Ten 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...
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The tension between Sebastian and I as we work our way back to the castle is palpable. Though I couldn't and wouldn't classify our interaction as a 'fight,' it certainly is the closest we've come to it since our fifth year when we could bicker – brutally and relentlessly – over just about anything. It's heartening to consider how we've grown, changed, and matured in our ability to communicate. It's also comical to consider how fucking stubborn we can both still be.
It's times like this that the blurry line that divides a Slytherin and a Gryffindor become even less visible.
I attempt to reason with him. Again. "We don't know that it's a prophecy about what we're currently going through, Bash." We approach the elevators in the Department of Mysteries and fill the waiting time with our shared consternation. "The date range is huge. Eighteen ninety to nineteen fifteen? We still have fifteen more years where the prophecy could be valid."
"April, don't be daft!" he cries in an exasperated way, picking up Helvig's stupid fucking statue and calling the elevator for us. "You're the one always going on about the centaur prophecies and star reading and fated orbits and....and...etcetera."
The way he emphasizes 'etcetera' with flustered breath and an adorable scrunch in his nose would have made me do a spit take (if I had a beverage), and would have made me laugh (if I were in the mood).
"Why does this seem to be lost on you?" he pleads . "Why am I the one arguing to you that this is clearly fated, somehow?"
"It's more than 'etcetera,' Sebastian..." I say, defensively, unprepared for him to tear into the centaurs, if that's the direction this is headed.
"No–exactly! I know that...I'm trying to say that it's...nevermind," he says with a scoff. My heart sinks to be feeling so twisted up with him. As we get into the elevator, I wrap my hands around his waist and tuck my chin in the crook where his shoulder meets his chest. His free arm wraps around my shoulders but we stand in relative quiet. As the elevator ascends, my heart continues to descend. What started as a slight difference of opinion has become a significant misunderstanding and inability to communicate. I get the sense it's rapidly morphing into a hopeless, emotional quagmire.
"Should we not have revealed the prophecy?" I ask softly. "Do I need to apologize?"
"What? No!" Sebastian says, defensively. "No, I'm the one that took us there so you have nothing to apologize for. But if you're expecting me to, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. I've dealt with too many unknowns. I'd rather know what we can know so we can prepare. I won't apologize for that."
His words reignite my confusion and frustration. "Prepare for what, Sebastian!? It's as unknown as it was before we listened to it! It might as well have been in Gaelic for how antiquated it sounded!"
"It's something," he says as if his vague answer is the most obvious thing in the world. "Clearly, it's something or there wouldn't be a prophecy at all!"
