Chapter Text
It was a Tuesday afternoon in the library, when you decided that your life was officially forfeit.
In fact, you were quite certain that perishing by dragonfire or being strangled by Grindylows would have decidedly been a preferable experience, given the circumstances.
It had started with a ridiculous squeak. A pathetic sort of noise, high-pitched and scratchy.
You rolled up your parchment and peered up. Imelda was sitting across from you in the library, re-reading her carefully arranged Transfiguration homework. Her eyes were suspiciously narrowed, her lips pursed tightly. Beside her, Poppy was dipping the tip of her quill into her inkpot, brushing a dark stained fingertip on the hood of her robes. She sank it in there with a twang.
“Imelda,” Poppy said softly, “Do forgive me if I’m wrong – but either there’s a barn owl hiding underneath your cloak or you’re attempting to emulate one.”
Imelda swept her books to the corner of the table, no longer pretending. “Sorry – it’s just – I could have sworn that Garreth Weasley was making eyes at me.”
You and Poppy both whipped around, searching for Weasley.
“Can you be any more obvious?” Imelda whispered sharply. “Look, if you so helplessly cannot contain yourselves, he’s sitting by the fireplace. Don’t all look at once.”
You and Poppy took turns, making sure it was quick and inconspicuous business. Garreth Weasley was exactly where Imelda had situated him. He was perched by the unlit fireplace, legs sprawled out on the red patterned rug and his wand tucked messily behind his ear.
“And so, the mere sight of him,” you began, trying to understand, “now compels you to-”
“Yes, squeak apparently,” Imelda said shortly, “Believe me, I understand the absurdity of it.”
You weren’t sure she really did understand the absurdity of it because her eyes darted over to Weasley, and she did it again.
Poppy was nodding now, like she understood something very important, “So that’s why you wanted to partner with him in Potions. I thought that was odd. Merlin- Imelda, I would’ve never thought-”
Imelda held up a finger that prompted Poppy to press her lips together.
“I partnered with him because he’s brilliant at Potions, Poppy. The poor sod just needs some discipline. I’m willing, out of the goodness of my heart, to help him reach his potential.”
You spluttered, “Oh, and his potential has nothing to do with the fact that he was flying a broom – shirtless – around the Quidditch pitch last week?”
“I’m a simple witch,” confessed Imelda. “I don’t pretend to be immune to a perfectly chiselled body on a broomstick.”
You snorted.
Imelda seemed to remember something and quirked a brow at you, “Precisely, how long have you been at Hogwarts now?”
You felt a sudden need to tread carefully, “Two years – and – well, two weeks now?”
She leaned forward, “And precisely, how long have you been in love with Sebastian Sallow?”
You nearly choked, beating your fist against your chest for air. You were most certainly not in love with Sebastian Sallow.
You glanced over to where Sebastian was studying with Amit, who he’d been paired with for a Charms assignment. Sebastian was balancing his face on his fist, his oaky hair swept away from his forehead. He was lazily flipping through a book, looking effortlessly and irritatingly handsome. Suddenly, your throat felt a little tighter.
Poppy and Imelda were looking expectantly at you, unconvinced by your bewilderment.
“I – s’pose,” you blinked slowly, defeated, “Well, probably two years, one week and about three days.”
“We figured as much,” Poppy said solemnly.
“Do you think anybody knows?” you gaped, horrified.
“Yes,” said Poppy matter of fact, “I think half the school knows.”
You felt sick, “Do you think he knows?”
“Sebastian wouldn’t know which shoe goes on which foot, if it helped him,” Imelda replied.
You dared to look back in his direction. He was leaning back in his chair now, looking carefully around the room. He plucked at the green tie around his neck subconsciously. Your eyes met his dark ones. After a beat, Sebastian smiled and waved a palm in sheepish greeting. You mustered the semblance of a smile before pretending to be very interested in your rolled up parchment.
The very idea that at least half the school were privy to your most intimate secret was at the very least, perturbing.
“Right then,” you grimaced at Poppy and Imelda, “Say your farewells, I might actually die from shame.”
You were halfway through pondering the comparative pleasantness of dragonfire and Grindylows, when Imelda kicked you on the shin.
“Merlin’s beard,” she huffed. “If you don’t tell him how you feel by the end of the year, I swear I will.” She collected her books into her cradling arms and stood. “Think about it, for all our sakes.”