AUGHH I looked up "writing prompts" on here and this is the first one I saw an immediately thought of ominis
- "them resting their forehead against yours and just… staying there. No words. No movement. Just breath. Just nearness."
edit: I made a masterlist!! (its pretty early for me to make one but eh it'd be easier lolololol)
edit 2: ominis masterlist!
The Undercroft had always felt like a held breath.
Magic clung to the stone — old, careful, secretive — as though the room itself knew what it was to exist unseen. The air was cool, damp enough to carry sound softly, muting the rest of the castle until Hogwarts felt impossibly far away.
Ominis stood near the familiar curve of the wall, wand angled downward, its faint glow tracing the edges of the space for him. He wasn’t pacing. He rarely did. But there was a tension in the way he held himself, shoulders drawn just a touch too tight, chin lifted as though he were bracing for something unseen.
He knew you were there before you spoke.
Your footsteps were too familiar for him to mistake.
“You vanished,” you said gently. Not an accusation, just an observation, offered like an open palm. “I thought you might need… some quiet.”
He exhaled, slow and measured, though it didn’t quite loosen the knot in his chest.
“You’re perceptive,” he said dryly. “One might think you’ve been paying attention.”
You smiled despite yourself and stepped closer, careful not to crowd him. You’d learned that with Ominis, closeness was something earned in increments — offered, not taken.
“I worry,” you admitted. “About you.”
His head tilted slightly in your direction. There was something vulnerable in that small movement, though he’d never name it as such.
“That’s a dangerous habit,” he murmured. “Worrying about me.”
“And it’s one I’ll keep,” you replied without hesitation.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy, weighted with things left unsaid. You could almost hear the thoughts he was choosing not to voice, each one carefully contained.
“I don’t like the way things are going,” he said finally. “With Sebastian. With… everything.”
You didn’t interrupt. You never did when he spoke like this — slowly, deliberately, as though each word had been tested for safety before being released.
“I keep telling myself that if I stay vigilant enough, if I argue hard enough, I can stop it from getting worse,” he continued. A humourless smile flickered across his face. “As if that’s ever worked.”
You took another step closer. He noticed — you could tell by the subtle shift of his attention, the way his wand angled just slightly toward you before settling again.
“You’re allowed to be tired,” you said softly. “You’re allowed to need someone.”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t need—”
You didn’t let him finish.
“Ominis,” you said, quietly but firmly. Not scolding. Just… honest. “You don’t have to do this alone. You never have.”
Something in him faltered then. You felt it in the stillness, the way his breathing changed, just barely, as though he’d been holding it in for far too long.
“I don’t want to burden you,” he said. The words sounded rehearsed. Old. “I’ve done enough of that.”
You shook your head, even though he couldn’t see it.
“You don’t burden me,” you said. “You matter to me. There’s a difference.”
You reached out then, slowly, deliberately. Your fingers brushed his sleeve, light enough that he could have pulled away without effort.
He didn’t.
Encouraged, you let your hand rest there, warm against the cool fabric of his uniform. His breath stuttered, just once before evening out again.
You felt the urge to say more, to explain, to justify the closeness. But instinct told you that words would only cheapen the moment. Instead, you stepped closer until the space between you was narrow enough to feel charged.
“Ominis,” you whispered, almost a question. “Is this… alright?”
“Yes,” he said immediately. Then, softer, as though correcting himself, “It is.”
You lifted your other hand, hesitating only a second before resting it against his shoulder. The contact was tentative at first, testing boundaries that neither of you had ever quite named.
He leaned in before he seemed to realise he was doing it.
Forehead to forehead.
The contact sent a quiet jolt through you both — not sharp, not overwhelming, but unmistakable. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and steady, close enough that it made your own hitch for just a moment before you forced yourself to breathe again.
Neither of you moved.
Your foreheads remained pressed together, a point of contact so simple it bordered on innocent, and yet it felt impossibly intimate. His breathing was the first thing you noticed again, once your own heartbeat slowed enough to register it: steady now, no longer sharp with tension, but still careful, as though he were afraid of disturbing the moment.
You could feel his warmth so clearly. Not just physical, though there was that too, but emotional, a quiet presence that made the space between your ribs feel full instead of hollow.
You swallowed.
“Ominis,” you murmured, barely louder than breath.
“Yes?” His reply came instantly, like he’d been waiting for you to speak.
You hesitated. Words crowded your throat — all the things you wanted to say, the reassurances you wanted to give, the feelings you weren’t ready to name. In the end, only honesty made it out.
“You’re shaking.”
He stiffened — not pulling away, not retreating, but going very still. For a moment, you worried you’d said too much.
Then he exhaled, long and slow.
“Am I?” he said quietly.
“Just a little,” you replied. “You don’t have to stop or hide that you are. I just… wanted you to know I noticed.”
His hand shifted against your arm — not away, but closer, fingers curling slightly as though anchoring himself. The movement was tentative, uncertain, but deliberate.
“I don’t like feeling like this,” he admitted. There was no sharpness in his tone, no defensiveness. Just truth. “Unsteady. It reminds me too much of things I can’t control.”
Your chest ached at that.
His hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near your arm. He stopped there, uncertain.
You answered without words, leaning in just a fraction more.
His fingers settled against you, light but grounding, as though he were afraid of taking too much. The touch sent warmth spreading through your chest, equal parts comfort and longing.
“And this... I don’t know what this is,” he said, voice low and steady despite the vulnerability of the words. “But I know I don’t want it to end.”
Your heart lurched sharply, like a breath taken too fast.
“It doesn’t have to,” you replied. “We can just… stay. Like this.”
So you did.
You stayed like that — breathing in sync, foreheads pressed together, sharing a closeness that felt intimate without crossing any lines you weren’t ready to step over. It was restraint that ached, yearning wrapped in stillness.
If either of you moved even slightly, something would change.
So you didn’t.
“Thank you,” he whispered after a long while. “For staying.”
“Always and forever,” you replied. “If you’ll let me.”
He didn’t answer with words. He didn’t need to.
Minutes passed, and time felt irrelevant. You focused on the small things: the faint scent of parchment and soap clinging to him, the way his breathing synced with yours when you paid attention, the warmth of his hand where it rested against your arm.
Eventually, his fingers shifted, tentative at first, then more certain, sliding just enough to rest at your waist. The contact was careful, respectful, unmistakably intimate without being improper.
You let out a shaky breath before you could stop yourself.
He noticed.
“Too much?” he asked immediately, already beginning to pull back.
“No,” you said quickly, tightening your hold just enough to stop him. “It’s… just enough.”
He stilled again, then relaxed, trusting your word.
“You make it very difficult to be sensible,” he murmured.
You smiled despite the ache in your chest. “You’re still being sensible. Painfully so.”
He huffed softly. “Good. I’d hate to disappoint you.”
You tilted your head, brushing your nose lightly against his, accidental, fleeting, but electric. The contact sent a shiver through both of you.
He froze.
You froze too.
For a moment, neither of you breathed.
“I didn’t mean—” you began.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then, quieter, “I know.”
His thumb brushed once — just once — against your side. The smallest movement. The kind that could be dismissed as accidental if either of you needed it to be.
But neither of you did.
“This feels like standing on the edge of something,” he admitted. “And I don’t know whether to step back… or forward.”
You rested your forehead against his again, grounding both of you. “Then don’t decide yet,” you said. “We don’t have to rush.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m glad it’s you,” he said before he could stop himself.
The words hung between you, fragile and luminous.
The moment might have stretched longer still, if not for the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor outside the Undercroft.
You both heard them.
Ominis sighed, a mixture of resignation and reluctant amusement. “That will be Sebastian.”
You laughed quietly, forehead still touching his. “Of course it is”
“Ominis!” Sebastian’s voice echoed cheerfully before he even reached the entrance. “You are not going to believe what—”
He stepped into the Undercroft and stopped dead.
There was a pause, a very deliberate, very loaded pause.
His eyes flicked between the two of you. “Oh,” Sebastian said slowly. “I see. Right. Terribly sorry for interrupting whatever this is.”
You pulled back just enough to breathe properly again, heat rushing to your face. Ominis straightened at the same time, composure snapping back into place with impressive speed, though the faint colour at his cheeks betrayed him.
“This,” Ominis said coolly, “is none of your business.”
Sebastian grinned, utterly unapologetic. “Funny, that. You usually say that after I make it my business.”
He cleared his throat, glancing between the two of you with far too much interest. “I’ll just… come back later. Or never. Depends on how murderous you’re feeling.”
“Sebastian,” Ominis warned.
“I’m going,” he laughed, already backing toward the exit.
Sebastian raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m saying nothing. Truly. Well. Almost nothing.”
He grinned. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t see the very intense staring and the romantic silence and—”
“Sebastian.”
“—and I’ll come back later,” he finished, still smirking. “But for the record?”
His expression softened, just a little.
“I approve.”
Ominis scowled. “You weren’t invited to have an opinion.”
Sebastian laughed as he turned to leave. “Never stopped me before.”
And then he was gone, his footsteps faded, leaving the Undercroft quiet once more.
Ominis didn’t speak right away.
For a moment, his expression was carefully neutral, the mask he wore so often when he didn’t know what to do with what he was feeling.
Then it softened.
Not into a grin, not into anything showy — just a small, unmistakable smile, gentle at the edges, as though it had slipped out before he could stop it. It wasn’t something he offered easily. It wasn’t something he offered to just anyone.
And it was entirely for you.
His hand brushed yours as you turned to leave, not quite holding, not quite letting go either. Just enough to linger. Just enough to promise nothing… and everything.
You felt it in the way your chest tightened, in the way your steps slowed to match his as you walked side by side toward the exit.
At the threshold, he paused.
Didn’t say your name. Didn’t reach for you again.
He only tilted his head slightly in your direction — and smiled.
And that was enough to make your heart race all the way back up the stairs.
OH MY GODDDDDD FIRST POSTTTTT
okay so idk about u guys but this fic being almost 2k words is KILLING ME
n e wayz I hope y'all enjoy this took me all of three hours while binging rotten mango 😭😭
ALSO HAPPY NEW YEAR TO U GUYS!!!! I hope the holidays were good to everyone
a/n: hi guys! 🫶 this might be my only post for today because i’m getting absolutely SWAMPED with stuff to do, college truly does suck sometimes.
this fic was inspired by a tiktok i saw the other day, but for the life of me i cannot find it again. when i do, i’ll link it here or update the a/n, but until then, full credit to the original creator for the inspiration!
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
Professor Sharp does not speak until every student is seated.
He waits, arms folded and posture immovable, until the scrape of benches stills and even the most persistent whispers thin into something cautious. The dungeon is never truly quiet, not with the drip of moisture in the stone and the low thrum of magic threaded through its foundations, but today there is something else pressing down on it.
Anticipation.
It sits heavy in the air, thick as the damp cold that clings to skin and fabric alike, impossible to ignore.
“Today,” Sharp says at last, his voice precise enough to cut through stone, “you will brew Amortentia.”
The reaction is immediate, though contained. A ripple passes through the room, not laughter, not excitement, but something sharper. Uneasy. Chairs shift. Someone exhales too quickly. A few students exchange glances; they do not quite trust.
Sharp’s gaze flicks across the benches, keen and unyielding.
“You will not ingest it,” he continues, as if daring anyone to misunderstand. “You will not test it. You will not attempt to circumvent its safeguards out of curiosity, bravado, or idiocy.”
A deliberate pause.
“You will brew it, observe it, and bottle it under my supervision.”
His wand lifts. The shutters draw halfway closed with a snap, muting the pale light from above. Shadows settle into the corners of the room, and the dungeon feels smaller for it. Closer.
“Amortentia does not create love,” Sharp adds flatly. “It reveals desire. That distinction matters.”
Silence, now. Real silence.
“You will work in pairs.”
Your eyes move before you can stop them.
Ominis is already angled toward you, not facing you directly, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the subtle shift of his attention. His wand rests loose in his hand, its tip glowing faintly red. The magic pulses outward in slow, even waves.
Mapping. Listening. Noticing. You.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice pitched low and dry with amusement, “if this goes wrong, at least we’ll suffer academically together.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “How reassuring.”
There is no discussion about who does what. There never is.
You set up in tandem, bodies moving with the ease of long familiarity. Measuring, adjusting, reaching, a rhythm built over months of shared benches and silent cooperation. He steadies the cauldron before you think to ask. You pass him the knife before he finishes glancing for it.
When you hand him the powdered moonstone, your fingers brush.
