Chapter Text
A manoeuvre by which the Beater strikes a Bludger with a backhanded, club-like swing, sending the ball behind them rather than in the expected forward direction. Difficult to bring off with precision, the Bludger Backbeat is valued for its capacity to confuse opponents and catch Chasers or fellow Beaters off-guard.
When executed successfully, it allows the attacking side to maintain offensive pressure while disrupting opposing formations. The move is often attempted by more experienced or daring Beaters, as the inherent risk of misdirection can lead to unintended injuries.
“What in Merlin’s name was that, Sallow?”
Clutching her side, Maeve Clancy tore across the pitch, her broom skidding to a halt with a screech. She barely even bothered dismounting properly, just flung a leg over and hurled the poor thing straight into Garreth Weasley’s shins.
Face like a stormy afternoon, hair wild and sticking to her cheeks, she stalked across the pitch with murder in her eyes. And unfortunately for him, Sebastian realised that hurricane was headed straight in his direction.
Oh, brilliant.
“Are you actually incapable of flying in a straight line?” She spat, eyes blazing. “Should we stop by Spintwitches and get you some little training handles for your broom? Or better yet, pay a visit a local troll den so you can see how their kind also drunkenly waft a club around.”
He tilted his head, staring down at her with that maddening gleam he always got right before saying something he absolutely shouldn’t.
“Is that a date?”
She smacked him square in the chest. Hard, too. Enough to knock him back a step and leave a dull sting forming under his gear. For someone barely up to his shoulder, the girl could bloody hit.
Sebastian felt the corner of his mouth twitch, a grin cocky and sharp threatening to creep across his face — the kind that practically begged for a well-aimed jinx. He managed to bite it back. Just.
He had no business wearing it, really, given the situation… But what could he say? He had a soft spot for pissing off the gingers. Call it a character flaw. Or a mean streak. An addiction to danger. Any of the above. He wasn’t picky.
Not that it made these joint training sessions with the Gryffindors any less unbearable. Ever since Black had gone and cancelled Quidditch last year, this term had been a bloody nightmare. Two teams crammed onto a pitch meant for one, all scrambling for space like first-years chasing loose Chocolate Frogs.
Sure, they’d drawn a line down the middle, made a whole show of splitting the pitch evenly. But Quidditch didn’t give a toss about neat little boundaries. The balls did whatever they damn well pleased, players followed, and the inevitable ‘accidents’ kept happening.
Usually to him.
You try keeping your eye on your own teammates, two homicidal Bludgers, and an entirely separate team swarming the pitch. Even for him, it wasn’t easy.
Not that he’d ever admit that.
The infamous Gryffindor – Slytherin rivalry had always set the stage for these frosty joint practices — but Maeve Clancy always made damn sure to light the match. The Gryffindor Chaser was off her rocker. Reckless as a Niffler in a jewellery shop, darting around the pitch like she had Dementors on her tail and a death wish to match. It was anyone’s guess whether she was braver than any Gryffindor had a right to be, or just thick as Hippogriff dung. Probably both. Either way, she drove Sebastian absolutely mental.
“Come now, sweetheart,” He knew all too well he was poking a bear. A wild, mentally unstable bear with anger issues and a mean left hook. “I barely tapped you.”
“Barely?” she snapped, yanking up her shirt without a second’s hesitation to reveal a bruise already blooming along her side — perfect size and shape of his left elbow. “What the fuck do you call this, then?”
Sebastian let his gaze linger just a touch too long on the strip of exposed skin, catching the faint curve of an old scar along her waist and briefly wondered where it had come from. Probably something reckless. More likely something stupid.
“Now, now, if you were that desperate for an excuse to strip off around me, all you had to do was ask.” He shot her a wink.
She let out a low, frustrated growl — one of those deep, guttural ones that came from somewhere deep in her chest and made his grin stretch even wider. Salazar’s tighty-whities, it was far too easy.
“Merlin, you’re insufferable! So fucking self-absorbed, a shit-stain on society, a—”
“It’s not very nice to talk about the Big Guy like that, Clancy.” Brow quirking, he waggled a finger at her mockingly.
“You know I meant you,” Her flush deepened to a furious Gryffindor red as she jabbed a finger into his chest with every word.“You overgrown, broom-humping, snake-skinned arsehole .”
If looks could kill, he’d be a smouldering pile of Slytherin-branded ash right there on the grass, surrounded sadistically by colourful quidditch banners. But he just could not help it, it was a reflex. A smart comment just had to come out of his mouth.
“Broom-humping?” He mocked, voice thick with sarcasm. “Wow, Clancy, your insults just get more creative every day!”
Sebastian knew, knew , deep down he shouldn’t enjoy winding her up this much, but honestly? It was starting to feel like a public service lately. Some great, cosmic balancing act for every time she’d strutted around with that piss-awful Gryffindor superiority complex, acting like her moral compass was the only one worth following.
And anyway, it wasn’t his fault she’d flown straight into his play. He’d only been trying a form of backhanded swing — something Albie Weekes insisted could be the key to taking down these insufferable Gryffindors in next week’s match. She was well over the pitch line, clearly invading their practice space. He was certain of it.
If she got clipped, that was on her. She ought to be the one to apologise — for her tragically poor sense of spatial awareness. He wasn’t about to take the blame for that .
“No wonder you’re a fucking Slytherin,” she bit out, Sebastian had to stifle a laugh as that bloody vein on her forehead made its usual appearance, pulsing at him politely, as though it were greeting an old friend. “Only Salazar sodding Slytherin himself would think it’s hilarious to unleash demon-spawn on wizarding Britain the day you were born!”
Sebastian barked a laugh at that, tipping an imaginary hat with an exaggerated flourish.“Cheers, Clancy. Ambitious, cunning, resourceful, and extremely good-looking. Practically in our welcome letter.” He let out a low chuckle. “Sorry you lot didn’t get the same personality perks with your,” his voice dropped to a teasing drawl, “little bravery badge.”
And there it was — the telltale flush, the sharp huff, and the inevitable storm-off. Maeve yanked her shirt back down and marched straight toward Imelda Reyes, bellowing loud enough to startle the crows out of the goalposts about how every Slytherin was a “fucking snake.”
Ah. Just when it was getting good.
