It’s late afternoon—your favourite hour of the day.

That fleeting sliver of time nestled between the frenzied demands of classes and the inevitable chaos of dinner before curfew. For now, the world is still. Quiet. Yours. These few golden hours belong to no one but you, and you intend to savour them.

The sun dips low in the sky, drenching the courtyard in a wash of amber and rose. The warm light spills across the stone walls, casting long, drowsy shadows and giving everything it touches a soft, unreal glow. You sit on the grass beneath your favourite tree, the earth warm beneath you, a slightly battered library book resting open on your lap. Its pages smell faintly of ink and age.

Today has been… eventful. You overslept and arrived to Potions embarrassingly late—Professor Sharp was not amused. Peeves, in his usual pursuit of madness, dumped a bucket of icy water on a gaggle of unsuspecting second-years, cackling like a madman as he vanished into the rafters. And just moments ago, as you unwrapped a well-earned chocolate frog, it sprang to life and vanished into the grass, leaving you mildly betrayed and marginally hungrier.

You’re just about to turn the page, your mind finally beginning to settle, when you hear footsteps behind you. Light. Familiar. Unhurried.

Then comes the soft rustle of fabric as someone drops down beside you with casual ease. You don’t need to look. You’d recognise that presence—those footsteps—anywhere.

Sebastian.

He’s slightly out of breath, as though he’s been searching for you. His hair is windswept and artfully messy, evidence of both the breeze and his own restless fingers. There's a flush to his cheeks, his tie askew, sleeves rolled to his elbows in that infuriatingly effortless way that makes him look like he’s perpetually caught mid-adventure.

His gaze finds you instantly—sharp, golden-hazel, and undeniably amused.

He leans in close, just enough for you to catch the scent of parchment and something darker—ancient magic and midnight recklessness. There’s a hint of triumph playing at his lips, like he’s proud to have found you hiding from the world.

Then, in that rich, irreverent voice laced with trouble, he murmurs, “whatever you’re reading about, I’m quite certain I’m far more interesting.”

He says it like it’s a fact—not a boast. Like he knows you’ll close the book. Like he’s not asking for your attention—he’s claiming it.