Brief. Light. Plausibly accidental. Neither of you pulls away immediately.
A whisper from the next bench carries far too clearly. “Honestly. Just confess already.”
Ominis’s wand pulses once, brighter and sharper, before settling again.
“Some people,” he says mildly, without turning, “would benefit more from correcting their stirring technique than speculating about my personal life.”
You grin, knowing he can hear it in your breath.
As the potion warms, the dungeon begins to change, gradually.
Steam rises in pale, pearlescent spirals, coiling upward with slow intent. The air thickens, pressure building like the moment before rain breaks. Sharp prowls the aisles, boots echoing softly, eyes tracking every movement.
“Observe,” he snaps. “Do not indulge.”
You lean in despite yourself, and then you smell it, not the dungeon, nor the damp stone or potion fumes.
Him.
Spearmint, clean and sharp, cutting through everything else with startling clarity. Beneath it lies coffee tincture, bitter and grounding, familiar enough to tighten your chest. The scent of rain follows, not a drizzle but hard, comforting rain, the kind that drives you indoors and makes stillness feel intentional. Fresh, warm linen, and lilac, soft and old-world, tinged with something almost wistful.
Your breath catches, and your hand stills on the stirring rod. It is not overwhelming. That would be easier. It is intimate. Certain. Like recognising something you were never meant to name aloud.
Ominis.
You do not look at him. You cannot. Across from you, Ominis goes very still. The pulse of red magic from his wand deepens, spreading outward in finer, more deliberate waves. His jaw tightens, just enough for you to notice, because you always notice.
“…Right,” he says quietly. “That answers a question.”
Your stomach flips. You force your voice light and steady. Normal. “Do I want to know what the question was?”
There is a pause, measured and careful.
“No,” he says at last. “I don’t think you do.”
The potion thickens. The steam curls closer. And then, for him, the world shifts.
Warm vanilla, immediate and soft, wrapping around him like familiarity. Melted caramel beneath it, rich and indulgent, the memory of something unwrapped slowly and savoured. Hazelnut coffee follows, dark and grounding, echoing shared silences and late nights. Old parchment. Books loved past their bindings. Ink and dust and warmth pressed into paper. Rain on stone, cool and echoing, steady and sure.
And beneath it all, something vast and quiet. The sea at night. Ominis inhales sharply through his nose, then stills completely.
So.
That is that, then.
He does not name it. Naming it would make it dangerous. Instead, the knowledge settles into his chest with terrifying ease, like something that has always been there finally deciding to surface.
Across the bench, you resume stirring, deliberate and controlled. Normal to the point of effort.
He feels it when your attention sharpens on him, even without looking. He always does.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, deliberately mundane, he says, “Sharp’s enjoying this far too much.”
You exhale, grateful for the lifeline. “He’s a menace.”
“Mmm,” Ominis agrees. “Educationally.”
Garreth leans over, voice pitched in what he clearly thinks is a whisper. “Is it just me, or did you two just have a moment?”
“No,” you and Ominis say at the same time.
There is a beat.
“…Sure,” Garreth says.
Sharp’s gaze flicks over, assessing and knowing, then moves on without comment. This, clearly, is part of the lesson.
You bottle the potion under supervision. Seal it. Label it. Nothing is consumed. Nothing improper occurs.
And yet, as you pack away your things, Ominis’s fingers brush yours again. This time, it is not accidental. You do not look at each other. You do not need to.
Not because the potion told you, but because it confirmed what was already there. Neither of you will say it. Not here. Not yet.
But as you leave the dungeon side by side, shoulders nearly touching, the air between you feels warm. Charged. Inevitable. It’s a matter of who confesses first. And you both know exactly how dangerous that knowledge is.
Sharp dismisses the class with a clipped wave of his hand.
The tension does not leave with the instruction.
Chairs scrape back against stone. Glass clinks as students cork and stow their vials under Sharp’s watchful eye. The air still smells faintly of the potion, though the cauldrons have long since been extinguished, a lingering warmth that clings to the back of your throat.
Across the bench, Ominis moves with careful efficiency, folding his notes, aligning his tools, wand tapping once against the tabletop before settling again in his palm. His expression is composed, almost serene, but you can feel the tension in him anyway. You always can, the way one feels pressure before a storm.
Someone laughs too loudly behind you. Another voice drops into a whisper that does not stay quiet for long.
“Did you see their faces?”.
Sharp prowls past your bench, boots echoing sharply. His gaze lingers just long enough to make your shoulders stiffen, then moves on without comment. You are not reprimanded. You are not acknowledged.
Which somehow feels worse.
When you finally shoulder your bag, Ominis is already standing, waiting without making a show of it. You fall into step beside him instinctively, the space between you familiar and charged all at once.
The walk to the doors feels longer than usual.
The dungeon seems to funnel sound, every footstep and murmur bouncing off the stone. The scent of Amortentia fades with each step, replaced by cold air and damp rock, but the memory of it lingers stubbornly in your mind.
At the threshold, someone jostles past you, eager to be free of the room. The door groans open, light spilling in from the corridor beyond.
You hesitate for half a heartbeat, so does Ominis.
The dungeon doors close behind you with a hollow thud that echoes down the stone.
The corridor beyond is warmer, not by much, but enough that the air feels less oppressive, less tightly controlled. Torchlight flickers along the walls, stretching shadows into long, wavering shapes as students pour out of Potions in loose clusters, voices buzzing with things half said and nowhere to settle.
You fall into step beside Ominis, as you always do.
Close enough that your sleeves brush when your strides drift out of sync. Not close enough to touch properly, not in any way that could be acknowledged.
It is unbearable.
“Well,” Imelda drawls from behind you, boots clicking sharply as she catches up, “that was enlightening.”
Ominis hums, noncommittal. “If you’re about to comment on my academic performance, I assure you it was flawless.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she says lightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
You keep your eyes forward, jaw set.
Garreth slides in at your other side like a bad omen wearing a grin. “You know,” he says cheerfully, “I always thought Amortentia would smell dramatic. Turns out it mostly smells like regret and poor life choices.”
“That’s just you,” you reply.
“True,” he concedes. “But I also noticed you two went very quiet at the exact same moment.”
Ominis tilts his head slightly. “Coincidence.”
“Mm,” Garreth says, clearly unconvinced. “Funny how coincidences keep happening exclusively around you.”
You feel it then, the shift of Ominis’s attention toward you. Not a turn of his head, not his eyes, but that subtle reorientation you have learned to recognise. His wand hangs loose at his side now, its magic muted, but his presence remains precise and alert, like a held breath.
“Shouldn’t you be harassing someone else?” Ominis asks mildly.
Garreth grins. “Oh, I am. This is just recreational.”
Imelda snorts. “You do realise half the class is taking bets, right?”
You stumble, only just catching yourself. “On what?”
“Who cracks first,” she says, far too pleased with herself. “Confession-wise.”
Ominis stops walking. You stop with him, heart lurching hard enough to make you dizzy.
The corridor continues to move around you. Students pass by in ones and twos, glancing, whispering, pretending very badly not to stare.
“I fail to see,” Ominis says calmly, “how my personal life has become a spectator sport.”
Imelda arches a brow. “You brewed Amortentia with your favourite person in the room. In public.”
Your stomach flips so sharply it feels like you might actually be sick. Ominis’s mouth curves into something dangerously polite. “That’s a bold assumption.”
She leans in closer, voice lowered. “You didn’t deny it.”
He does not respond. Instead, he turns just enough that his shoulder brushes yours. The contact is brief but unmistakable, grounding and intentional, protective in a way that makes your chest ache painfully.
“That’s quite enough,” he says coolly. “Run along.”
Imelda studies the two of you for a long moment, eyes sharp with satisfaction, then smirks. “Fine. But when it happens, I expect front-row seats.”
She walks off laughing.
Garreth gives you an exaggerated thumbs-up before jogging after her.
You start walking again.
After a few steps, Ominis exhales quietly. “I loathe that they think they’re clever.”
You smile despite yourself. “They are clever.”
“That’s worse.”
You laugh softly, then stop yourself. The sound feels too intimate for a corridor full of listening ears.
Ominis slows his pace just enough that the crowd thins ahead of you. The distance between footsteps stretches, creating a small pocket of privacy that feels almost fragile. He still does not look at you. But his voice drops.
“Are you all right?”
The question is careful and neutral. It is not about the potion. It is about you.
You swallow. “Yeah. Just…” You hesitate, then choose honesty. “I wasn’t expecting it to be that specific.”
His lips twitch faintly. “No.”
A beat passes.
“I imagine,” he adds lightly, “that if Sharp intended to teach restraint, he succeeded spectacularly.”
You glance sideways at him. His expression is composed, infuriatingly so, but there is tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side.
You tease because it is safer than sincerity. “Did you at least enjoy the lesson?”
He scoffs softly. “Absolutely not.”
“Liar.”
That earns you a quiet laugh, brief and genuine, gone almost as soon as it appears. You reach the stairwell where your paths split. The moment stretches thin and delicate, like it might tear if either of you breathes wrong.
“Well,” you say, far too casually, “same time tomorrow?”
He nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
You hesitate, then add, “Try not to breathe too deeply around any suspicious potions.”
There is a pause.
Then, very softly, “I’ll do my best.”
You turn away before either of you can say something stupid, or brave, or true.
As you descend the stairs, you can feel it anyway, the knowledge humming between you, warm and inevitable.
Neither of you said it.
But neither of you needs to.
—
It is later than it should be, and you bumped into Ominis while sneaking out to do Merlin knows what. But that is how it always happens, not by plan or intention, but by the slow slipping of time until the corridors thin and the castle exhales into itself. Even the torches seem to burn lower, their light warmer and more diffuse, as though Hogwarts itself has decided nothing urgent remains.
You’re walking, talking, and your conversation drifting without urgency from a shortcut Ominis insists is more efficient, to Sharp’s latest essay assignment, to whether the staircases behave worse in winter. Your voices are quiet by habit now, pitched low without conscious effort.
Then the sound disappears.
No footsteps ahead of you. No laughter echoing behind. Just stone beneath your shoes, torchlight along the walls, and the low, constant hum of magic woven into the castle’s bones.
Ominis slows.
You feel it immediately. You always do.
“Is something wrong?” you ask, your voice softer now, shaped by the quiet.
“No,” he says, too quickly to be convincing. Then, after a breath, more honestly, “No. I just wanted to be sure I knew where we were.”
His wand lifts a fraction. A muted red pulse unfurls from its tip, gentle and controlled, brushing the edges of the corridor. The space resolves for him in familiar contours, arches and stone, the shallow curve of a recessed alcove set into the wall.
A place meant to be passed without notice.
“Here’s fine,” he says, gesturing vaguely.
You step aside with him, tucking yourselves into the alcove. It is narrow, barely meant for one person to stand comfortably, and you become acutely aware of the space between you.
Or rather, how little of it there is.
Your shoulder sits a breath away from his arm. When you shift your weight, your sleeve brushes the cuff of his robes.
Neither of you speaks.
Ominis leans back against the stone, posture composed and deliberate, as though he is not standing far too close to the one person who has been quietly dismantling his self-control for months. The wall behind him is cold; you can see it in the way his shoulders settle, bracing.
He exhales.
“You know,” he says lightly, “if anyone asks, we were discussing academic matters.”
You smile, unable to help it. “Of course we were.”
“Extensively.”
“Passionately.”
That earns a soft huff of laughter, the kind he does not offer often. It warms something deep in your chest, a small, dangerous comfort.
Silence settles again.
It is different here. Quieter than the dungeon, quieter than the corridors had been even minutes ago. The stone seems to hold the sound, the moment, as though it knows better than to interrupt.
Ominis tilts his head slightly. Not toward you, not away, simply considering.
“There’s something I keep meaning to say,” he begins.
Your heart stutters.
Then he stops.
You wait.
Seconds stretch, elastic and merciless. Your pulse roars loud enough that you are certain he must hear it, must feel it in the air between you.
“But it seems unfair,” he finishes instead.
You blink. “Unfair?”
“To say it,” he replies, carefully. “Without context.”
You shift, just enough that your shoulder brushes his. This time, there is no ambiguity. The contact is intentional, quiet, impossible to dismiss.
“I think,” you say slowly, “we lost the luxury of pretending there isn’t context.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, faint and helpless.
“Did we?” he murmurs.
He does not move away. If anything, he leans into the contact by a fraction, grounding himself, as though the nearness steadies him rather than unsettles him.
That is when you smell him.