Sebastian leaned against his broom, lazily flipping his bat between his fingers, cheeks burning with the grin he couldn’t suppress. Merlin, he lived for it — the way the darkness crept into Clancy’s blue eyes, turning them nearly black the further she teetered on that razor-thin edge between irritation and full-on murderous rage. That fierce, reckless fire in her was better than any duel he’d ever fought.
Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, doing his very best impression of someone entirely unbothered as Maeve Clancy jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction and started laying into their Slytherin captain. He couldn’t hear every word over the rush of wind and the distant crack of a Bludger, but he caught the important bit.
“Your bloody Beater’s a dick!”
He barked a laugh, swinging his leg back over his broom, and settling in to watch with the kind of detached amusement he usually reserved for Zonko’s tragically terrible puppet shows.
Maeve was mid-rant, hands flailing, strands of hair tearing loose from their ribbon to frame her flushed, windburnt face. Fury suited her in a way that probably should’ve concerned him more than it did. At this point, she didn’t even look like a person so much as a cartoon sketch someone had furiously scribbled in the margins of a Charms essay — all jagged lines, wild hair, and capital letters.
And through it all, Imelda stood there like a statue, arms folded, expression schooled into that cold, unimpressed deadpan she’d perfected sometime around third year.
He knew that look. Knew exactly how this would go. Clancy would demand justice, Reyes would remind her they were sharing a pitch and if she couldn’t handle the occasional elbow to the ribs, she was welcome to piss off to the Gobstones Club. Then, once practice was over and the pitch cleared, Imelda would come find him, corner him by the lockers, and deliver a quick, efficient bollocking. No shouting, no theatrics — just a sharp word or two and a look that could curdle milk. And then, as always, it’d be palm out, expectant look, and some thinly veiled demand for payment to “keep the peace.”
Sebastian mentally flicked through the contents of his dorm trunk, praying to sweet Merlin he still had a couple of those Exploding Bon-Bons Imelda was partial to. She’d sell her wand hand for one of those.
He kicked off, the wind rushing past as he climbed higher, spotting a bludger streaking toward him. Sebastian grinned, swung his bat, and sent it rocketing toward Garreth Weasley. The Gryffindor caught it with a sharp thwack, sending it right back.
“Merlin’s saggy tits, Sallow — trying to knock me off my broom already?” Garreth called with a crooked grin.
Sebastian smirked, catching the bludger on the upswing. “If I wanted you off that broom, Weasley, you’d be face-first in the mud by now.”
Weasley was alright, truth be told. Bit of a knob, but the sort you couldn’t help liking. Had a good laugh, didn’t take himself too seriously — which, for a Gryffindor, was practically a miracle. Better company without the rest of his lot hanging round, too. On his own, Garreth was the kind of bloke you could trade a few sharp jabs with over a Butterbeer, maybe risk a sip of one of his dodgy potions, and call it a decent night.
Shame about the house colours, really.
Garreth laughed, batting it back. “Careful, mate — keep swinging like that and I might start thinking you like me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Sebastian snorted, sending the bludger whistling dangerously close to Garreth’s ear.
They kept it going, batting the bludger back and forth while the rest of the players meandered lazily about the pitch. Some lounged on their brooms, chatting idly, others darted about playing impromptu games of tag, all making the most of the fact one team was down a captain and the other missing their star Chaser. It wasn’t until the clock tower chimed in the distance, they realised practice was even over.
Sebastian dismounted his broom, slung his bat over his shoulder, and started toward the showers without hurrying, still half-watching the chaos behind him. Maeve was mid-tirade, hands flying, looking for all the world like she was seconds from throttling the nearest living thing if Imelda didn’t swear blood vengeance on her behalf. He found himself idly wondering if she worked the same way toddlers did; would she eventually scream herself hoarse and pass out if everyone just pretended she wasn’t there?
As he passed behind the Gryffindor demon, Sebastian caught Imelda’s eye, raised a fist to his neck, and mock-tilted his head in an exaggerated hanging gesture.
Her eyes flashed with quick amusement, but she kept nodding seriously at Maeve, as if considering every furious word.
Garreth waited at the side of the field, presumably for Clancy. He usually was. The poor sod spent half his life glued to her side, playing lapdog to whatever half-baked, probably-illegal scheme she was cooking up in the Highlands that week. Poor bastard.
Sebastian swung an arm around the Gryffindor’s reluctant shoulders and steered him off course, corralling him toward the changing rooms with casual ease. The smell hit the second they crossed the threshold — a pungent, choking mix of sweat, damp wood, and enough teenage testosterone to knock a Graphorn clean off its feet. Boys shouted over one another about drills, others bragging about who’d landed the cleanest tackle or the fastest dive. The shrill howling of laughter echoed around the room recalling someone who made a spectacular arse of themselves mid-flight, followed by the sharp crack of towels snapping against bare skin.
Sebastian didn’t linger. He made straight for the sanctuary of the showers; cranking the tap to allow the water to heat, until the pipes groaned in protest and steam started to bleed thick across the glass. He swiped a hand across the fogged mirror, smirking at his reflection as it cleared — the enchanted glass praising him with a “ Well, aren’t you a handsome one !”
He dabbed a thumb over a small nick of dried blood leftover on his chin from that morning’s half-arsed shave, then stripped off his sweat-drenched uniform and tossed it into the corner without a second thought.
The steam clung to the air like a heavy fog, curling around him as he stepped under the scalding water. Sebastian braced his palms against the cool tile, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth as the echoes of practice reeled through his head — Malfoy’s sour face when he’d beaten him to the Bludger again , Black’s cocky victory lap, and, of course, Clancy’s full-throttle tantrum. Sebastian felt his grin grow as he tilted his head back, letting the water beat down against his sore neck and shoulders. Merlin, she was so easy to rile up. Watching her slip into that near-feral rage was quickly becoming his favourite sport off the pitch, too.
He snorted to himself, water sluicing down his chest. By now, she was probably cursing the broomsticks, the sky, and everything in between on her way back to the Gryffindor common room. Slytherins were snakes? Please. Clancy had venom for days.
The irritating hum of gossip drifted in from the changing rooms, slipping through the steam like a draft under an old door. There went the peace and quiet. Snatches of half-truths and overblown drama carried on careless voices, and Sebastian rolled his eyes as the latest scandal made its rounds.
