It was your sixth year now—months after Sebastian killed his uncle, Solomon Sallow. People said Sebastian had changed.

You knew they were wrong.

He hadn’t changed.

He had hardened.

Colder. Stronger. And—much to the whispered irritation of certain fifth-years—he had shot up in height over the summer, the edges of boyhood finally stripped away. What remained was someone sharper, quieter… and infinitely more closed off.

You spotted him from across the Hogwarts grounds, alone on a bench overlooking the Scottish Highlands. The late afternoon sun cast copper light over him, turning his dark hair almost auburn. He sat perfectly still, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the sky as if trying to read something written in the clouds only he could see.

For a moment, you wondered if you should turn back. Sebastian rarely wanted company these days.

But he had once trusted you—sometimes more than he trusted himself. So you stepped forward.

He didn’t look at you when you approached, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed, just briefly, like he’d heard your footsteps long before you reached him.

You stopped beside the bench.

“…Sebastian?”

His eyes flicked toward you—sharp, assessing—and then back to the horizon.

“So you found me,” he said quietly. His voice was deeper now too. “Everyone seems to think I need watching.”

“I’m not here to watch you,” you replied gently.

He let out a breath. Not quite a scoff. Not quite a sigh.

“Then why are you here?”

There was no anger in the question. Just exhaustion. And something like fear buried so deep he probably didn’t even feel it anymore.

You sat at the far edge of the bench, leaving him space. He didn’t move away.

The wind carried the scent of pine and the distant roar of the Black Lake.

“Because,” you said, “you looked like someone who shouldn’t be alone right now.”

This time, he turned fully toward you. His expression was unreadable—walls carefully raised, eyes unreadably dark.

But when he spoke, his voice cracked with something he couldn’t quite hide.

“I don’t know what I am anymore.”

You held his gaze, steady.

“You’re Sebastian Sallow. And I’m still here.”

For the first time in months, something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe. Or hope. He swallowed hard, then looked away again, jaw tight.

“…It’s getting harder,” he admitted. “Harder to feel anything but—” He stopped, fingers curling against his knee.

“Anger?” you offered softly.

He shook his head. “No. Emptiness.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Finally, he added, barely audible: “I don’t want to disappear.”

“You won’t,” you said. “Not while I’m here.”

Sebastian exhaled—a shuddering breath he probably didn’t intend to be heard. And though he didn’t reach for you, his hand settled a fraction of an inch closer to yours on the bench.

He didn’t thank you.

He didn’t have to