Not potion-induced. Not magic-driven.
Just Ominis.
Clean and familiar. Spearmint, rain caught in stone, and something warm beneath it that feels like home in a way you cannot explain.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
Ominis goes very still.
Not because of the sound you make, but because he feels the shift in you. The awareness. The way your breathing changes when something reaches too deep.
His grip tightens once around his wand, then relaxes.
“You felt it too,” he says quietly.
It is not a question.
You swallow. “Yes.”
Another pause.
He does not ask what you mean. He does not need to.
“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, wry and gentle all at once.
You laugh under your breath. “Is it?”
He turns his face slightly toward you. Not enough to see, not that he requires it. The red pulse of his wand dims until it is barely there, the rest of the world dismissed.
“For me?” he says softly. “Entirely.”
“Ominis—”
“I have been attempting,” he continues calmly, “to be sensible about you.”
Something tightens painfully in your chest.
“And how is that going?”
He smiles.
Not teasing. Not smug.
Fond. Bare. A little doomed.
“Abysmally.”
The word lingers between you, warm and dangerous.
He shifts, barely a movement, and now his arm brushes yours along its length. Heat bleeds through fabric. Awareness spikes, sharp and giddy all at once.
“I think about you far too often,” he says, matter-of-fact. “At inappropriate times. During lectures. When I am meant to be sleeping.”
Your pulse flutters wildly. “That sounds inconvenient.”
“Extremely.”
He hesitates, then adds, more softly, “I have begun to recognise your footsteps.”
Your breath catches.
“And the way you hold yourself when you are about to speak,” he continues. “The pause you take when you are choosing your words.”
You do not trust your voice, so you let your hand drift instead, slow and careful, until your fingers brush the sleeve of his robes.
Just the fabric.
He inhales sharply.
Does not pull away.
“I do not need Amortentia to know this,” he says, low and steady. “It merely confirmed what I was already trying very hard not to acknowledge.”
Your fingers curl slightly, gathering the cloth.
“Which is?” you whisper.
He turns fully toward you now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet gravity he carries like a promise he has not yet spoken aloud.
“That wanting you,” he says softly, “has become the most consistent thing in my life.”
Your heart feels too large for your chest.
The moment stretches, fragile and electric.
He does not touch you. Not yet.
He is holding himself back with everything he has.
And you realise, with a giddy, breathless certainty, late in the quiet hours of a day that has already changed everything,
Ominis Gaunt is hopelessly gone for you.
The silence between you stretches, not awkward and not empty, but full.
Ominis becomes acutely aware of the way the alcove holds sound differently, how the stone seems to drink in even the quietest breath. He can hear you breathing, the subtle rhythm of it. He hears the faint shift of your weight when you move, the whisper of fabric against stone.
He hears his own heart far too clearly.
You are still close. Close enough that your warmth reaches him without effort. Close enough that if he moved his hand even slightly, he would touch you again, not accidentally or ambiguously, but deliberately. Restraint has always come easily to him. Too easily, perhaps. Years of it live in his bones, ingrained and practised. Wanting something has never meant he was permitted to reach for it.
Still, this feels different.
“You’re quiet,” you say gently.
He huffs a soft laugh. “I am attempting not to say something foolish.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
His mouth curves, helpless and fond. “That’s deeply unfair.”
You shift, just a little, and your shoulder brushes his arm again. This time, neither of you pretends it was an accident.
Ominis’s breath stutters despite himself.
He thinks, fleetingly, of all the times your touch has found him before he was ready, and how, without fail, it has become something he waits for.
“I was thinking,” he says slowly, choosing each word with care, “about how much you have changed the way I experience things.”
You turn fully toward him. He can feel it immediately, the way your attention settles on him without distraction or hesitation.
“In what way?”
He swallows.
“I used to flinch,” he admits quietly. “At being touched. At closeness. I still do, sometimes. But not with you.”
Your hand lifts, hesitates, then comes to rest against his forearm. You don’t grab him. You never do. Just your fingertips. Warm. Steady. Present.
Ominis exhales, long and slow.
“I did not notice it happening at first,” he continues. “It was gradual. You always asked. You always waited. Somewhere along the way, I realised I was hoping you would.”
Your thumb brushes lightly over the fabric of his sleeve.
He almost laughs at how undone that small, simple motion makes him feel.
“You made touch feel safe,” he says. “And then, rather inconveniently, you made it feel like something I want.”
There it is.
The truth, laid bare without spectacle.
Your breath catches. He hears it. He feels the shift in you, the way the space between you seems to tighten, charged and alive.
“Ominis,” you say softly.
He tilts his head toward you, attentive and open, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows.
“I did not mean to—” you begin.
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know you did not. That is rather the problem.”
A beat passes.
Then, quieter, “I do not think I could have stopped it, even if you had.”
Your fingers curl slightly in his sleeve.
The unconscious movement sends warmth blooming through his chest.
He lifts his hand slowly, deliberately, giving himself time to reconsider.
He does not.
His fingers hover near your wrist, waiting.
You step closer instead, closing the distance for him.
His hand settles around your wrist, gentle and reverent, as though he is holding something precious rather than restraining you. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse.
He feels it jump.
So you feel it too, then.
The thought makes him dizzy.
“I have been trying,” he confesses, voice low, “to be normal about you.”
You laugh softly. “You’re failing.”
“Spectacularly.”
He tightens his grip just a fraction, not possessive or demanding, simply grounding.
“I think about you when I should not,” he says. “I plan my days around when I might run into you. I notice when you have not slept enough. I catalogue the way you sound when you are amused, and when you are genuinely happy.”
Your other hand lifts, mirroring his earlier restraint, and comes to rest against his chest.
Over his heart.
He goes utterly still.
Your palm is warm. “You feel like home,” you say quietly, as if admitting it to yourself as much as to him.
The word hits him with startling clarity.
Home.
Not an obligation. Not legacy. Not expectation.
Home.
Ominis’s throat tightens.
“Merlin,” he murmurs. “If you keep saying things like that, I am going to do something reckless.”
You smile. He can hear it in your voice. “Like what?”
“Like believe you,” he says simply.
Your hand presses more firmly against his chest.
“Then believe me.”
He laughs then, soft and disbelieving, threaded with wonder and something dangerously close to relief.
“You have undone me,” he says fondly. “Do you know that?”
You lean in until your forehead rests against his.
“I was hoping I’d do that.”
His smile widens, bright enough that it almost aches.
His free hand lifts to your cheek, not tentative now, but still gentle. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone with aching care, committing the shape of you to memory.
“You are very dear to me,” he says quietly. “More than I know how to articulate without sounding absurd.”
You nudge your nose against his, barely there. “I do not mind absurd.”
His breath mingles with yours, warm and familiar.
He tilts his chin upward, just slightly, an invitation without demand.
Your lips hover close, close enough that he can feel their warmth, close enough that every nerve in his body hums with anticipation.
Then you stop.
Just for a heartbeat.
He lets out a soft, startled laugh. “Tease,” he murmurs, utterly fond.
“I wanted to be sure,” you say.
“Of what?”
“That you would wait.”
His smile softens into something open and unguarded.
“For you?” he replies. “Always.”
This time, when your lips meet his, it is unhurried.
Careful.
The kiss is gentle at first, a quiet press that lingers, as though both of you are learning the shape of the moment together. His mouth curves into the kiss instinctively, warmth blooming where you meet. It is soft and reverent, more a promise than a claim, a continuation of every careful touch and unsaid truth that has led you here.
He exhales into it, breath shaky with something like joy, his thumb brushing your pulse as if anchoring himself to the reality of you.
When you pull back, just enough to breathe, he follows instinctively, reluctant to let the space return.
His forehead rests against yours again, his hand still around your wrist, his other still cradling your cheek.
Not letting go.
Not anymore.
For a moment after the kiss ends, neither of you moves.
Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite know how to exist in the aftermath of it yet.
Ominis is the first to notice it, the way his body feels suddenly unfamiliar, like he’s been shifted half a step off balance and left there. His heart is still racing, loud enough that he’s half-convinced you can hear it, and his breath comes a touch too shallow, as though he’s forgotten how to regulate it properly.
He realises, distantly, that he is still holding you.
His fingers are wrapped around your wrist, thumb resting over your pulse, which has not slowed in the slightest. His other hand is cupping your cheek, warm and careful, like he’s afraid that if he loosens his grip, you might disappear.
The knowledge lands all at once.
He kissed you.
You kissed him back.
Merlin.
He draws in a slow breath, then another, as if grounding himself, as if the stone wall behind him might steady the way his thoughts are skidding everywhere at once.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice faintly breathless despite his best efforts, “that was… ill-advised.”
You laugh softly, still close enough that the sound brushes his mouth.
He closes his eyes.
That was a mistake.
Your laughter is too familiar, too fond, and it sends a fresh wave of warmth straight through his chest, settling somewhere dangerously permanent.
“I didn’t hear you complaining,” you say.
“I wasn’t,” he replies immediately, then winces. “I mean. That isn’t what I meant.”
You shift, just slightly, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that your forehead is still resting against his, your nose almost brushing his. He can feel the warmth of your breath, the quiet steadiness of you, and it makes his head spin all over again.
He clears his throat, unsuccessfully attempting composure.
“I simply meant,” he says, carefully, “that I have spent a considerable amount of time convincing myself that this was a very bad idea.”
“And now?” you ask.
He opens his eyes.
You’re smiling, soft and open, not teasing him, not pushing, just there. Present. Waiting.
His resolve collapses entirely.
“And now,” he admits helplessly, “I’m struggling to remember why.”
His thumb shifts against your cheek without his permission, tracing the faintest arc, as though committing the shape of you to memory. He still hasn’t let go of your wrist, and the longer it goes on, the more impossible the idea of releasing you becomes.
You say his name again, quietly.
It does something terrible to him.
He exhales a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “You realise,” he says, “that I am going to be thinking about that kiss for the rest of the night.”
“Only the night?” you tease.
He tilts his head, flustered and fond all at once. “Don’t be cruel.”
You smile wider, and he can hear it. Hear the way it softens your voice when you speak.
“You’re adorable,” you tell him.
He freezes.
“I am not,” he says, reflexively.
“You are,” you insist. “You look like you’re about to short-circuit.”
“I kissed you,” he says, as if that explains everything. “I am meant to be… dignified about this.”
“You kissed me,” you repeat gently. “And you were.”
That gives him pause.
He considers it, the memory replaying with excruciating clarity. The way you leaned in slowly, the care in it, the way the kiss didn’t rush or demand, but lingered. The way it felt less like crossing a line and more like finally stepping onto ground he’d been circling for months.
His throat tightens.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, quieter now. “About you.”
Your hand is still on his chest, over his heart, and when you shift your palm slightly, feeling the way it’s still racing, he lets out a soft, helpless sound before he can stop himself.
“You’re still very worked up,” you observe, fondly.
He huffs. “That’s one way of putting it.”
He hesitates, then adds, almost shyly, “I don’t… regret it. In case that wasn’t clear.”
Your fingers curl lightly in his robes.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Another laugh escapes him, this one warmer, softer, threaded with something like wonder.
“You have no idea,” he says, “how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Your breath catches, and he feels it, feels the subtle change in you the same way he always does.
“Really?” you whisper.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “And now that I have, I find myself rather concerned.”
“About what?”
“That I might want to do it again,” he admits.
You tilt your head, nose brushing his. “Is that so terrible?”
His smile turns shy, almost boyish, utterly unguarded.
“No,” he says. “But it is… distracting.”
He finally, reluctantly, loosens his grip on your wrist, though his fingers trail along your skin as he does, memorising. His hand lingers at your cheek a moment longer before dropping, as if letting go takes genuine effort.
He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure what to do with himself now that the kiss has happened, like he’s been set loose in a world with different rules.
“I should probably,” he begins, then stops. “I mean. We should… perhaps move before someone finds us.”
You don’t step away yet.
Instead, you lean in and press a second kiss to his lips, brief but warm, reassurance rather than escalation.
He makes a soft, startled sound, then laughs under his breath, thoroughly undone.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses gently.
“Maybe.”
He shakes his head, smiling to himself, cheeks warm.
“You’re dangerous,” he says fondly. “I hope you know that.”
You take his hand, fingers sliding easily between his.
“Good thing you like me.”
He squeezes your hand, grounding himself in the contact.
“Yes,” he says, quietly, utterly certain. “I do.”
