening?”
“Understatement.”
Julia sank back into the couch, pulse finally slowing. Thank Merlin.
As Ominis launched into his grievances, Sebastian reached for a scrap of parchment and scribbled something quickly. He slid it across the cushion toward her.
What’s the verdict?
She didn’t hesitate. She took the quill, wrote her answer, and passed it back.
Outstanding.
Sebastian read it, grinned to himself, and didn’t say another word — but his knee bumped hers just once and stayed there. Julia let her hand rest against the couch cushion, still warm from what had just happened. A moment later, Sebastian’s hand settled close beside it, near enough that his little finger brushed hers, a barely-there touch that sent her heart skipping all over again.