”— did you see her face?”
“Which one’s Sweeting sobbing over now?”
“Hobhouse, apparently. Dumped her after she tried to get freaky behind the Beast pens.”
“As if! Bet Hobhouse was just terrified there’d be a Puffskein watching.”
“Merlin, can you imagine? Little fluffballs just judging you while you—”
Hogwarts couldn’t go five bloody minutes without someone shagging someone else, hexing their ex, or setting a broom on fire out of petty revenge.
And people called him dramatic.
Grabbing the soap, Sebastian lathered his chest, working the suds lazily over his skin. Normally, he wasn’t one for gossip. Well — that wasn’t strictly true. He just wasn’t particularly good at acquiring said gossip. Participating in it? Bloody unavoidable at Hogwarts. Lock up a bunch of British and Irish teenagers in a draughty, centuries-old castle with too many hidden passageways and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries, and suddenly the grapevine wasn’t so long anymore — everyone was in each other’s business more than Ernie Lark rummaging through your pockets for a spare Galleon.
And with a best friend like Ominis — blind, but with the hearing of a bat and the natural-born instincts of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out the scent of scandal — Sebastian barely even had to try. Half the time, Ominis knew who’d snogged who and who’d hexed whose broom before the culprits did.
And so, even with only the occasional snippet sifting through to the bathroom, Sebastian was able to piece things together, drawing on his own knowledge and the strange web of Hogwarts rumours. For reasons unknown — perhaps she’d been slipped a love potion? — Poppy Sweeting and Duncan Hobhouse had been an item . A match made in hell if you asked him. Poppy was lovely, angelic, and sweet, while Duncan… Well, he was the human equivalent of a maggot-infested Inferi — decaying, repulsive, and best when hit with a Confringo in the groin.
And now? It seemed the poor girl had been dumped.
Interesting. Very interesting, indeed. Knowledge to store for later.
“Where is he?”
Ah, fuck.
Could he not just get five minutes' peace around here?
Sebastian sighed, bracing his hands on the slick tile wall as the water hammered down over him. He barely managed to twist the tap off and wrap a towel around his waist before the curtain yanked violently aside.
“Oi—! Imelda, what the actual fuck?” he spluttered, one hand yanking his towel higher while the other pointed accusingly at her. “I could’ve been naked!”
“Shut up for once in your life, Sallow,” Imelda shot back.
She stepped further into the steam, eyes murderous in the low-light, wearing an expression he knew all too well; the kind that sent the first-years scattering from her favourite spot by the Slytherin common room fireplace the moment they heard her coming. Eyes sparking, jaw tight — she’d clearly been storing up her fury for someone, and thanks to his little stunt on the pitch, he’d just volunteered.
His gaze flicked to her wand as she adjusted her grip. Fantastic. What was it going to be this time? A tickling hex? Uncontrollable sneezing? She’d once charmed his trousers to drop to his ankles on the hour, every bloody hour, for an entire day — and because fate was an unrelenting bastard, that particular day had included the Crossed Wands finals and dinner with the Gaunts.
Explaining why your trousers had puddled around your ankles mid-duel was one thing. Explaining it to a table full of pure-blood supremacists over roast beef and pumpkin juice was quite another. Ominis had nearly choked on his wine.
“Look, whatever this is, it was banter,” he started.
Wrong. Again .
Her wand twitched. He winced, cursing sweet Salazar as his brain unhelpfully conjured the image of his own wand, lying useless in a pile with his discarded uniform somewhere across the bathroom. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. What a time to wish he’d listened more to Natty’s ramblings about wandless magic. Cornered, half-naked, unarmed, and about to be hexed into next week by a girl a good half a head shorter than him.
He considered bolting — but knowing Imelda, she’d already thought of that and had some particularly nasty jinx aimed squarely at his bollocks if he so much as twitched toward the door.
“Imelda,” he tried, forcing his most charming grin, the one that usually worked on elderly shopkeepers and lovesick Ravenclaws. “Let’s not do anything we’ll both regret, yeah?”
She raised a brow. Her wand didn’t lower.
And it occurred to him, not for the first time, that Imelda might be a lethal terror on the pitch, all sharp cheekbones and feral grins, but she was also one of the fiercest, sharpest people he knew. She wasn’t cruel, not really. Just stubborn. Determined.
She had goals. Ambitions. Dreams big enough to rattle the stained glass in the Great Hall, and that cutthroat Slytherin edge meant she wasn’t about to let anyone — especially not a smug, mouthy prat like him — waste her precious practice hours. She’d already lost a year on the pitch, after all, a fact she reminded them of with cult-like devotion. Usually while barking at them to be grateful for 6AM practices in the freezing rain, because at least they could have them this year.
“I swear to Salazar, Sallow,” she hissed, jabbing her wand into his chest, “If you cost me a win because you can’t keep your bloody hormones or your insults in check, I will turn your eyebrows into flobberworms.”
Sebastian snorted. “You say that like it wouldn’t be an improvement.”
A sharp flick of her wand and he yelped as a sudden, bone-deep cold drenched his skin — like he’d been doused in ice water.
“Consider that a warning shot.”
“Touchy.”
“Shut it.” Imelda smirked. “And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing with Clancy.”
Sebastian stiffened. “I’m not doing anything.”
“Right. And Peeves is a bloody saint.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously to slits.“I’ve had three warnings from Kogawa already this term about you two disrupting practice,” She ground the heel of her palm against her temple. “She cops it from Howin because apparently the Kneazles break out in hives whenever you two start screaming bloody murder at each other. She’s this close to banning you both from the pitch.”
“What? No — she can’t do that!” Sebastian barked, actual horror flickering through the bravado. Quidditch was one of the last things keeping him tethered to sanity. There was nothing quite like sending a 65-kilo ball of pure iron hurtling through the air and pretending it was that sanctimonious prick, Solomon, to take the edge off things.
Imelda sighed like it physically pained her to have to explain basic consequences. “She can. And she will . And for once, even I won’t be able to talk her down. You need to get your shit sorted with Clancy.”
“Oh, that’d require her not being such a—”
Crack . Imelda cuffed him round the back of the head.
“I mean it, Sallow.” Her voice dropped to that lethal, quiet tone she reserved for threats and tactics. “Fix it. Charm her. Buy her a Butterbeer. Flash that smug grin you love so much. Merlin knows it works — Nerida hasn’t shut up about you since the last Hogsmeade trip.”
