You Cannot Put a Fire Out // Sebastian Sallow [Book Three]

Chapter Ten: Home, Sweet Home

Cornwall was mostly as Sebastian remembered: rugged, picturesque, with rolling hills and craggy cliffs, cloaked in lush foliage, the leaves of which were just starting to change color in anticipation of autumn. Indeed, vibrant hues of green intermingled with patches of gold and amber, stretching as far as the eye could see.

However, his journey was unmistakably marred by the frequent presence of military encampments. Sebastian presumed them to be training grounds, bustling with hundreds of diminutive figures akin to industrious ants, ceaselessly marching to and fro. The sight was a stark reminder of the ongoing war.

Grateful for the protection of his Disillusionment Charm, Sebastian flew on, reassured by the knowledge that he remained concealed from view, even from those below who might inadvertently glance skyward. Magic was an excellent advantage in this increasingly dangerous world.

He wished he could have Apparated closer to Falmouth-it was a long flight-but his memories of the area were vague, and he couldn't be bothered right now. His mind was too distracted by other things. Splinching himself at a time like this was also not a comforting thought. Anyways, the brisk autumnal air probably did him good. So, broom it (mostly) was.

The stars twinkled above him as Sebastian set back down on solid ground, releasing his Disillusionment Charm. He tousled his hair in an attempt to gauge how disheveled he appeared. His hair had always been unruly, even more so now that it was gray and frizzled, so he gave up rather quickly.

Hours on a broom meant his arms were stiff, and his legs nearly buckled beneath him as he strode forward, but he had to admit that the ride had been quite refreshing. In moments like these, he could certainly see the appeal of flight. No wonder Damien adored it so much. And, best of all, he hadn't needed to resort to traveling by Floo, which still made him queasy, even to this day.

Speaking of Damien, he was allegedly staying in an inn at the center of town. It was late enough at night that Sebastian presumed that's where he'd be.

Opting to touch down along the coastline to avoid drawing unnecessary attention, Sebastian knew he still faced a decent trek. Famished from his travels, he reached into his satchel and retrieved a strip of jerky, tearing off a piece with his teeth and chewing with vigor.

He debated taking a sip from his flask to warm himself, but decided against it. With any luck, Damien wouldn't be overly displeased by Sebastian's unexpected arrival; perhaps they'd even kiss and make up. If so, Sebastian didn't want Damien to smell the firewhisky on his breath, so he abstained. For now.

***

"Pardon me," Sebastian addressed the young man behind the front desk, wiping his brow with a sense of growing frustration. "Is there a Damien Evans-Sallow staying here?"

This marked Sebastian's third attempt at discovering Damien's lodgings in as many inns. Who would have guessed that the town center boasted such an abundance of Muggle lodging options? Doubt began to creep in as he wondered if he would ever find Damien.

The young man consulted his ledger book before replying, "There's a Damien Evans listed here, yes-assuming he's the same person."

Sebastian nodded amidst his confusion. Damien Evans? Why hadn't Damien given their shared surname? A moment ago, Sebastian had been chilled by the night air. Now, however, his skin blazed with the fury of a thousand suns. He dumped everything he had been carrying to the floor and yanked off his jumper, draping it over his shoulder.

"Will you be needing a room?" the young man asked.

"Unclear," Sebastian replied, gesturing at his things. "Would someone store those for me temporarily, then inform me which room Mr. Evans is staying in?" He tacked on "please" at the last possible moment, coming to the realization that the young man before him hadn't done anything wrong. He was just doing his job.