And as you finally pull away from the alcove, still hand in hand, Ominis Gaunt walks beside you with the dazed, giddy awareness of someone who has crossed a threshold and has no intention of ever going back.
anyone notice that my writing is getting longer? may I ask for ur guys' thoughts? is this better or do u guys prefer the shorter ones? kajshdfjkdasdf
a/n: okay so what if this kinda doesn’t make sense. it did in my head !! english isn’t my first language and honestly I never want it to be because it shits on me too much and I always have to look up synonyms for shit but for ominis gaunt I will suffer 💘💖💕❤️🩹💟💚💓💗
and honestly this was just an excuse to write him (somewhat) angry, soaked in rain, emotionally devastated, and kissing like he’s been holding it in for years. apologies were said. feelings were screamed. hands were NOT kept to themselves. (I woulda written something dirtier but for the love of everything that is unholy I cringe at myself too much and laugh at the word cock and shaft like a 7 year old
thank you for coming to my ted talk 🙂↕️🙂↕️
cw: implied sex
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
Three days is not long.
It only becomes long when someone stops reaching for you.
You notice it in the smallest ways first. The absence of his voice in rooms that still expect it. The way you instinctively turn, ready to say his name, only to remember there is no one beside you anymore. How silence settles too quickly now, without him filling it.
Ominis does not attend the dinners you attend. He does not appear at gatherings where he once lingered close to your shoulder, his wand angled low, mapping the space while he listened to you talk. He does not write. He does not send word.
You deserve that.
You told him you were best friends.
The phrase had sounded sensible when you rehearsed it in your head. Careful. Safe. Something you could say without risking everything. You had meant it as protection, not distance.
But the moment it left your mouth, you knew.
You felt it in the way his posture changed, how his attention withdrew from you so completely it felt like the room had tilted. His wand had stilled, the faint pulse of magic around him faltering, as if he had lost his bearings.
“Right,” he had said, voice clipped and brittle. Then, quieter, “Then I’ve misjudged things.”
You had reached for him. Tried to explain that fear makes liars of good intentions. That you did not know how to want something so much without panicking.
He scoffed, a sharp, disbelieving sound, and left before you could touch him.
Now it is well past midnight.
Now the rain is relentless.
You stand on the stone path outside his house with water running down your collar, soaking your sleeves, your shoes already ruined. You don’t remember deciding to come here. Only that staying away had begun to feel unbearable, like holding your breath for too long.
You knock.
Once.
Again.
For a moment, you think he won’t answer.
Then the door opens.
“Ominis,” you say, breath catching with relief and dread all at once.
He stands just inside the threshold, hair loose, shirt hastily pulled on, wand in hand. The magic flares outward immediately, brushing against you, tracing your soaked clothes, the way you are trembling.
Rain drips onto the floor behind him.
His jaw tightens.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
There is no anger in it. Just distance.
“I know it’s late,” you say. Your voice sounds small to your own ears. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have come. I just… I needed to tell you something properly.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.
Then he steps outside.
He closes the door almost all the way behind him, leaving it ajar, just enough that it won’t lock, just enough to keep the rain from spilling into the house. The care in the motion hurts more than if he had slammed it.
“You have a few minutes,” he says.
The rain soaks him instantly. It darkens the fabric of his shirt, slicks his hair against his temples. His wand remains steady, angled down, but you can feel how restless the magic is, how tightly held.
“I know what I said,” you begin. “And you had every right to be upset. You still do.”
He does not interrupt.
“I said we were just best friends,” you continue, words coming faster now, as if stopping would undo your courage. “And that wasn’t true. It was just easier than admitting how scared I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I didn’t come here for that.”
His wand shifts, mapping you more closely now. Your hands, clenched at your sides. The way your shoulders curl inward, bracing.
“I just needed you to know that I want more,” you say. “That I want you. And if that’s too late, if you don’t want that anymore, I understand.”
The rain blurs your vision. You blink hard, refuse to cry.
“I’m sorry,” you add quietly. “For waking you. For everything.”
You step back.
The space between you feels enormous.
“I’ll go.”
You turn.
His hand closes around your wrist.
The contact is immediate and shocking, warm against your rain-chilled skin. His grip is firm, not cruel, like he is afraid you will disappear if he lets go.
“Don’t,” he says sharply. “Don’t say that and walk away.”
You turn back to him, breath unsteady.
“You don’t get to decide now that honesty matters,” he continues, restraint cracking. “You don’t get to say you want me and then leave as if that absolves you.”
“I’m not asking for absolution,” you whisper.
“I never asked you for promises,” he says, stepping closer, rain plastering his shirt to his chest. “I asked you not to pretend you didn’t know what we were doing. What we were becoming.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“I was afraid,” you say again. “I thought naming it would ruin us.”
“And instead,” he says, voice shaking now, “you told me I imagined everything.”
His wand flares, magic pulsing outward in uneven waves, catching on the rain, the ground, you. His breathing is shallow, uneven.
“I loved you quietly,” he says. “Carefully. Because I thought that was what you wanted.”
Your hands come up to grip his sleeves, fingers digging into wet fabric.
“I was wrong,” you sob. “I know I was.”
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The rain fills the space where words fail.
And then Ominis steps closer, closing the distance entirely.
He steps into you, and for a heartbeat, you think he might pull you close.
Instead, he lets go.
The absence of his hand is abrupt, like a door slamming somewhere inside your chest. You stagger back half a step, water splashing around your feet, the rain suddenly louder without the anchor of his touch.
“You should go,” Ominis says, yet it sounds less like a command and more like an apology.
The words are measured. Too careful.
“I meant what I said,” you reply, voice raw. “I don’t expect you to feel the same. Or forgive me. I just couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”
“That’s very noble of you,” he says, bitterness creeping in despite himself. “To feel better without considering what it does to me.”
“That’s not fair,” you say, and you hate how thin your voice sounds. “I didn’t come here to make myself feel better. I came here because I couldn’t stand knowing I hurt you and never tried to fix it.”
“Fix it,” he repeats, incredulous. “You think this is something you fix by saying you’re sorry?”
“No,” you say quickly. “I think it’s something I live with if you never want me near you again.”
That finally cracks him.
He laughs, sharp and humourless, rain dripping from his hair, his wand trembling in his grip. “Do you have any idea how cruel that sounds?”
Your chest tightens. “Cruel?”
“You stand there,” he says, voice rising, “soaked and remorseful and earnest, and you expect me to what? Be grateful that you’ve decided you want me after all?”
“That’s not what this is,” you insist, tears finally spilling over. “I wanted you before. I was just too much of a coward to admit it.”
“Yes,” he snaps. “And I was stupid enough to give you everything without asking for more.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he says, stepping closer again, rain splashing as his boots hit the stone. “I let you touch me in ways no one else ever has. I let you into parts of me I don’t even let Sebastian see. And you stood there and told me we were just friends.”
The words land heavily, ugly in the open air.
“I thought I was protecting us, what we had,” you whisper.
“From what?” he demands. “From loving me?”
You don’t have an answer.
Silence stretches, taut and unbearable.
“I can’t do this,” you say suddenly, panic clawing up your throat. “I can’t stand here and hurt you more than I already have. Again, I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
You turn away from him, rain blinding, chest aching like it might cave in entirely.
“I’m sorry,” you say again, quieter, to the ground this time. “For everything.”
You take a step.
Then another.
“Oy.”
His voice cuts through the rain like a spell.
You freeze.
He is behind you now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the rain-chilled air, his magic brushing against your back, restless and uncontained.
“You don’t get to leave—I’m not finished,” he says hoarsely, “I know I said you should leave”
You turn slowly.
His face is flushed, jaw tight, eyes dark and unfocused, his composure finally splintering under the weight of everything he has been holding back.
“But do you really think I didn’t want more?” he says. “That I didn’t lie awake wondering if you felt it too? Every time your hand brushed mine, every time you leaned into me like I was something solid, something safe.”
Your breath stutters.
“I told myself,” he continues, voice shaking now, “that if I never asked for more, you’d never take it away. And then you did anyway.”
“I didn’t mean to,” you cry. “I swear I didn’t.”
“I know,” he snaps, and that almost hurts worse. “That’s the problem. You didn’t mean to. You just… didn’t choose me.”
The rain pours between you, relentless.
“I was so afraid of losing you,” you say. “I didn’t realise I already was.”
Something in him gives way.
He steps forward abruptly, hands coming up to grip your coat, fingers curling into the fabric as if he might anchor himself there.
“I love you,” he says, voice breaking entirely now. “I have loved you for so long it feels like breathing. And you don’t get to stand there and tell me you want me forever without understanding what that costs me.”
“I do,” you sob. “I do understand. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if you let me.”
His hands loosen, then tighten again, knuckles white.
“You don’t get to promise forever,” he says, anguished. “Not after that.”
“Then don’t take the promise,” you say desperately. “Take me. Take whatever I can give you. I don’t need you to forgive me tonight. I just need you to know I’m not running anymore.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Then his hands slide up, trembling, cupping your face. His thumbs brush the wet tracks of your tears with reverent care, like he is afraid of hurting you further.
“You’re infuriating,” he murmurs. “Do you know that?”
A broken laugh escapes you. “I’ve been told.”
He exhales, shuddering, forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath is warm, uneven, his magic flaring wildly now, no longer contained.
“I wanted to hate you,” he admits softly. “It would’ve been easier.”
“But you don’t,” you whisper.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
The kiss happens like surrender. Messy. Desperate. All tension and breath and rain-soaked desperation. His mouth crashes into yours with a fractured sound torn from his chest, hands sliding into your hair as if he might lose you again if he doesn’t hold on.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers gripping his shoulders, rain forgotten entirely as the world narrows to this, to him, to the way he kisses like someone starved.
He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours again, breath shaking.
“I love you,” he says again, quieter now. “Stupidly. Inconveniently. Completely.”
“I love you too,” you say, voice wrecked and certain.
He kisses you once more, softer this time, a question instead of a demand.
When he finally draws you inside, out of the rain, he keeps his hand tangled in yours, as if letting go might undo everything.
The door closes behind you with a gentle click.
The house is warm. Still. The kind of quiet that feels earned.
Ominis doesn’t release your hand. If anything, his grip tightens slightly as he guides you further inside, wand angled low, magic smoothing out as it maps familiar walls and furniture. The rain is distant now, reduced to a murmur against the windows.
You’re both dripping onto the floor.
“You’re soaked,” he says, more observation than reprimand.
You nod, throat tight. “I kno—”
He turns toward you before you can finish.
Not abruptly. Just enough that you’re facing him, close enough that the heat of him presses into your damp clothes, his free hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye where rain and tears have blurred together.
You lean into it without thinking.
The kiss is tentative. Careful. His lips brush yours, pause, hover like he’s giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, when you tilt your head just slightly, he exhales and kisses you again, deeper this time, still slow, still restrained.
There’s no urgency in it. Just intent.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers warm, steadying. You feel the faint tremor there, the way he’s holding himself together.
You break the kiss just enough to breathe. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The words come out low, uneven, nothing rehearsed about them.
His forehead rests against yours. “I know,” he says quietly.
You kiss him again before he can say anything else.
This one lingers. Your mouth fits against his like it’s relearning something familiar. He kisses back with a soft sound in his throat, thumb brushing your jaw, then drifting down to your shoulder, as if he needs to be sure you’re still there.
You murmur something unintelligible against his lips, more breath than words.
He smiles faintly, barely there. “You’re doing it again.”
“I know,” you admit, then press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slower. Softer. “I just… need you to feel it.”
His hand tightens at your waist. “I do.”
You kiss him again, and again, each one a little different. A brush. A press. A lingering pull where neither of you quite wants to be the one to stop. His kisses aren’t hungry, but they are thorough, like he’s committing the shape of you to memory, the way your mouth moves against his.
He nudges his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “But I don’t think I’ll stop feeling guilty about it yet.”
“That’s all right,” he says after a moment. “I’m not asking you to.”
Your hands slide up his arms, fingers curling into his sleeves. He makes a quiet sound at that and leans in, kissing you again, deeper now, his grip firm at your back like he’s anchoring both of you.
When you finally pull back, it’s only because your foreheads knock together softly.
He exhales, something like a laugh caught in it. “Come sit before we drown my entryway.”
You nod, wiping at your face with the heel of your hand.
He keeps hold of you as he leads you further inside, fingers threaded through yours, grip secure. When you sit, knees brushing, shoulders pressed close, he leans in and kisses you once more, unhurried and certain.
—
You wake slowly.
Not because of light, or noise, or the press of the world returning, but because you are warm in a way that feels intentional.