Charm her? That feral, ginger hellspawn? He’d rather lick the floor of the Forbidden Forest.
He let out a short, incredulous laugh and cocked his head. “You’re barmy. What is it with you women today?”
“Watch it,” she raised her wand once more.
Alright, fine, since he was quite literally held at wand-point — he’d admit it. Clancy was objectively hot, in that dangerous, probably-going-to-murder-him-in-his-sleep sort of way. Fitting, really, considering she’d almost definitely crawled straight out of the depths of hell.
And maybe — maybe — once upon a time, he might’ve been tempted to try his luck. But then she’d opened her mouth, and whatever flicker of attraction he’d felt had promptly plummeted straight down to the marrows of the Earth.
Sebastian searched Imelda’s face for even the faintest flicker of a bluff, but came up empty. Brilliant. She wasn’t pissing about in the slightest.
His jaw tightened. “I’m telling you, Reyes, it’s a terrible idea. If I so much as act half-civil to Clancy, she’ll be writing my name in hearts over her Herbology homework by next week.”
He paused, scowling, “And frankly, I’d rather take a Crucio to the bollocks.”
A muffled laugh came from somewhere in the distance.
“Wait,” Imelda said slowly, eyes narrowing as the gears began to turn. “That’s not a bad idea.”
Sebastian blinked. Merlin help me.
His palm scrubbed over the back of his neck. “ Crucio ? Ha, I’m not even sure I know that—”
“No, listen,” she snapped, already several steps ahead of him in whatever scheme she was now constructing. She began to pace, her expression sharpening with that terrifying, tactical focus she got mid-match. “If you get her soft on you — just enough, mind — she’ll be distracted. On the pitch next week, Gryffindor’s Chaser turns into nothing but a lovesick Diricawl. We walk the win.”
He stared at her. “Wait — you’re seriously suggesting… weaponised flirting?”
Had she been living under a rock for the last three years? Had she not witnessed the absolute chaos that erupted any time he so much as breathed in Clancy’s direction? Years of Quaffles to the head had finally scrambled Imelda’s brains.
“Are you mental ?” he gaped, pure disbelief written all over his face.
“Don’t act like I’m selling you off for galleons.” Imelda rolled her eyes and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You want to win that match just as much as I do. You’re the only one reckless enough — and annoyingly charming — enough to pull it off!”
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. He was being roped into seducing a walking migraine with a wand, all for the sake of House pride.
Though, if he was being honest, part of him did want it. A match against Gryffindor; their loudest, relentless, and most insufferable rivals was always high stakes. The kind of game where every tackle, every catch, every missed shot felt like a punch to the gut, and the losers spent weeks nursing bruised pride. He’d been on the wrong side of that before and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let it happen again.
Not that he had much choice, he needed to play. Quidditch wasn’t just a game to him, it was the one place where the noise quieted, where his hands knew what to do and the world felt less like it was spinning out of reach. The trophies and the cheers were fine, sure, but more than that, the pitch was where mistakes didn’t follow him home. Where the chaos didn’t stick. He knew he was good, didn’t doubt it for a second. And maybe that steadiness was the only thing keeping the edges from fraying. More than he liked to admit.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t faked emotions before. Hell, he’d had years of practice. All he needed was that same face he wore every time he visited Feldcroft — the polite smile, the agreeable tone, the carefully rehearsed calm that never quite reached his eyes.
The match was barely a week and a half away — the day after the Yule Ball, no less. He just had to hold it together until then. Keep up the ridiculous charade, lay it on thick, get Clancy to fancy him. How hard could it be?
Sure, she hated him now . But that was when he wasn’t even trying. That was regular, antagonistic, snide-comment, elbow-to-the-ribs Sebastian — the one who gave as good as he got and enjoyed every second of it.
But if he actually turned it on — played the nice guy, turned up the charm, acted like he gave a toss about what book she was reading or how practice went — she wouldn’t stand a chance. Nobody ever did when he really leaned into it. He could do this. Dial down the loathing, swallow a bit of pride, maybe tell her she looked… decent when she didn’t have her hair a frazzled mess and murder in her eyes.
Easy.
Alright… Maybe not easy. But possible. And that was enough.
Sebastian let out a long-suffering sigh, already dressing the absolute shit-show this was going to become. “Ok, fine.” he grumbled, “I’ll do it.”
Imelda lit up immediately, slapping his shoulder with a sharp grin. “That’s the spirit.”
“Oh, don’t get smug,” He shot her a look. “You’re still mental.”
“Please,” she scoffed, tossing over rope-braid over her shoulder. “This’ll be good for you, trust me. Bit of ego management — Merlin knows you could stand to be humbled once in a while.”
He scoffed, affronted. “No I don’t.”
“You’re proving my point, Sallow.” She gave his shoulder a firm shove, her eyes narrowing like she was drawing up battle plans. “Look, it’s simple. You just need her to fall for you — properly. The kind of crush that melts brains. She’s already halfway there, judging by how much she complains about you. There’s a very thin line between lust and hate, you know.” She raised a brow, knowingly.
Sebastian made a strangled noise of protest “ Fall for me ?” His jaw practically hit the floor. “Imelda, I said I’d play nice, not star in a bloody romance novel.”
She grinned like the devil. “Too late. You’re already cast. And for the record? She leaned in, as if telling him a secret “If she’s not at least writing poetry about your stupid hair by Tuesday, you’re doing it wrong.”
He stared at her. Unblinking. Poetry. About his hair.
His hands dragged down his face. “Merlin’s sweaty ballsack.”
“Language,” she cooed, all fake sweetness with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. “Girls don’t fancy boys who curse.” Her gaze flicked down then, as if noticing his bare chest and the towel that hung low on his hips for the first time. Whatever she thought of it, her face didn’t give a thing away. Just a lazy, unimpressed once-over, before she turned on one heel, heading for the door. “Now, hop to it, lover boy.”
She paused just shy of the threshold, and with a casual flick of her wand over one shoulder, his towel hit the floor with a soft thud .
“Oi—!”
Her cackle echoed off the stone walls, trailing after her like victory banners caught in the wind.
