My fingers absentmindedly tap on the paper Sebastian left behind this morning. His words have kept a smile on my face ever since – especially the self-effacing qualifier of his poem. What a weirdo. 'Trite' he calls it. Yet it has shone up at me from my pocket and, subsequently, my desk all morning.
Morning, sunshine love. Feels trite, but the dept. of mysteries has been on the mind and wanted to leave you with something, so it is what it is I suppose. Missing you, my darling.
The priv'lege of love is a mystery
I can only discover beside you.
The mystery of time is a riddle
I can untangle only by your side.
The riddle of thought; most inscrutable.
Death's inscrutability; most brutal.
But the dangling carrot of prophecy?
Brutality disguised as hopefulness.
I need not know the future to build love's
primordial heavens with my angel.
To hell with the secrets of time and thought.
My April; My prophet; My prophecy.
Imelda's voice cuts through my thoughts. "...and that's when he told me I was the most beautiful lass he's ever laid his eyes on!" Her proud Scottish brogue is a distinct and jarring shift from the lackadaisical reverie of my Sebastian's practically fragrant bouquet of words. "And he's not wrong!"
Note to self, catch up with Imelda more frequently, and in much shorter bursts.
It's been over twenty minutes since the distinguished coach entered my office in the Magical Theory classroom.
'Wanted to say hi,' she said. 'Won't be more than a minute,' she said. 'Thought I'd check in with you since Gaunt down for the count,' she said.
Instead, she's rattled on and on about everything from how her students are doing to the state of Puddlemere United's current trajectory, to her frustration over Ominis' condition. But most of all, she's given me every possible excruciating detail about her current flame.
"He sounds like a catch!" I say, happily, trying to validate Imelda's extensive description of her All Hallow's Eve Ball date, Iain Drych, Puddlemere United's star Beater. He is, apparently, gloriously tall – strange for a Welshman' – breathtakingly handsome – 'highly unusual for a ginger to be so tanned' – effortlessly charming – 'the dimples, Gryffindor!' – and stunningly talented – 'his impressive physique can't hurt, after all.' At this rate I wouldn't be surprise to hear he has slain multiple dragons with his laugh, cured starvation in numerous lands with the twinkling of his gray eyes, and brought the rain itself to drought-riddled countries from showing off the contour of his abdomen – about which I know about ten-minutes-more worth of information than I ever needed to know.
I decided early on in this conversation that I wouldn't mention the fact that the name Iain Drych is familiar to me and – according to Ominis, who has always kept up on the world's Quidditch news – he is a well-known womanizer.
Poor Imelda.
"Anyway, the point is that I'm giving you fair warning, Gryffindor. Here and now. All eyes will be on me and my date, no matter how cleaned up Sallow gets for the ball. Has he even heard of a razor?" She tsks and folds her arms in a defensive way, but I can see right through her and can't help but note the smirk dancing in the corners of her lips.
"Hey, I happen to like his scruff!" I say with a grin and a shrug. "And I like his long hair. Makes it easier to grip a good handful when it matters," I click my tongue in a self-satisfied way before adding with a cheeky wink, "if you know what I mean."
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Return of Sebastian Sallow | 10 Yr After Hogwarts
FanfictionTen years after I began at Hogwarts, Sebastian Sallow is back. And he's Professor Sallow now. He disappeared after the fall of Ranrok and Rookwood, after I lost Professor Fig, and after Ominis and I couldn't keep him from losing himself. But I never...