There is weight against your back. Solid, unmistakable. An arm draped low around your waist, hand resting there as if it has always belonged. Your legs are tangled with his, bare skin brushing bare skin beneath sheets that are rumpled beyond any polite explanation.
For one disorienting moment, panic flickers.
Then memory settles.
Rain. Raised voices. His hands shaking as they held your face. The way the door closed behind you. The way it did not feel like being trapped.
You breathe out, slow and careful.
Ominis shifts behind you almost immediately.
Not waking, not fully. Just adjusting, his hold tightening by instinct, his forehead pressing faintly into the space between your shoulders. His breathing is even, deep, the kind that only comes with real rest. The kind you suspect he does not allow himself often.
You lie still, afraid that if you move too much, you will wake him and the moment will break.
His hand flexes once at your waist, thumb brushing skin, a quiet, unconscious reassurance.
You close your eyes.
The room smells like rain-damp clothes, clean linen, and something unmistakably his. Warmth. Tea leaves lingering faintly in the air from last night. The storm outside has softened to a grey hush, light filtering in through curtains you do not remember closing.
You remember fragments instead.
Hands everywhere. Slow kisses that kept turning into laughter because neither of you quite knew where to put all the feelings. Apologies pressed into skin rather than spoken aloud. The way he had pressed his forehead to yours at least a dozen times, as if grounding himself.
At some point, you must have stopped trembling.
At some point, he must have stopped waiting for you to disappear.
He murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
You smile before you can stop yourself.
“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.
His arm tightens.
“Don’t,” he says, still half-asleep. “Not for that.”
You turn slowly in his hold, careful not to wake him fully, until you’re facing him. His eyes remain closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, hair a mess against the pillow. There is a faint crease between his brows, a habit more than worry.
You lift a hand and smooth your thumb over it without thinking.
It eases.
He hums quietly and leans into the touch, eyes finally blinking open.
For a moment, he just listens.
Sees you. The bed. The room. The way your hand rests against his face like it belongs there.
“You’re still here,” he says.
The words are soft, but they land with weight.
“I am,” you reply just as quietly.
He studies you in that way of his, wandless but no less attentive, fingers tracing small, absent shapes at your hip. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if checking something twice.
“Good,” he says.
You laugh under your breath, the sound fragile but real. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m allowed,” he replies. “Last night was… a lot.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
Silence stretches between you, comfortable but careful.
His thumb begins to trace slow, unthinking circles against your skin. Not suggestive. Just grounding. You catch his wrist gently, stopping him before the movement can wander.
“I’m still sorry,” you say, quietly enough that it feels like a confession rather than a defence.
He stills.
Then he shifts closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath brushes your lips, warm, steady.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m still hurt.”
You nod. You can live with that honesty.
“But,” he continues, voice firmer now, “I’m also still here. Which should tell you something.”
Your throat tightens.
You lean in and kiss him.
It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that does not ask for anything, only confirms. His hand slides up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he kisses you back with equal care, mouth warm and familiar now.
When you pull away, he keeps his forehead against yours.
“You don’t have to earn me,” he says quietly. “I’m not a debt.”
“I know,” you say. “I just want to be… careful with you.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “That would be a refreshing change.”
You laugh, burying your face briefly against his shoulder. His arm tightens around you immediately, reflexive, protective.
“Stay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair. “At least until I’ve had tea. Possibly forever.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. “That’s a big commitment.”
“I’m known for those,” he replies dryly.
You kiss him again, slower this time, letting it linger. His hand slides into your hair, fingers threading there like they know the way now. When the kiss breaks, neither of you moves far.
The world can wait.
For now, it is enough to lie here. Tangled. Awake together. With rain-dim light and the quiet proof of each other’s presence.
And when he presses another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your mouth again, you refrain from apologising this time.
here’s a cute lil sumn sumn about remembering small things, getting sweets, and making each other grin like idiots 🫶 (and sebastian definitely overhears and judges, as one does)
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
Hogsmeade is loud in the particular way it always is on weekends, a pleasant chaos of voices and boots on stone and laughter that echoes just a little too brightly between the buildings. The cold has teeth today, nipping at your fingers even through your gloves, and you tuck your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat as you walk.
Ominis stays close without needing to think about it. He always does.
Not close in the way people assume, not hovering or cautious, but aligned. His shoulder drifts near yours as if pulled there by habit, by memory, by six years of learning the exact rhythm of your steps. When the crowd thickens, his hand brushes your sleeve in a quiet, wordless check-in. When the path clears again, he lets the space return, trusting you to keep pace.
It still makes something warm bloom in your chest, even now. Even after months of this being allowed.
“You’re smiling,” he says lightly, head angled toward you.
You huff. “I am not.”
“You are,” he replies, calm and certain. “Your breathing changed.”
You hate—fondly, hopelessly—that he’s right.
You’ve been together for nearly a year now, officially, though it still feels new in the places that matter. The confession last spring hadn’t rewritten who you were to each other. It had only shifted the weight of things, moved what was once unsaid into the open where it could be held carefully between you.
Still friends. Still familiar. Just… warmer. More deliberate.
“Maybe I just like Hogsmeade,” you say, nudging his arm with your elbow as you walk.
“Mm,” Ominis hums. “You like Honeydukes.”
You do, admittedly. The smell alone is enough to soften you, even from halfway down the street, sugar and chocolate and something rich and buttery curling through the cold air. The shop windows glow invitingly, stacked with boxes and jars and absurdly coloured sweets, and you slow without meaning to.
He notices immediately.
“You don’t have to stop,” you say, already stopping.
“I wasn’t planning on not stopping,” he replies, dry.
The bell over the door rings as you step inside, and warmth rushes to meet you, melting the chill from your cheeks. The shop is crowded, as always, voices overlapping in excited bursts. Somewhere to your left, a child laughs too loudly; somewhere to your right, someone drops a box with a clatter.
Ominis’s wand is already in his hand, relaxed, familiar. You don’t watch him navigate anymore; you’ve learned not to. He knows where he’s going, and he knows where you are, and that’s enough.
You drift together past shelves of Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizzbees, past jars of sugared quills and jewel-bright sweets that glitter under the lights. You pause at a display near the centre, eyeing a stack of chocolate bars wrapped in gold foil.
“These are new,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything. “Caramel-filled, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Ominis echoes, amused.
You pick one up, turn it over in your hands, then put it back with a small sigh. “I always think I want chocolate, but really, it’s the caramel I like. Chocolate with caramel is just—” You gesture vaguely, searching.
“Better,” he supplies.
You laugh softly. “Yeah. Better.”
The word better settles somewhere deep and quiet.
It reminds you—dimly, without warning—of last year. Fifth year. A different Hogsmeade visit, colder somehow, both of you still circling something unnamed. You’d been standing near the window then, nursing a mug of butterbeer gone lukewarm, complaining idly about sweets you liked but never bought.
Caramel cobwebs are my favourite, you’d said, distracted, watching snow collect on the sill. But they’re always sold out. I never remember to get them early.
You’re not sure why that memory surfaces now. It’s harmless. Forgettable. Just a fact said aloud and released into the air, never meant to be kept.
You move on without giving it a thought.
You don’t notice when Ominis slips away.
It’s only when you turn back toward him, fingers brushing empty air, that you realise he isn’t at your side. You glance around, momentarily startled, then spot him a few steps off, standing near one of the smaller displays closer to the counter.
He hasn’t gone far. You let him be, content to wander a little on your own, fingers tracing the edges of boxes, reading labels you’ve long since memorised. The noise of the shop wraps around you, familiar and comforting, and you find yourself smiling again without thinking about it.
When Ominis returns, he doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps back into your space with the easy confidence of someone who belongs there, something small and paper-wrapped pressed into your hands.
“For you,” he says simply.
You look down.
The packaging is warm from his touch, the lettering cheerful and looping: Caramel Cobwebs — caramel-flavoured bites.
Your breath stutters.
“Oh,” you say, very softly.
His mouth curves, just slightly.
“You mentioned it once.”
Your fingers curl around the sweets as if they might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. The memory clicks into place, sharp and sudden, and your chest feels too full for something so small.
“And you remembered?” you ask, trying—and failing—not to smile.
There’s a pause. Not a long one. Just enough.
“I did,” Ominis says gently. “You’re… not being subtle, by the way.”
You blink. “What?”
He turns fully toward you now, expression fond in that quiet, devastating way of his. “Your voice,” he explains. “And your breathing.”
Then, softer still:
“You’re smiling.”
You don’t bother hiding it anymore.
You don’t realise you’ve stopped walking until Ominis does.
He slows first, naturally, the way he always adjusts to you, and when you don’t match the shift, he turns his head slightly, attention sharpening. The shop noise presses in around you, but the space between the two of you feels strangely hushed, as though something delicate has been placed there and neither of you wants to jostle it.
“You all right?” he asks, low.
You nod, then realise he can’t see it and murmur, “Yeah. Just—”
Just what?
You don’t finish the thought. You don’t need to. The sweets are still warm in your hands, the paper crinkling faintly as your fingers flex. You’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how his sleeve brushes your wrist when you shift, how easily you could lean into him if you let yourself.
You do let yourself.
Not fully. Just enough that your shoulder finds his arm, light, tentative. A familiar question wrapped in a familiar gesture. Are you still here? Is this still okay?
Ominis doesn’t hesitate. His arm moves, slow and certain, settling behind you, his hand resting at your back with gentle intent. Not possessive. Not public enough to draw attention. Just present.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You exhale, the breath leaving you in a way that feels like surrender. “Yeah.”
He hums quietly, satisfied, and guides you a step closer to the edge of the display, out of the worst of the foot traffic. The shop smells sweeter here, thick with caramel and sugar, and you let your head tip slightly toward him, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his shoulder through your coat.
You tilt your head, looking up at him. “Not… like that. I remember liking them. I don’t remember thinking it mattered.”
His thumb shifts at your back, a small movement you feel more than see. Thoughtful. Careful.
“It mattered to me,” he says.
The words aren’t heavy. He doesn’t give them weight on purpose. They land anyway.
You swallow, throat tight, and glance back down at the sweets in your hands. “It was such a stupid thing,” you say quietly. “I was just rambling.”
“You usually are,” he agrees, fondly.
You laugh under your breath, the sound curling in on itself. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” he corrects, then pauses. His voice changes, just a fraction. “You were talking about how everyone assumes you like chocolate because it’s… obvious. But caramel feels like it’s hiding. You said it’s warmer. Less sharp.”
Your breath catches.
“I remember thinking,” he continues, eyes unfocused in that way they get when he’s looking somewhere else entirely, “that you sounded very certain about it. Like you’d already decided what you wanted, even if you didn’t think it was worth asking for.”
You don’t know what to do with that, so you lean into him properly this time. Your forehead rests briefly against his shoulder, a quiet, instinctive retreat. His hand at your back tightens just enough to acknowledge it, to keep you there.
“You remembered that,” you whisper.
“I remember most things you say,” he replies, just as quietly. Then, after a beat, “Especially when you don’t think anyone’s listening.”
The shop feels too bright all of a sudden. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him anchor you, letting the noise blur into background static. Somewhere nearby, someone laughs; somewhere else, the bell over the door rings again. None of it touches you.
“I didn’t think—” You stop, then try again. “I didn’t realise you were… holding onto things like that. Even before.”
Ominis’s head dips, just slightly, until his temple rests against yours. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice. You do.
“I’ve been holding onto things about you for years,” he says. “I just didn’t always know what to do with them.”
Your hand slips from the sweets to his sleeve, fingers curling there, grounding yourself in the familiar fabric. “And now?”
A pause. Not uncertain. Considered.
“Now,” he says, “I get to give them back to you.”
You pull away just enough to look at him, your smile small and unguarded and entirely yours. He tilts his head, listening, and the corner of his mouth lifts in response.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That sound,” he says. “You do it when you’re happy.”
You laugh, this time openly, unable to stop it. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he replies, thumb brushing a gentle arc at your back, “you’re still here.”
You lean in again, closer than before, your voice barely more than breath. “I always am.”
His hand settles more firmly at your waist, grounding, sure. The world doesn’t end. Nothing dramatic happens. You just stand there together, sharing warmth and sugar and a memory that has finally found its way home.
When you pull back, you tuck the caramel cobwebs carefully into your coat, right over your heart.
Ominis notices, but he doesn’t comment; he just smiles.
—
The castle is quieter by the time you return.