Sebastian stooped, grabbing the towel and muttering darkly under his breath. Fine. Next match, she was eating Bludger. Fuck House pride.
He snatched his fresh uniform off the bench, yanking the tie on with more force than finesse. Mittering every dark curse he could remember, he wondered how on earth he was meant to pull this off. No amount of Felix Felicis could make this a good idea. Charm a girl he loathed and pretend he wasn’t already halfway to hexing her every single time she opened her mouth. Something told him love notes and chocolates weren’t going to cut it this time.
He caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink: jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp and cold, and a scowl that could curdle potion. Then, like some idiot forced onstage, he pasted on that trademark cocky grin of his. The one everyone trusted far more than they probably should.
With a bitter shake of his head, he turned away and headed for the pitch, already bracing himself for the utter disaster this ridiculous charade was sure to become.
One thing was for certain.
He really, truly, from the bottom of his stone-cold heart, hated Maeve Clancy.
“—and another thing, tell him to lay off the fucking aftershave! I don’t need to be gassed with— whatever the fuck he uses, while I’m trying to play!”
Maeve shoved damp hair out of her face, chest still rising and falling in sharp, furious breaths as the clock tower chimed in the distance. For once, Imelda actually looked like she was taking her seriously; nodding along, arms crossed, lips pressed in a hard line. Until, of course, that flicker of amusement crept in. A tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, eyes flicking just past Maeve’s shoulder with a knowing spark that made the Gryffindor’s stomach plummet.
She didn’t even need to turn. She could feel it — that maddening, arrogant presence rolling in behind her like a bad smell. And there he was, right on cue: Sebastian bloody Sallow, swagger in his step, shit-eating grin firmly in place, strolling toward the changing rooms like he owned the sodding pitch.
Of course.
Favouritism, clear as bloody day.
She’d never be taken seriously.
Maeve’s jaw tightened, words already loaded on her tongue, but before she could let them fly, Imelda raised a hand into her face.
“Are you done?” Imelda asked flatly, one foot tapping with all the authority of a disapproving mother catching her child mid-tantrum.
No. No, Maeve was very much not done. She had barely scratched the surface of ‘Sebastian Sallow Is an Irredeemable Arse’. She still had an entire parchment’s worth of grievances that loomed in her head. Things that, if someone gave her a soapbox and half a chance, she’d more than happily shout them all to the entirety of Hogsmeade village.
But, traitor that it was, her stomach let out a low, treacherous growl, loud enough to drown out whatever blistering insult she’d been winding up next. The sun was sinking fast behind the stands, the pitch long since deserted — save a few stragglers, and even Imelda’s trademark deadpan was starting to slip into something perilously close to bored.
So for now — for now — she was done.
But it was absolutely not over. Not even close.
“Listen, Clancy,” Imelda grumbled, starting to pack up her kit with more force than necessary. “Sallow’s a dickhead. I know it, you know it, even the house-elves know it. Probably curse his name every time they clean the changing room.” She jabbed a finger right into Maeve’s sternum. “But he’s a good dickhead. Best Beater I’ve got. And if you think for a second I’m losing the Quidditch Cup because you’re having a tantrum about some flying elbow and a whiff of aftershave, you can sod right off.”
She turned on a heel, thick braid catching Maeve square in the face as she stormed away.
“You can like it or leave!” Imelda called over her shoulder.
Maeve stood there, seething, glaring daggers into the back of the Slytherin captain’s head, hoping, praying she’d get that stupid fucking braid stuck in the door, or better yet it set itself alight, or perhaps—
“Maeve?” A small, wobbly voice cut through the evening air..
Poppy Sweeting stood a few feet away, looking an absolute wreck — face blotchy and streaked with tears, hair a wild, wind-mangled mess like she’d sprinted the entire way there from the castle. Her adorable button nose was so red it could’ve guided a ship through fog, and her lower lip wobbled in a way that made Maeve’s stomach twist.
Shit. Not again.
“Oh, Poppy,” Maeve sighed, and all the rage she had been carrying plummeted straight out of her arse. She was already stepping forward, reaching out to hug the girl.
Whatever sharp, vindictive thing she’d been planning to say about Sebastian bloody Sallow – well, that could wait. He’d still be a wanker tomorrow.
Poppy folded into her like she’d been holding herself together with sheer will alone, and that last bit of strength finally gave out the second Maeve’s arms wrapped around her. Maeve tugged her in tight, burying her face in Poppy’s wind-chilled hair as a fresh wave of sobs shook the girl to her core.
She clung to Maeve like she might actually come undone if she let go — trembling so hard it made Maeve’s chest ache. She really fucking hated seeing people cry. But especially Poppy Sweeting.
Poppy, with her soft voice and gentler heart. Poppy, who left half her tea behind for stray Bowtruckles and once knitted socks for a wounded Kneazle because it “looked cold.”
And as she held her, something hot and sharp and furious uncurled inside Maeve’s gut. It lit up her ribs like kindling catching flame, a visceral, protective rage she knew all too well.
She wasn’t built for this. Didn’t deserve it. Poppy Sweeting was supposed to be bright and soft and sunshine-warm, too pure for the absolute shite the people at this school tended to pull. Seeing her like this — devastated, sniffling, absolutely wrecked — was like seeing a unicorn covered in mud. Like butterbeer turned sour. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Poppy.
And whatever — or whoever — was responsible for this? Maeve was going to peel their skin off slowly with a Severing Charm.
Because there was only ever one reason she ever looked like this, and Maeve’s grip tightened on the girl’s arms, pulling her back just enough to search her face. Maeve’s eyes, usually warm and inviting, now turned hard as ice as she scanned every inch of Poppy’s expression, desperately trying to find the truth beneath the flushed cheeks and strained breath. As her gaze roamed, Maeve’s brow furrowed deeper, the weight of realization sinking in with each passing second. Something wasn’t right. Something was missing. She could feel it in her gut, a tightening sense of dread building as she finally saw it.
Poppy wasn’t just upset. She was hurt.
“What the fuck’s he done now?”
Poppy’s eyes brimmed, a fresh tide of tears spilling over as her face crumpled. “He dumped me!” she wailed, the words so ragged they cracked apart on her tongue. The sob that followed shook her whole tiny frame as Maeve attempted to hold her steady, but it was like trying to secure a particularly heartbroken Mooncalf.
