How to Make a Villain - [Sebastian Sallow x F!OC]

[three]

Sebastian Sallow considered himself proficient at a great many things; he was taking more N.E.W.T classes than any other seventh year, he was undoubtedly the best duellist at Hogwarts, and, if it wasn't too bold of him to say, he was quietly confident that he was the greatest Quidditch captain Slytherin had ever seen. But apparently, disarming a small unassuming French girl was not one of them.

Needless to say, his surprise at finding the elegant little thing in his advanced Defence class on their first day of classes quickly descended into downright alarm when he'd been unable to disarm her.

There'd been absolutely nothing about the girl to suggest she'd ever learned more than deportment and elocution at Beauxbatons, and yet somehow - unbelievably - she'd deflected, dodged and rebounded every one of his disarming spells with a proficiency that seemed to surprise her even more than it had him. She'd even skillfully jumped out of the way when he'd broken the rules and sent the Dancing jinx at her, for which Hecate deducted ten points from Slytherin.

In a vain attempt to protect his ego, Sebastian put his inability to disarm her down to a simple oversight on his behalf rather than a testament to the girl's skills; he'd simply underestimated her, that's all, and as a result, had let his arrogance stop him from taking what should've been a very easy victory.

Still, nobody had ever come so close to besting him in a duel before - not once in his almost seven years at Hogwarts.

He wasn't quite sure how to feel about it.

Of course, this was not the first time the petite redhead had caught him off guard; he'd been just as surprised as anyone when she'd walked into the Great Hall on the night of the Sorting.

Standing head and shoulders above the terrified-looking first years she was grouped with, with her long auburn hair shining like burnished copper in the torchlight, she had stood out as brightly under the enchanted ceiling as if she'd been set on fire; not a girl but a creature of flame; a brilliant beacon that inexplicably drew every eye toward her.

Upon seeing her, a sixth-year boy sitting across from him had leaned forward, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes wide, and declared, with all the eloquence of a troll trying to recite poetry, 'There's no way she's a first-year.'

The boy's eager look annoyed Sebastian so thoroughly that he'd had to fight back the urge to smack it clean off his smarmy head. But then again, most people thoroughly annoyed Sebastian - Slytherin or otherwise. In fact, his best friend Ominis Gaunt was the only person he could endure these days, and even he had his moments.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Imelda Reyes, who was sitting so close to him at the Slytherin table that their shoulders were touching, was possibly the only exception to his general aversion to everyone - but his fondness for her went only as far as their intimate exchanges in the Quidditch changing rooms after practice. Beyond the impassioned moments they shared together both on and off the field, they didn't have much else in common.

'What's going on?' On his other side, Ominis had evidently picked up on the change in the atmosphere - though one didn't exactly need to possess the enhanced hearing of the blind to know that something unusual was happening. The ruckus that had ensued when the mystery girl had entered the hall was unlike anything Sebastian had witnessed at a Sorting before, including the time a first-year had somehow set the sorting hat on fire. Several people actually stood up in their seats to get a better look at her, stretching up on tiptoe and gaping open-mouthed at what was - really - just an ordinary girl.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. He, at least, had enough self-possession not to rise from his chair like an idiot at the sight of a new student.

'There's some girl with the first years who looks far too old to be one of them,' Sebastian explained in an undertone, casting a glance over the girl's willowy figure. 'A seventh year, by the look of her. Sixth year, at the very least. Must be a transfer student. Why did I not hear about this?'