Night has settled properly now, the corridors dim and echoing, torchlight sliding in slow gold bands across the stone. Your footsteps sound too loud at first, then soften as you unconsciously fall back into step with Ominis, your shoulders nearly brushing.
The cold from Hogsmeade still lingers in your bones, but the warmth from Honeydukes stays with you, sugar and caramel tucked into your coat, pressed close to your chest. You keep thinking about it—about him—and every time you do, your mouth threatens to curve into a smile again.
You make it as far as the Slytherin common room before you break.
“You really remembered,” you say suddenly.
Ominis slows, head turning slightly toward you. “You’ve mentioned that.”
“Yes, but—” You huff out a quiet laugh. “You remembered from last year. I barely remember what I ate yesterday.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” he replies mildly.
You grin, unabashed now. “You went out of your way.”
“I was already in Honeydukes.”
“You bought the exact thing I said I liked,” you press, clearly enjoying this far too much.
There’s a pause. You can almost hear him deciding whether to indulge you.
“…Yes.”
You beam. “You’re very sweet.”
“I bought you sweets,” he says dryly. “That was the point.”
“That is not what I meant,” you laugh.
The entrance to the common room opens, and you step inside together, the cool, green-lit space wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. The fire crackles low, casting soft shadows across the walls. A few students linger at the tables, murmuring, but it’s late enough that no one pays you much attention.
You drop down onto the rug near the fire without ceremony, back resting against the sofa. Ominis follows without hesitation, settling beside you, close enough that your knees brush.
You pull the caramel cobwebs back out, holding them up triumphantly. “I still can’t believe this.”
“I can,” he says. “You’re being very loud about it.”
“I am not being loud,” you protest, tearing open the packet. “I’m being appreciative.”
He hums, amused, as you offer him another one. He takes it, fingers brushing yours briefly, deliberately.
“You know,” you say casually, far too casually, “this sets a dangerous precedent.”
“Oh?” he replies.
“Yes. Now I’m going to start mentioning things I like just to see if you remember them a year later.”
“That seems inefficient.”
“Floral-scented parchment,” you continue, ignoring him. “That tea from Hogsmeade with the weird aftertaste. When you tuck my hand into your sleeve when it’s cold.”
His head tilts toward you. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling,” he says, fondly.
You lean closer, shoulder pressing into his arm. “You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Be careful,” he murmurs instead. “I might remember all of it.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Oh Merlin, there it is.”
Sebastian’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade, far too amused.
You freeze.
“So that’s why you two disappeared in Honeydukes,” he continues, clearly closer than you realised. “I was wondering why Gaunt looked like he’d just committed a premeditated act of romance.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the sofa. “Sebastian.”
Ominis sighs. “We were not—”
“You absolutely were,” Sebastian interrupts, plopping down onto the arm of the sofa behind you. “Buying specific sweets based on a single offhand comment from last year? That’s criminally soft.”
You peek up at him. “You heard that?”
“I heard everything,” he says cheerfully. “Including the part where you threatened to emotionally manipulate him via future snack preferences.”
“That is not what I said!”
Ominis turns his head slightly toward Sebastian. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Sebastian replies. “I survived dark curses and near-death experiences for this exact reward.”
You laugh despite yourself, warmth bubbling up again, and without thinking, you lean fully into Ominis’s side, your head tipping against his shoulder. His arm comes around you naturally, fingers resting against your sleeve, grounding and familiar.
Sebastian squints at the sight. “Disgusting,” he says, fondly. “Truly revolting.”
“You’re welcome to leave,” you tell him.
“And miss this?” He grins. “Never.”
Ominis’s thumb brushes a small, absent-minded arc against your arm, slow and steady. The sweets taste like caramel. The fire crackles softly.
You close your eyes, still smiling, still giddy, still warm all the way through.
due to completely unbiased and totally normal reasons (lies), Ominis Gaunt now has his own dedicated masterlist. There are simply too many fics to keep shoving him into the main list, so this is mostly for organisation… and also because I clearly have favourites.
oneshots 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼
𓆝 ⋆. Undercroft
𓆝 ⋆. Velvet Ropes and Reverence
𓆝 ⋆. You talk about yourself like you’re a stranger you tolerate.
𓆝 ⋆. The calm you kept me in
𓆝 ⋆. Merlin's bloody balls
𓆝 ⋆. On the Other Side of the Glass
𓆝 ⋆. Domestic Hazards
𓆝 ⋆. You Waltzed Into My Heart
𓆝 ⋆. The most consistent thing
𓆝 ⋆. I should be sleeping
𓆝 ⋆. Symptoms may include denial
𓆝 ⋆. Moonlit Reveries
𓆝 ⋆. A silence he knows by heart
𓆝 ⋆. You mentioned it once
𓆝 ⋆. Let me be yours
𓆝 ⋆. Vellichor — the strange wistfulness of endings
𓆝 ⋆. Familiar Enough to Miss
series 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼
𓆝 ⋆. intro (end of the world)
⚝ A lyrical exploration of love as refuge and defiance, following Ominis Gaunt as past and present intertwine, and he learns that choosing someone does not have to mean losing himself.
𓆝 ⋆. “meow,” – nemo, probably
⚝ A collection of domestic moments, feline crimes, and the continued use of Sebastian Sallow as a benchmark for punishment. Ominis Gaunt is a cat person, whether he admits it or not. Nemo is unrepentant.
𖦹 Sebastian as a Unit of Measurement 𖦹 Statistically significant affection
writing prompts part 2 HAHDFKJASD you guys😓😓 I swear HWL has me in a chokehold I !!! CANT !!! STOP!!! PLAYING !!!!! someone help
- "tracing your features with their fingertip like you're a sculpture in a museum and they were not supposed to touch you, but god, they can’t help it."
edit: masterlist!!
edit 2: ominis masterlist!
He doesn’t mean to touch you.
That’s the thing he tells himself afterward, when he’s lying awake and replaying the moment with mortifying clarity — the way intention crept in so quietly he didn’t notice it cross the threshold until it was already too late.
You’re close. Close in the way you’ve been for weeks now, ever since that almost-confession that left the air between you charged and unnamed. Close enough that he can feel the warmth of you, the subtle shift of your breathing when you settle. Close enough that his wand, resting loosely in his hand, tells him more than he ought to know: the slope of your shoulder, the angle of your jaw when you tilt your head toward him, the stillness you adopt when you’re listening only to him.
It’s quiet. Safe. One of those rare moments where he isn’t braced for interruption or judgment or consequence.
You say something — he doesn’t quite catch what — and he turns his head toward you on instinct. That’s when it happens. His free hand lifts, slow and uncertain, as though it belongs to someone else entirely.
He stops just short of you.
Every sensible part of him is screaming that this is a line, that he’s hovering over something sacred, untouchable. Like a sculpture roped off behind velvet cords. Something admired, revered, but not handled.
Gods help him — he can’t stop.
His fingertip brushes your cheek.
It’s barely anything. A whisper of contact. The sort of touch that could be denied if asked about later. But you feel it — he knows you do — because your breath stutters, just a little, and you don’t pull away.
That’s what undoes him.
He traces the line of your cheekbone with excruciating care, committing it to memory in a way he doesn’t need his wand for. There’s a reverence to it that surprises even him, like he’s mapping something precious and fragile, something he’s been trusted with without ever being given permission outright.
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
You let him.
His thumb follows the curve down toward your jaw, pauses there, as if waiting for you to tell him to stop. His pulse is loud in his ears, his breathing shallow. Every nerve feels too close to the surface, too aware of the warmth beneath your skin.
“I—” He swallows. Tries again. “Is this… all right?”
The question costs him something. It always does, asking instead of assuming. But it matters. You matter.
Your answer is quiet. Immediate. “Yes.”
It hits him like a benediction.
He exhales, something unsteady leaving him, and his thumb resumes its path — slower, more certain. He traces the corner of your mouth without meaning to, freezes the instant he realises where he is.
You part your lips just slightly.
Merlin.
The space between you feels impossibly small. Fragile. Like the moment before a confession that hasn’t yet found its words. He can feel the heat in his face, the way his heart is threatening to leap straight out of his chest and embarrass him thoroughly.
He shouldn’t want this the way he does. Shouldn’t want to memorise you by touch, shouldn’t want to lean in, shouldn’t want to catalogue the shape of you as though he’s afraid he’ll lose access to it if he doesn’t do it now.
And yet.
His hand cups your cheek properly this time, palm warm, fingers trembling despite his best efforts. There’s something devotional about it — the way he holds you like a promise he’s not brave enough to speak aloud yet.
“If you want me to stop,” he murmurs, so softly it’s almost a confession in itself, “you only have to say so.”
You don’t.
Instead, you lean into his touch, just a fraction, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to belong there.
Ominis thinks — distantly, helplessly — that this might be the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.
And also, without question, the most right.
He stays there, hand cradling your cheek, as though the world might shatter if he moves too quickly.
Your skin is warm beneath his palm — warmer than he expects, warmer than memory alone could have prepared him for — and he can feel the faint tremor that runs through you when you breathe in. It’s maddening, knowing he’s the cause of it. Knowing you’re letting him be.
He traces you again, more deliberately this time. His thumb skims the line of your cheekbone, then drifts lower, following the contour of your jaw as though he’s afraid it might vanish if he doesn’t keep contact. He’s acutely aware of how close your mouth is now. Of the way your breath ghosts across his knuckles.
You don’t say anything. Neither does he.
Silence has always been safer for Ominis — quieter, easier to control — but right now it feels stretched thin, humming with things neither of you have dared to name. He can feel it in the way his heart keeps stuttering, in the way his wand hand has gone slack, forgotten entirely at his side.
His thumb hesitates beneath your lower lip.
It would be so easy to pretend this is accidental. To retreat. To tuck the moment away with all the others he keeps pressed carefully between his ribs — things wanted but not claimed.
Instead, he exhales your name.
It’s soft. Barely there. Like a prayer spoken under his breath.
You respond by leaning closer, your knee brushing his, your shoulder angling just enough that he knows — knows — you’re not merely tolerating this. You’re choosing it. Choosing him.
Something in his chest tightens painfully.
“I shouldn’t,” he murmurs, even as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth again, reverent and unhurried. “I keep thinking I should stop, and I don’t.”
There’s a confession in that. Several, really.
Your hand lifts, tentative at first, and rests against his wrist. Not to pull him away — never that — but to steady him, to anchor him. Your fingers curl lightly around his sleeve, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist where his pulse is betraying him entirely.
“You don’t have to,” you say quietly.
The permission in it, not explicit, not improper, hits him harder than anything else could have.
His breath goes shallow. He shifts closer, just enough that his knee slots against yours, that the warmth of you is no longer something he has to imagine. His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, fingers threading carefully beneath your ear, learning the shape of you by heart.
He thinks of museums again, of the way priceless things are kept behind glass, untouched not because they are fragile, but because they are revered. Because they matter.
And gods, you matter.
His forehead comes to rest against yours, careful, deliberate. He doesn’t kiss you — not yet — but the closeness is almost worse for it. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, the space between your mouths measured in millimetres and restraint.
“If I cross this line,” he says softly, voice unsteady despite himself, “I don’t know how to go back to pretending I don’t want you.”
Your fingers tighten on his sleeve.
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper.
That’s all it takes.
He tilts his head, just slightly, enough that his lips brush yours — not a kiss, not really. Just a question. A promise held on the edge of becoming.
You answer by staying.
By lifting your chin that infinitesimal amount, by letting your lips linger where his have dared to rest.
Ominis exhales, something shaky and relieved, and presses the faintest kiss to your mouth — soft, reverent, achingly restrained. As though he’s afraid that anything more might break the spell. As though this alone is already more than he ever thought he’d be allowed.
When he pulls back, his hand is still on your face, his thumb brushing comfortingly beneath your eye.
“I don’t know what we’re calling this,” he admits quietly.
You smile — he can hear it, feel it in the way your cheek lifts beneath his palm.
“We don’t have to call it anything yet.”
He nods, something easing in his chest. He stays close after that, as though moving any farther away might undo what you’ve just agreed into being.
Your foreheads remain touching, breaths slowly evening out, the quiet stretching again — but now it’s a different kind of silence. Not tense. Not fragile. It feels… kept. Like something carefully cupped between both your hands.
Ominis is acutely aware of every point of contact. Your knee against his. Your fingers still curled at his sleeve. The warmth of your cheek beneath his palm, where his thumb continues its gentle, absent-minded sweep, as if his body has decided this is where it belongs now.