“D-dumped and he s-said—” Maeve handed Poppy a handkerchief and she blew her nose noisily. “Oh Merlin, I’m so s-stupid!” Poppy choked out, her voice cracking so high a swarm of jobberknolls in the distance shot into the air in a panicked flutter..
Something inside Maeve’s chest went taut, then snapped clean in two.
Damn Hobhouse, the four-eyed fuckwit.
“Oi,” Maeve said, fierce and low, tucking a tangled, tear-soaked strand of hair behind Poppy’s ear. “You are not stupid. He is. Thick as a troll’s arse and twice as ugly.” She cupped Poppy’s damp cheek. “These pathetic excuses for men? They aren’t worth it, my love. Aren’t worth you.”
And it was true. Always the same bloody story. Poppy Sweeting loved love. Properly loved it — head over heels, starry-eyed, hopeless romantic nonsense. She’d hurl herself into relationships like she was diving into The Black Lake, heart first, no life jacket. And every single time, some knobhead would decide she was ‘too much’ after a few weeks and leave her wrecked, the rest of us having to piece her back together every time. The problem wasn’t Poppy. It was the string of tossers too soft, too dull, or too cowardly to handle a girl who actually cared.
Poppy sniffed softly, wringing the handkerchief through her hands. “Easy for you to say.”
“What?”
Poppy’s eyes widened, colour rising in her cheeks. “Oh! It’s just—” she hesitated, then rushed out, “I heard Leander Prewett’s been trying to slip you a love potion. Wants you to go to the Yule Ball with him.”
Maeve snorted so hard it made her chest ache. “Prewett?”
She let her gaze sweep lazily over the pitch until she spotted him — tall, ginger, freckled. Which narrowed it down to about half the Gryffindor common room. If she so much as snogged the quidditch Keeper it would look as though they were committing some incestuous love affair. And frankly, knowing the Prewett’s, that might be exactly their cup of tea. She had heard the Pureblood families were into those kinds of things under the guise of maintaining their magical bloodline. Gross. At least being muggleborn guaranteed she wouldn’t have to marry a cousin.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Leander caught her eye — halfway through sucking pastry crumbs off his fingers in the most obscene, lingering way imaginable. And he didn’t break eye contact while he did it.
Maeve wrinkled her nose. Double gross.
“Trust me, he’s only doing that because he’s got it in his thick head I’m The Chosen One.” Hero of Hogwarts, Troll Slayer, The Chosen One. Did anyone actually know her first name anymore?
“But Maeve,” Poppy fretted, tucking her scarf tighter as a gust of wind whipped through the pitch. “You are The Chosen One! Better than me, anyway. They call me Peculiar Poppy, you know. They think I don’t hear them.” She kicked a non-existent rock on the ground.
“Don’t be silly, Poppy.” But something about the way Leander was still staring made Maeve’s skin crawl. “If those twats want to call you names, they aren’t worth your time. The only thing peculiar is this school.”
Without another word, She looped an arm through Poppy’s and steered her towards a bench under the stands, away from the pitch and the eyes of the nosy bastards who were starting to look far too interested in their conversation. Poppy’s sobs had settled to hiccups, and while she still sniffled like a first-year sent to detention for the first time, it was still a vast improvement. Maeve rummaged in her pocket, shoving a clean handkerchief at Poppy.
“Men are the source of all problems,” Maeve announced, as if it were law. “Every single one of them. Absolute knobs.”
Poppy gave a weak, wet laugh and wiped her nose. “What— You don’t mean that.”
“No, I really do! And if you had an ounce of sense, you would as well!. They’re all the same! Charming as hell when they want to be, then the second you actually like them back it’s ‘Oh no, you care too much’ and suddenly you’re the mad one.”
Poppy’s brows came together as she focused on the handkerchief in her lap. “It’s not like that for everyone though. Not for girls like you. You’re… You’d never let anyone do that to you.”
Maeve scoffed with more force than necessary. “You really think that?”
“Yeah! I mean… you’d hex them before they got the chance.” A flicker of a smile crept onto Poppy’s face, small but there. “Boys wouldn’t mess you around. You don’t get dumped. You do the dumping.”
Ah, if only Poppy knew what went down with Eric Northcott at Maeve’s first Yule Ball, she’d be thinking very differently, indeed. Maeve was still nursing frostbite from standing out on that blasted bridge waiting for him that night.
Though the very idea of her being some man-killer made her snort. “Is that what you think? Alright then, Sweeting — tell you what. I’ll prove it.” She sat up straighter, an idea already taking shape, reckless and petty and stupid, which meant it was perfect. “I’ll find some poor sod, get him to fancy me, and have him dump me all before the Yule Ball next week.”
Poppy blinked. “What? No, Maeve—”
“Ten days.” Maeve held out a hand. “If men aren’t dicks, if I’m apparently so un-dumpable, I’ll lose. But if — and when — he bails the second I give him a bit of effort? You finally admit they’re the problem.”
Poppy chewed her lip, clearly torn between loyalty to romance and loyalty to Maeve.
“Fine,” she said at last, pinkie hooking around Maeve’s. “But you’re going to lose.”
Maeve grinned, sharp and wicked. “We’ll see, Sweeting. We’ll bloody see.”
“There you are.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
Maeve didn’t even flinch. Just let her eyes slide shut for a brief, blissful second of pretending she hadn’t heard him. Her blood pressure had only just returned to something resembling human levels, and here he came; that smooth, velvety, smug-as-shite voice slithering over to ruin her day once more.
“What do you want, Sallow?” She sighed, turning with all the enthusiasm of someone about to be assigned a week’s worth of dungbomb clean-up duty.
He lounged against one of the wooden posts propping up the stands, hands stuffed carelessly into the pockets of his robes, wearing the sort of maddeningly casual expression that made Maeve’s teeth itch. Typical Sallow — smug, infuriating, far too pleased with himself for doing absolutely nothing.
But it was his eyes that gave her pause. There was something there, something unfamiliar lurking just beneath the easy grin and lazy posture. Sharp and unreadable under that warm brown — something that dared to pull her in and shove her away in the same breath. Like an apple, glossy and beautiful, until you sink your teeth in and realise far too late it’s a poisonous mess.
