Sarcasm Meets Sunshine PV Syrah Vintera Locked

Syrah didn’t bother looking up when Sebastian arrived. She heard him coming from the moment he walked through the door—his footsteps were annoyingly casual, as if he had all the time in the world. He was late, of course. She had expected as much. He was the type who thought charm and a smile could get him anywhere.

She flipped another page, her eyes scanning the text. Defense Against the Dark Arts, focusing on counter-curses and protective enchantments.

Her fingers twitched, resisting the urge to hex the smug look off his face. It was bad enough that she’d been forced to go to his stupid party because of that idiotic dare. Just thinking about it made her stomach churn. She could still see her brother's words on the letter, taunting her that she was “too chicken” to show up .

She’d gone, of course. But she regretted it the moment she’d stepped through the door. And then she’d ended up kissing him. She felt her skin crawl at the memory. It was the one time she’d let her guard down, and she hated herself for it. Hated that she’d given him the satisfaction.

And now she was stuck with him as her partner for this stupid project.

Syrah forced herself to keep her composure as he threw himself into the seat across from her, far too close for comfort. She kept her eyes on the book in front of her, refusing to acknowledge him as he greeted her with that sickeningly casual “Hey darling.”

She took a slow breath, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. If he called her that one more time...

When he finally asked, “What are we studying for again?” Syrah looked up, her blue eyes icy and unamused. “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” she said, her tone clipped. “Counter-curses and dark protective enchantments.” Her eyes flicked over him, her expression one of barely concealed disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t too busy kissing half of Hogwarts, you’d actually remember the subjects you’re failing.”

Of course, he didn’t remember. Why would he? That would require him to think about something other than himself for more than two seconds.

Syrah leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her eyes narrowing at him. “I’m not doing all the work. If you want to pass, you’ll contribute.” She let her words linger, a clear challenge. He could flash that stupid grin all he wanted, but she wasn’t one of his brainless admirers. If he thought he could charm his way into her good graces, he was in for a rude awakening.

Syrah barely reacted. If she had any thoughts about his exaggerated outrage, they didn’t show. She simply blinked at him, slow and unimpressed, as if she were waiting for him to finish his little performance.

His sly reminder didn’t faze her either. If anything, she just looked bored.

“I remember,” she said flatly. “I also remember wanting to disappear immediately after.”

Her tone was even, quiet, and void of embarrassment—just an observation, like commenting on the weather. If he was hoping for some flustered reaction, he’d be disappointed.

She didn’t care. Not about the bottle, not about whatever assumptions he had, and certainly not about his ridiculous attempt to rattle her.

She turned back to the parchment in front of her, apparently already done with the conversation. “You’re still wrong, by the way,” she added, dipping her quill into ink. “I’m not here because you’re failing. I’m here because the professor asked me to be. If it were up to me, I’d be somewhere else.”

It wasn’t even cruel, just honest. Working with Sebastian wasn’t the worst fate imaginable, but she wouldn’t have volunteered.

She started writing, her script sharp and neat, as if this entire exchange hadn’t happened. “If you’re done being dramatic,” she murmured, not looking up, “we should start.”

She flipped a page in the book before her, gaze already moving on.

Syrah’s hand moved with practiced precision, the quill scraping against the parchment as she ignored Sebastian’s prying eyes. She didn’t owe him any explanations. No, that wasn’t how she worked. Her reasons for being at that idiotic kissing party were irrelevant. He didn’t need to know about her brother's silly dare or the damn journal she was desperate to get her hands on. Her motives were her own—simple as that.

Still, Sebastian pressed on, and it grated on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard. The silence between them stretched out, but he didn't seem to take the hint.

She could feel his gaze, eager and expectant. Where would you rather be? he had asked. She almost scoffed. As if he could possibly understand where she would rather be.

The words formed in her mind but didn't escape her lips. The forest.

Not just any forest. The one near the manor in Inverness.

She'd spent countless hours there. The solitude, the ancient trees, the smell of fresh earth and moss—the peace she found among the wild things, where no one bothered her, where she could simply exist without the weight of anyone’s expectations. It was where she felt most like herself.

And, of course, Merlot. Merlot didn’t need words. He was always there, his sharp eyes watching over her, never judging, never asking. Just there, in the most comforting of ways. . No questions, no expectations. Just a bird with a wicked intelligence in his eyes, who would follow her around the forest, flapping his wings with the grace of a phantom.

The thought of him settled Syrah’s nerves, her usual icy calm turning into something a little softer. It was strange, how such a simple thing could have that effect on her.

A small, soft smile crept onto Syrah's lips as she imagined him, a rare expression that seemed almost foreign on her usually stoic face. She pushed the smile down quickly, unsure why she let herself feel even a flicker of warmth at the thought of him.

Her eyes flickered up at Sebastian, but she was careful not to let him see her brief moment of vulnerability. She focused on the parchment instead. "Keep reading," she muttered, her blue gray eyes cold again on him.

Syrah let out a slow, dramatic sigh, dragging her eyes up from her parchment as if Sebastian’s mere existence was the greatest burden ever placed upon her. She studied him for a moment, slumped over his book like a dying man, and clicked her tongue.

"You act as though I care about your struggles," she remarked flatly, not even sparing him a glance. "I don't."

"I hate DADA!”

Defense Against the Dark Arts was Syrah's favorite subject, and she had no intention of letting some lazy, unfocused distraction keep her from her work.

She ignored him at first, answering only with the soft scratch of ink against parchment. It was almost laughable how easily frustrated he got—like a child throwing a tantrum over homework.

She barely suppressed a smirk as he groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, come on, DADA is useful. What’s your plan if you ever get attacked? Bat your pretty little eyelashes and hope the Dark Lord is in the mood to negotiate?” She rested her chin in her palm, lips curving slightly. “Actually… knowing you, that might work.”


“How the fuck do you do this?"

She tapped her quill against the table, watching him like one would observe a particularly dimwitted Kneazle trying to chase its own tail. “Well, first, I open a book. Then, I read the words inside it. But I understand that might be a bit too advanced for you.” Her lips twitched as she feigned deep sympathy. “Tell me, Sebastian,do the words wriggle on the page when you try to read them? Do they personally offend you?” She gasped in mock horror. “Are they… mean to you?”

"Maybe you can finally tell me what you were reminiscing about before?” He asked.

Syrah let out a short, dry laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, you’re still on that? How persistent. I’d almost be flattered if I didn’t know it was just because you’re trying to avoid studying.” She twirled her quill between her fingers, considering him for a moment before sighing dramatically

Syrah gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. “Wow, I’m honored” she said flatly, tone so dry it could’ve turned to dust. The corners of her lips curled up just slightly, though—more in amusement at how absurdly self-absorbed he was than anything else. Sebastian was ridiculous. It was almost impressive.

She shifted in her seat, stretching out her legs beneath the table, arms still lazily crossed. “If you ever do end up taken hostage, I doubt it’ll be because you’re a threat,” she mused, tilting her head as if seriously considering it. “More likely some poor idiot just couldn’t stand the idea of being without you.” Her tone made it unclear whether she meant this as flattery or an insult. It was intentional.

Her gaze flickered toward his book again, unimpressed with his complete lack of effort. "And of course you think reading’s boring. No instant gratification for that head of yours." She exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh. “Bet if they printed books with a mirror on every page, you’d be the biggest reader in Hogwarts.”

She was probably pushing it, but she doubted Sebastian had the self-awareness to be offended. Besides, he clearly liked the attention, even if it came in the form of insults.

Not that she minded. He was a distraction, at the very least. And in this miserable group project, she supposed that was better than nothing.