He’s terrified of startling you. Terrified of wanting more. Terrified of not wanting more, somehow even worse.
“You’re very still,” you murmur, a note of fondness threading through your voice.
“I’m trying not to scare you off,” he admits quietly.
That earns a soft breath of laughter from you, close enough that it warms his lips. He feels it ripple through your chest where you’re nearly pressed together, and something in him loosens at the sound.
“You’re not,” you say. “You haven’t.”
He swallows. His thumb pauses beneath your eye, a featherlight touch that feels far too intimate for how little it weighs. “Good,” he says, and the relief in it is unmistakable.
He lets his hand drift down from your cheek to your jaw, and further still until his fingers brush the column of your throat. He hesitates there, reverent as ever, before resting his hand flat over your collarbone instead, as though choosing restraint is a kindness rather than a deprivation.
You lean into him again, closing the distance fully now. Your shoulder presses to his chest, your head angling just enough that his chin rests lightly against your hair. He can feel your breathing there, unafraid.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Ominis thinks about how easily you fit like this. How natural it feels, as though his body has been waiting for this alignment without ever daring to ask for it. He thinks about all the ways he’s catalogued you over time — not just by touch, but by presence. The way you say his name. The way you always ask before resting against him. The way you stay.
“I keep thinking,” he says at last, voice low, “that if I move, I’ll realise this isn’t real.”
Your hand slips from his sleeve to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. He feels the contact immediately — feels seen by it, by the way you’ve chosen exactly where to touch him.
“It’s real,” you say simply.
His heart is thundering beneath your palm. He knows you can feel it. The thought should embarrass him. Instead, it feels like honesty.
He turns his head just slightly, lips brushing the crown of your head this time — not a kiss, not quite, but close enough that the intent is unmistakable. His breath stirs your hair.
You tilt your face up again, seeking him without hesitation now, and he meets you halfway. This kiss is different from the last — still soft, still restrained, but deeper somehow. More certain. Your lips press together and linger, learning rather than asking.
He sighs into it, a quiet sound he doesn’t quite manage to stop, and his hand curls reflexively at your collarbone, thumb tracing a small, unconscious arc there. When you shift closer, he lets you, arm sliding around your back to hold you properly at last.
It feels dangerous. And safe. And utterly inevitable.
When you finally part, it’s slow — reluctant but unhurried — and he rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in like he’s afraid he’ll forget the shape of you if he doesn’t.
“I don’t know what comes next,” he admits, honestly. “But I want… whatever this is. With you.”
You smile, close and warm, and press one last gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Then we’ll take it slowly,” you say. “Together.”
Ominis nods, his grip on you firm but careful, as though he’s holding something priceless.
For now, that’s enough.
can you guys tell I yearn for something like this 💔💔 UGGGGHGHGYGHGHGUYG
You have such a gift with figurative language and emotional tension I think you could do wonders with this angsty idea of mine:
MC goes almost out of their mind with worry when a mishap in Herbology involving a Chinese Chomping Cabbage leaves Ominis with a nasty flesh wound, yet he barely seems phased by it. Turns out Ominis’s history with being tortured by the Cruciatus curse has left him with a disturbingly high pain tolerance.
A silence he knows by heart - Ominis Gaunt
HELLOOO!! first of all thank you omg your words made me blush akjsdhfafjh AND MERLIN this idea hit me like a bludger to the chest! The Herbology mishap + Ominis being disturbingly unfazed??? I CANNOT stop thinking about it I hope you don’t mind, but I got a little carried away and started writing immediately 🙂↕️🙂↕️
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
CW/TW: graphic injury, blood, medical treatment, references to torture/cruciatus curse, trauma aftermath, emotional distress
It happens too fast.
One moment you are laughing, half-distracted, trying to coax a stubborn Chinese Chomping Cabbage back into its pot with the blunt end of your wand, and the next, there is a sound you will never quite forget. A wet, tearing crunch. Not the sharp snap of bone, but something softer. Greedier.
Ominis’s name leaves your mouth on instinct, already too loud, already wrong.
The cabbage thrashes, leaves snapping like jaws, soil flying everywhere. Sebastian swears violently behind you. You barely register it. All you can see is Ominis, stumbling back, his wand skittering across the greenhouse floor as dark red spatters across the flagstones.
For a heartbeat, nothing makes sense.
Then your eyes track his arm.
“Oh my— Ominis—”
You are moving before you finish the thought. You grab him by the front of his robes, hands shaking, pulling him back another step as Sebastian finally manages to stun the plant into sullen stillness. The sleeve of Ominis’s jumper is shredded. What’s left of it is soaked through, sticking to skin that is—
You swallow hard.
The cabbage has taken a chunk. Not a nick. Not a tear. A bite.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, dripping from his fingers in a slow, steady rhythm that makes your stomach lurch. You can see where flesh has been torn away, edges ragged, angry red against the pale of his skin.
This is bad. This is really bad.
You brace yourself for the panic. The sharp intake of breath. The curse, the flinch, the white-faced shock that always follows something like this.
Instead, Ominis goes very still.
His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something only he can hear. His brows knit together, not in fear, but in concentration. His free hand comes up automatically, pressing against your wrist where you’re gripping him, grounding himself.
“It’s all right,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “I’ve got it.”
Your heart stutters.
“You— no, you don’t,” you manage, voice already going thin. “Ominis, look at you, Merlin, you’re bleeding—”
“I know.” He sounds faintly apologetic. “Sebastian, could you— yes, thank you.”
Sebastian presses a folded handkerchief against the wound with more force than strictly necessary, his face pale beneath the freckles. “Mate,” he mutters, low. “That’s… that’s not nothing.”
Ominis hisses softly as pressure is applied. Just a breath. Barely there.
And then nothing.
No shaking. No frantic breathing. No sign of the pain that should be tearing through him right now.
Your mind tries to catch up, scrabbling uselessly. You have been friends since first year. You’ve seen him hexed, jinxed, knocked flat on his arse more times than you can count. Scratches, burns, and the occasional broken bone. His reactions have always made sense. He’d grimace, swear under his breath, lean into you or Sebastian while Madam Pomfrey fussed.
This—
This is different.
“Ominis,” you say again, quieter now, like saying his name gently might make reality rearrange itself. “Does it— does it hurt?”
There is a pause. Not because he’s struggling to answer, but because he’s genuinely considering the question.
“A bit,” he says finally, thoughtfully. “It’s manageable.”
Something cold slides down your spine.
Manageable.
Unbidden, unwanted, a memory flashes through your mind. Not yours, but his, handed to you in pieces over the years. A child kneeling on cold stone. A voice full of fury. Pain so overwhelming it became a place you could disappear into, if you were clever enough.
You shove the thought away immediately.
Now is not the time. You can unpack that later. Later, when his arm isn’t half-chewed and bleeding all over the greenhouse floor.
“We need Nurse Blainey,” you say, already tugging him towards the door. Your hand slides down to lace through his fingers, slick with blood, grip tightening reflexively. “Right now.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily, allowing himself to be guided. “That would be sensible.”
That’s when it really hits you.
He isn’t dazed. He isn’t in shock. His steps are steady, his breathing even. His wandless hand lifts slightly, instinctively, feeling the air ahead of him as if he were merely navigating a crowded corridor, not leaving a trail of red footprints behind him.
You expect him to falter, but he doesn’t.
By the time you reach the hospital wing, your chest feels tight enough to crack. Nurse Blainey looks up once, takes in the state of him, and swears under her breath.
“Merlin’s mercy,” she says briskly, already moving. “What happened?”
“Chinese Chomping Cabbage,” Sebastian answers. His voice wobbles despite himself.
Ominis sits when he’s told to. Holds still when asked. Doesn’t so much as flinch when Nurse Blainey cleans the wound, when she prods at torn flesh with clinical fingers. His jaw tightens once. That’s it.
You stand too close. You know you’re in the way, but you don’t care. Your thumb presses into the back of his hand, grounding, anchoring, as if you can somehow feed him the reaction he should be having. Panic for panic. Pain for pain.
He turns his head slightly towards you, sensing your proximity.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
You laugh, sharp and broken. “You don’t get to say that.”
His mouth quirks, faintly. “I suppose not.”
But his fingers curl around yours anyway, warm and steady, as if you’re the one who needs reassurance.
And that— that is when the fear really sets in.
Because the wound is bad. Anyone can see that.
But the way he’s enduring it?
That’s worse.
And you don’t know yet what it’s going to cost you to really understand why.
—
The hospital wing smells like antiseptic and crushed dittany.
You’ve always hated it for that, the way it scrubs the air too clean, as if pain might linger if it isn’t chased out aggressively enough. Today it feels sharper, almost metallic, catching at the back of your throat while Nurse Blainey works with efficient, practised movements.
Ominis sits propped against crisp white pillows, his injured arm laid out carefully on a padded support. The blood is mostly gone now, cleaned away, but the damage is impossible to ignore. The wound looks worse without the chaos of the greenhouse to soften it. Angrier. Raw.
You stand at his side, close enough that your hip brushes the edge of the bed. You haven’t let go of his hand. No one has asked you to, and Ominis hasn’t either.
Nurse Blainey hums quietly under her breath as she finishes a particularly unpleasant charm. You watch her mouth tighten, just slightly. The sort of expression healers get when they’re trying very hard not to alarm the people hovering nearby.
“This should have you climbing the walls,” she says at last, conversationally, as she reaches for a fresh bandage. “Chinese Chomping Cabbages don’t mess about.”
You nod too quickly. “That’s what I said.”
Ominis turns his head in her direction. “I imagine the adrenaline helps.”
She snorts. “Adrenaline helps with shock, love. Not with this.” She gestures vaguely at his arm, then glances at you. “He hasn’t taken any pain potion, has he?”
“No,” you say immediately. “You didn’t offer one.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“I usually don’t have to,” she replies, carefully. “Not until they start complaining.”
Silence stretches.
Ominis’s thumb traces a slow, absent-minded circle against your knuckles. The movement is grounding, intimate. Familiar. It feels wrong that he should be the calm one when his arm looks like that.
“I can give you something stronger,” Nurse Blainey continues, watching him closely now. “This will sting later, when the magic wears off.”
Ominis considers. You can tell he is, because his wand hand shifts slightly, as if mapping the space around him out of habit.
“If it’s all the same,” he says politely, “I’d rather not.”
Your head snaps towards him. “Ominis.”
“It’s unnecessary,” he says gently. “I’ve had worse.”
The words land like a slap, you don’t mean to think of it. You really don’t. But they come anyway, uninvited and vivid. His voice, years ago, was low and matter-of-fact in the Undercroft. You learn to… separate yourself from it. If you don’t, it eats you alive.
Your stomach twists.
Nurse Blainey stills completely.
“Have you now,” she says, after a beat. Not unkind. Just… alert. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
She presses her wand lightly against the edge of the wound and murmurs a diagnostic charm.
Ominis doesn’t react.
Not even when her expression changes.
“Well,” she says quietly. “That explains a few things.”
Your pulse roars in your ears. “Explains what?”
She glances between the two of you, then sighs, setting her wand aside. “His pain response is… atypical. Not absent. Just… different.”
Ominis smiles faintly, as if she’s just commented on the weather. “I did say it was manageable.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Nurse Blainey says firmly. “It means your body doesn’t warn you the way it should. Which is dangerous.”
Your grip tightens involuntarily.
“How dangerous?” you ask.
She hesitates. Just long enough.
“Dangerous enough that if you weren’t here making such a fuss,” she says, pointedly, “he might’ve tried to walk this off.”
Your chest aches.
Ominis tilts his head towards you, brow creasing. “You were fussing?”
You laugh again, brittle and humourless. “You’re missing half your arm. Yes, I was fussing.”
“It’s not half,” he says mildly. “More like—”
“Stop,” you say. Your voice cracks on the word.
He stills instantly.
That, more than anything else, almost undoes you. The way he listens. The way his attention sharpens the moment he hears something wrong in your voice.
Nurse Blainey clears her throat, brisk again. “I’m going to finish bandaging this, then I want you staying put for at least a few hours. No heroics.”
“Yes, Nurse,” Ominis replies obediently.
She moves away to fetch supplies, leaving the two of you suspended in the aftermath.
You stare at his arm. At the careful wrappings. At the place where skin is missing, and pain should be screaming.
“I thought you’d panic,” you admit quietly.
His thumb stills against your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, just as quietly.
That’s worse. Somehow. “Why?”
“For worrying you.”
You swallow hard. “Ominis.”