And that, more than anything else, made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Maeve didn’t trust that look. Didn’t trust him. Not for a single, sodding second.
Her gaze flicked to him, wary, watching as he clocked Poppy’s disheveled state. For the briefest moment, his face twisted, caught somewhere between actual concern and the strained grimace of someone fighting off a stubborn bout of constipation. It was gone as quickly as it came.
By the time his gaze snapped back to hers, that same irritatingly impassive mask was firmly in place, and Maeve couldn’t shake the creeping, prickling feeling under her skin. The same one she always got right before a Bludger blindsided her to the back of the head.
How, in the name of Merlin’s saggy socks, did his mere presence manage to set off every warning bell in her body?
“Look,” he started, with that maddeningly arrogant lilt to his voice. The one she was certain he practiced in the mirror when no one was looking, perfecting just the right level of insufferable.“I think we might’ve got off on the wrong foot—”
Wrong foot? She’d show him the wrong foot. Preferably by planting it up his—
“Isn’t this about three years too late? You’ve been a whiny little bitch-boy ever since I wiped the floor with you my first day here.”
Something flickered in his face. His jaw twitched. His hands curled into fists like he had to physically fight the urge to hex her.
“I was holding back!” he bit out — a line so worn and rehearsed she was fairly certain he muttered it in his sleep. They’d been having this same bloody argument for years, and yet it still made her grin.
Because nothing, absolutely nothing, soothed the soul quite like the memory of the great Crossed Wands champ, sprawled flat on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, taken down by a girl who, at the time, knew exactly three spells. Rather pathetic, really.
“I’ll try again,” He took a deep breath. “Clancy— I mean, Maeve, what are you doing this evening?”
“Sorry?” She blinked, brows raised. Did he just—
“Thank you for apologising,” he cut in smoothly, giving a slow, patronising nod like he was doing her some monumental favour by just accepting it. He even had the audacity to flick his wrist in one of those dismissive little gestures. Prick. “I know earlier was a bit much—”
“No,” Her voice was low and shaking with heat, her pulse hammering against bruised ribs. Aggravating, narcissistic bastard.
She struggled to regulate her breathing, because losing her temper never ended well and would only mean this foul shithead had won, again. Something her mother reminded her of time and time again wasn’t a very pretty quality for a wife.
“I’m asking you to repeat that,” she said, teeth gritted. “Because surely I didn’t hear you correctly.”
She took a step closer, “You actually thought you had the right to ask me that? Did I hit my head earlier and fall into some alternate dimension where we’re friends?”
“Merlin’s fucking toenails, I’m asking you on a date, you Dugbog.” He rolled his eyes, like she was the unreasonable one in this scenario. Then, he caught himself, straightening his shoulders as he slid on the charming, too-practiced mask he always wore when he wanted something. “I mean, Maeve. I’m asking you on a date, Maeve.”
“What?”
Maeve blinked. No, surely she’d misheard that. Must’ve been the wind. Or a concussion. Or maybe some divine punishment for whatever awful shit she pulled in a past life.
Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it certainly wasn’t that.
“A date.” He said it painfully slowly, enunciating like she was thick. “You know — boy, girl, a charming little outing, often involves food, occasional flirting. Or can be a same-sex couple, I suppose. I don’t judge.”
“Sex?”
“Merlin’s beard, do you actually talk to other human beings?” He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh.
Her brain had short-circuited. She locked eyes with Poppy, who looked just as gobsmacked as she felt. Maeve was painfully aware her mouth hung open, unable to summon a single thought coherent enough to close it.
She squinted at Sebastian like he might be sprouting a second head. Trying to work out if this was a bet, a prank, or possibly the worst dare anyone had ever attempted in the history of Hogwarts.
But this time, something was different. A flicker behind his eyes, a restless twitch in the way he shifted his weight. Subtle, barely there at all. But enough to make her body betray her, her stomach do that irritating little flip she swore was just low blood sugar.
And despite herself, a sharp, disbelieving laugh slipped out.
“Right, right, right…” Her voice was scratchy, it didn't even sound like it belonged to her anymore. She cleared her throat. “This some kind of elaborate scheme to poison me in public? Or have you finally gone fully mental?”
“Neither,” he grinned, grabbing his broom from behind him. “Thought it might be fun.”
Maeve let out an undignified sound, “You think this” — she gestured between them — “could be fun?”
“I’ve always liked a challenge,” he grinned, and that damn dimple surfaced on his left cheek, like it had been lying in wait for precisely the wrong moment.
She fought the urge to groan aloud, her eyes narrowing as she took in the fact that he was also still damp from his shower, dark hair curling slightly at the ends. Typical. Of course Sebastian Sallow would stroll about looking like some blasted hero from those ridiculous, dog-eared romance novels she absolutely did not read. Ever.
Not even once.
“Obviously, it’s a basilisk-shit-sized no—”
“MAEVE!” Poppy hissed, grabbing her hand and tugging her aside with surprising force. “We need to talk. Now.”
Maeve shot Sebastian a glare sharp enough to curdle pumpkin juice, but let Poppy haul her off toward the goalposts. He had the audacity to wink at her as she went. Foul, smug git.
The moment they were out of earshot, Poppy spun round, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“Me? What’s he doing?” Maeve hissed. “A date? Oh, brilliant idea! Absolutely! No doubt I’m about to be Avada Kedavra’d behind The Hog’s Head and they’ll fish my corpse out of The Black Lake by breakfast.”
“What about the bet you just made with me?”
Maeve let out a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “Oh, no no, no, no”.
This was not how it was supposed to go. That bet had been meant for some weaselly, spineless little prat — Everett Clopton, or perhaps Arthur bloody Plumly. Someone so terminally dull, so entirely forgettable, that she could suffer through a handful of conversations, maybe a tragic attempt at flirting, and be dumped in under ten days without breaking a sweat. That had been the plan.
Not this. Not him. Not Sebastian sodding Sallow — egotistical, insufferable, aggravating little shit that he was. The boy who spent half his life buried in books and the other half making it his personal mission to unravel her sanity, grinning like the bloody Kneazle who got the cream every time he managed to get a rise out of her.
And a date? With him? With her?
The last time they’d been in a room together, it had ended with a dented bench, a torched tent, and the changing rooms now proudly boasting a “No Duelling Allowed” policy.
Exactly what in Merlin’s name was he playing at?
She wasn’t daft. She’d seen it with her own eyes — the way girls tripped over themselves whenever he so much as glanced their way. Heard the whispers bounce off bathroom tiles, caught the stifled giggles between library shelves. Sebastian Sallow had a reputation. He’d breezed through just about every girl in their year, and probably a few beyond, like it was a bloody hobby.
He’d dealt with the gorgeous, the clingers, and the outright unhinged, and he’d done it all with that maddening little smirk — like he was collecting them, tallying up the notches on his bedpost. Probably kept trophies of his conquests like a bloody Niffler too. The absolute loser.
So why her? Why, in Godric’s green earth, had he chosen her?
Perhaps, he had a fetish for danger? That seemed entirely on brand, somehow.
Poppy grabbed Maeve’s shoulders. “Breathe,” she ordered. Maeve took a shaky breath. “If anyone can do this, it’s you. You’re the toughest person I know and I will not let you back down.”
Maeve swallowed.“You’re right, you’re right, of course you’re right.”
As insufferable as the whole mess was shaping up to be, Maeve did have to admit this might actually be the best of a bad situation. She wouldn’t have to fake it with some poor, unsuspecting sap. No awkward niceties. No guilt. Just Sebastian Sallow. A boy who genuinely, thoroughly, and without question, deserved every terrible thing that was about to come to him.
And all she had to do was be crazier than the crazy. Easy.
Maeve was going to have to convince Sebastian Sallow — Sebastian bloody Sallow — that she was hopelessly, pathetically, hearts-in-her-eyes smitten. Then, once he was thoroughly ensnared, she’d rip the rug out from under him so hard he won’t know who, or what, has hit him. No half-measures. No subtlety. She was going to go so unhinged, so absolutely, bone-chillingly mental with her tactics and be the worst girlfriend he would ever have. So much so, even that lady ghost who chased the man with a cleaver around the castle will say, “Bit much, love.”
She’d out-crazy every lovesick Hufflepuff, every obsessive Ravenclaw, every deranged Slytherin girl who ever tried to hex a love rival bald in the lavatories. Leave a legacy so cursed the suits of armour would gossip about it for years.
Anything to ensure he’d be sprinting for the hills all before the Yule Ball. It was deranged. Stupid. Reckless.
And yet… was it just crazy enough that it might actually work?
“Poppy, you’re a genius!” She hugged her tightly, spinning her in a circle so fast she was a blur of yellow.
The Hufflepuff giggled and it certainly beat the sobs from before. “Put me down!”
“Listen, we haven’t got much time,” Maeve muttered, setting Poppy on her feet. She risked a glance over her shoulder to Sebastian. He was still watching them both, brow furrowed like he was trying to work out a particularly irritating riddle. “I’ll go on this date tonight, we game plan in the morning. For now — do a gasp, sell that I’m thrilled. Make it believable.”
Poppy, bless her, let out the most offensively theatrical gasp Maeve had ever heard. It was so ridiculous Maeve half-expected the bloody castle ghosts to poke their heads in to see what the commotion was about. Somewhere in the distance, a lone Thestral gave an affronted snort. Poppy even slapped a hand dramatically to her cheek like she was auditioning for a third-rate stage production, eyes wide and lip trembling as if Maeve had just declared war on the entire Hufflepuff house.
Maeve winced. “Merlin’s tits, Sweeting. That was tragic.”
“Sorry!” Poppy squeaked, going pink to the roots of her hair.
Rolling her eyes, Maeve straightened, plastered on a smile so sugary it made her own teeth ache, and sauntered back to where Sebastian waited, broom in hand.
“Sorry!” she chirped, batting her lashes for good measure. “You know how it is — girl talk.”
Sebastian raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. So… we doing this then?” With idle flicks of his wrist, he twirled the broom in lazy little loops at his side.
“Oh, absolutely,” Maeve simpered, tossing a bit of loose hair over her shoulder in what she hoped was the exact same way those hopeless Ravenclaw girls did whenever Sebastian so much as glanced in their direction. “I’m so glad you asked. I’ve been so shy.”
Sebastian’s broom slipped from his grasp and clonked him on the head. He stared at her like she’d just announced she was half-centaur.
“Right… right. Well, I’ll, uh—” He straightened, recovering as quick as ever, that insufferable grin sliding back into place like it had never even left. “Brilliant. I’ll send an owl, yeah?”
“Perfect!” Maeve flashed a grin so painfully bright it could’ve blinded a troll, already pivoting on her heel. “Gotta run, bye!”.
She’d barely taken three steps when—
“Maeve?”
Oh, for the love of—“Dear Merlin, what?” Her voice cracked along the edges of that too-bright smile as she turned back.
Sebastian just stood there, brows raised, wind ruffling through that too-perfect hair. Picture of calm. A maddening contrast to how quickly she was coming apart at the seams.
He hesitated, then gave a little shrug.“Never mind.”
“Brilliant.”
Not wanting to linger a moment longer and no longer trusting she could, she snagged Poppy’s arm and hauled her along, the poor Hufflepuff barely keeping up as Maeve stormed toward the Gryffindor changing rooms. She desperately needed a shower — preferably one she could drown herself in. Or, failing that, maybe just bash her head against the wall a few times until the memory of whatever that had been was well and truly scrubbed from existence.
Well, until later that evening anyway.
How in the name of Merlin’s third nipple was she supposed to pull this off? Be nice to Sebastian sodding Sallow? Pretend she wasn’t carefully plotting his slow, satisfying demise every single night before she drifted off to sleep? She’d sooner jinx herself into the hospital wing and be done with it.
Worse still, she was meant to look desperate for his affection. To hang off his every word, laugh at his smug little remarks, and — if she could stomach it — blush like some simpering Ravenclaw fifth-year. The idea alone made her stomach churn. The plan was to overdo it, lay it on so thick not even Sebastian Sallow would see through it. Push him to the limit and get him to dump her arse, all so she could finally, finally, prove to Poppy that men weren’t worth the bother.
The very thought of it would’ve made her puke if her stomach wasn’t so empty it ached.
At that precise moment, Maeve Clancy’s priorities were clear:
She needed something to eat, fast.
But more than anything, she needed Sebastian Sallow dead in a ditch somewhere — far enough away that she might finally breathe.