“I forget sometimes,” he continues, gaze unfocused, turned inward. “That what feels… ordinary to me, isn’t.”
Your chest tightens, slow and relentless.
This is the moment you’ve been avoiding. The thought you shoved aside earlier, now clawing its way back, heavier and harder to ignore.
“How much does it take,” you ask softly, “for it to not be manageable?”
He doesn’t answer straight away.
When he does, his voice is very calm.
“A lot.”
You lean closer without realising it, forehead nearly brushing his temple. Your free hand lifts, hovering uselessly near his shoulder, unsure where it’s allowed to land.
“That’s not okay,” you whisper.
His fingers curl around yours, firm but gentle. Anchoring you again. Always you.
“I’m all right,” he says.
You don’t argue. But you don’t believe him either.
And as Nurse Blainey returns, brisk and efficient, you realise with a sick, sinking certainty that this isn’t the end of it. It’s the beginning.
The hospital wing empties gradually.
Visitors are ushered out, voices fading down the corridor until all that remains is the soft tick of enchanted lamps and the low crackle of the fire that Nurse Blainey insists helps with recovery, even when no one else believes her. Sebastian leaves last, lingering in the doorway with a look that says he doesn’t like this any more than you do.
“Call if you need me,” he mutters, not quite looking at Ominis.
Ominis smiles faintly in his direction. “I will.”
The door clicks shut.
You sit.
You have been sitting for hours now, perched on the edge of the bed, back aching, legs numb, but you don’t move. The chair beside you went untouched. You wanted to be close. Needed to be.
Ominis lies back against the pillows, breathing slowly and evenly. His wand rests within easy reach, angled just so, its faint pulse mapping the quiet space around him. You can almost see it, the invisible sweep of awareness, the way he orients himself even in rest.
For a while, nothing happens.
You watch the rise and fall of his chest. Count the minutes by the way the fire shifts. Your thoughts circle uselessly, catching on the same sharp points over and over again.
Manageable. A lot.
Eventually, you notice it.
The change is subtle at first. A tightening at the corner of his mouth. The way his fingers curl into the sheets, just slightly, as if testing something. His breathing loses its easy rhythm.
“Ominis,” you murmur.
“I’m awake,” he says immediately.
“I know.” You hesitate, then soften your voice. “Are you… all right?”
There it is. The pause.
Not the thoughtful one from earlier, one that stretches, thin and strained.
“It’s starting to ache,” he admits.
You shift closer without thinking, your knee brushing the mattress. “Do you want me to get Nurse Blainey?”
“No.” Too quick. Then, more carefully, “Not yet.”
Your chest tightens. You don’t push. You’ve learned, over the years, where his edges are. Instead, you reach out slowly, deliberately, and rest your hand over his, where it’s clenched into the sheet.
He startles at the contact. Just a little.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says.
“You didn’t.” Your thumb strokes the back of his hand, grounding. “You don’t have to be quiet.”
A breath leaves him, shaky this time. “Old habit.”
You nod, even though he can’t see it.
The ache turns into something sharper.
You feel it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his shoulders draw in on themselves despite his best efforts to stay still. Sweat beads faintly at his temple. His wand pulses more frequently now, mapping and remapping as if the room has become unfamiliar.
“Ominis,” you whisper again. “It’s okay to say it hurts.”
He swallows. “It hurts,” he says finally. His voice is steady, but his fingers curl around yours hard enough to sting. “It’s— it’s loud.”
Your heart fractures a little.
Loud. As if pain is a sound he can tune out, until suddenly he can’t.
You slide your other hand up, careful to avoid the bandages, resting it against his shoulder instead. Solid. Real.
“I’m here,” you say. “You’re safe.”
Another habit. Another script.
His breathing stutters.
“I know,” he says. Then, quieter, “I forget sometimes that safe feels different now.”
The admission hangs between you, fragile.
The pain crests slowly, like a tide. He doesn’t cry out. He never has. But you see it anyway, written in the lines of his face, in the way his wand hand trembles.
“You should’ve taken the potion,” you murmur, not accusing. Just sad.
“I didn’t want to feel… dull,” he admits. “I didn’t want to miss you.”
That does it.
Something sharp and bright breaks through the careful composure you’ve been holding onto all day.
“You don’t have to earn being cared for,” you say, suddenly fierce. “You don’t have to be stoic or quiet to deserve help.”
His head turns towards you, unseeing but intent. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I think,” you say, voice shaking now, “that you learned very young that pain was something you survived alone. And I think you still believe that.”
Silence.
Then, softly, “I don’t know how not to.”
You lean in, pressing your forehead gently to his temple. Not kissing. Just there. Close enough that he can feel you breathe.
“Then let me teach you,” you whisper.
His hand tightens in yours, not in pain this time, but something like fear.
“I’m afraid,” he admits. “If I let myself feel it properly, I won’t know how to stop.”
You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to stop. I’m not going anywhere.”
The fracture is quiet. Not an argument. Not raised voices.
Just the moment he finally leans into you, weight shifting, trusting, and you realise with aching clarity how long he’s been carrying this alone.
And how much it’s going to hurt to help him put it down.
You don’t realise you’re crying at first.
It’s only when your nose betrays you with a quiet, awful sniff that you become aware of it, the way your chest has been tightening for what feels like hours, breath stacking on breath until something finally gives way.
You turn your head instinctively, embarrassed by the sound, but Ominis notices anyway. He always does.
“Hey,” he murmurs. Not alarmed. Just there. “What is it?”
You shake your head, a useless gesture. Your hand is still tangled in his, fingers warm and sure despite everything. You don’t let go. You can’t.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Please.”
The word lands with quiet weight. Not a command. A request.
You swallow, throat aching, and stare at the floor instead. The hospital wing is dim now, shadows stretching long and gentle across the stone. The fire has burned down to embers. Everything feels hushed, like the world has collectively decided to give you space.
You sniff again. Quieter this time.
“It’s just—” Your voice wobbles, and you pause, pressing your lips together until you can trust yourself to continue. “I keep thinking about it.”
His thumb strokes the side of your finger, slow and grounding. “Thinking about what?”
You draw in a careful breath.
“What if it had been worse,” you say finally. The words come out small, fragile, like they might shatter if you push them too hard. “What if the cabbage had… what if it had caught higher, or you hadn’t pulled away in time?”
His hand stills.
“And what if I hadn’t been there,” you continue, the dam cracking now. “Or Sebastian. What if you’d been alone and you’d decided it was manageable and you’d just—”
Your voice breaks completely.
“And no one would’ve known. Because you wouldn’t have panicked. You wouldn’t have called for help.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. Your shoulders shake despite your best efforts to stay quiet, tears sliding down your cheeks unchecked now. You don’t wipe them away. You don’t have the energy.
Ominis shifts carefully, turning his body towards you as much as the bandages allow. You feel the brush of his sleeve against your arm, the warmth of him, real and solid.
“You’re crying,” he says, not accusing. Just observant.
You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “Brilliant deduction.”
“I didn’t mean—” He stops, recalibrates. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” you whisper.
He reaches out tentatively, his uninjured hand lifting until it hovers near your face. He doesn’t touch you right away. He never assumes. When his fingers finally brush your cheek, it’s careful, reverent, as if he’s mapping something precious.
You lean into it without thinking.
His thumb catches a tear before it can fall.
“You’re afraid of losing me,” he says quietly.
The simplicity of it almost undoes you.
“Yes,” you admit. “I am.”
Another pause. This one is different. Heavy, but not strained.
“I didn’t realise,” he says slowly, “that my being calm felt like… absence. To you.”
You close your eyes.
“It felt like you were somewhere else,” you say. “Somewhere I couldn’t reach you. And I thought, if something really awful happened, you’d just go there again, and I wouldn’t be able to follow.”
His breath hitches.
“That place,” he says, voice low, careful, “is very quiet.”
You nod. “I know.”
He swallows. You can feel it in the way his fingers tremble against your skin.
“I learned to go there because no one came when I cried,” he says. “So I stopped.”
The words are plain. No drama. That makes them worse.
Your hand tightens around his.
“You don’t have to go there anymore,” you say. “Not with me. Not ever.”
He exhales shakily, forehead resting against yours now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath.
“I don’t always know how to stay,” he admits. “Pain makes it… easier to leave.”
Tears spill again, but you don’t try to hide them this time. You let them fall, quiet and steady.
“Then I’ll stay for you,” you say. “Until you remember how.”
His fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve, grip firm but gentle. Anchoring.
“You already do,” he whispers.
You stay like that for a long time. Breathing together. Letting the quiet settle around you, not empty this time, but full.
Eventually, Nurse Blainey returns, soft-footed, lantern light casting warm gold across the room. She takes one look at the two of you and nods, as if this is exactly what she expected to find.
“I’m going to give you something mild,” she tells Ominis gently. “Just to take the edge off. You don’t get extra points for enduring.”
He hesitates, then nods. “All right.”
When she leaves again, the potion working its slow magic, his body relaxes incrementally. The tension eases from his shoulders. His breathing deepens.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand, exhausted but lighter, like you’ve set something down at last.
“Thank you,” he murmurs sleepily.
“For what?”
“For saying it,” he says.
You smile faintly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. Not dramatic. Just real.
“Always,” you say.
He drifts off not long after, still holding your hand, grip loose but present. You don’t move. You don’t need to.
The fear doesn’t vanish. You know it won’t. But it changes shape, becomes something quieter, something you can live with.
Something you can face together.
And for the first time since the greenhouse, that feels like enough.
a/n: is it obvious I love a man who yearns? especially if that man is someone named ominis gaunt? because apparently I am incapable of writing him without emotional devastation, sleepless nights, accidental touches, and ONE kiss that took everything out of me. yet I regret nothing. thank you for letting me scream quietly into the void about this man
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
He should be sleeping.
The dormitory has settled into that deep, suspended quiet that only ever comes after midnight. Curtains drawn. Beds creaking softly as the other boys turn in their sleep. The faint, distant hum of the castle breathing around them. Even Sebastian, usually restless, has gone still.
Ominis lies on his back, hands folded over his stomach, wand resting within easy reach on the mattress beside him. He has not let go of it all evening. He rarely does when his thoughts begin to circle like this.
The wand hums faintly when he shifts, a low, familiar pulse that sketches the room into his mind. The neat lines of bedframes. The trunk at the foot of his bed. The empty space between his fingers and the wand’s polished wood. Everything exactly where it should be.
Everything except his thoughts.
They have nowhere left to go.
He stares into the dark, eyes useless, mind far too vivid, and thinks of you.
It happens every night now. As soon as there is nothing left to distract him. No book to read aloud. No voice beside him. No careful, controlled proximity to anchor himself to the present. Just memory, uninvited and relentless.
Rain comes first.
Not the sound of it, exactly, but the feeling. The way it had turned the windows into something alive, tapping and whispering and sliding downward in thin, uneven paths. You had been sitting on the floor together, backs against the wall beneath the tall arched window, books abandoned somewhere to your left.
He remembers the stone cold against his spine. The way the damp in the air made everything feel closer, smaller, as if the room itself had leaned in to listen.
You had shifted beside him, restless in that way you get when you are tired but refuse to admit it. He had felt it through the floor before you spoke, the subtle change in pressure, the soft scrape of fabric.
“I’m just going to rest for a second,” you had said.
He remembers the exact moment your head touched his shoulder.
A careful, tentative lean, as though you were prepared to pull away the instant he objected. Your hair brushed his collar. Warmth bloomed through the wool of his jumper.
He had not objected.
He had frozen.
His wand had flared in his hand, startled by the sudden proximity, mapping the new shape of you pressed against him. The slope of your head. The steady rise and fall of your breath. The way your weight settled, slow and trusting, until you were no longer merely leaning.
You had not moved again, and neither had he.
He remembers thinking that it would be rude to disturb you. That it would be cruel, even, to shift and risk waking you. He remembers cataloguing every reason to stay perfectly still while his heart beat far too loudly in his chest.
You smelled faintly of rain and parchment. Of something unmistakably you, something he could never quite name but would recognise anywhere. His shoulder had begun to ache long before he even considered moving.
He never did.
The memory sits heavy in his chest now, pressing against his ribs as he stares into the dark. He can still feel it if he lets himself. The phantom weight. The warmth that had soaked through layers of fabric and lodged itself somewhere dangerously close to his heart.
He swallows.
His wand pulses once, responding to the shift in his grip.
Another memory slips in, unbidden.
Reaching.
It is such a small thing. Embarrassingly small, really. He cannot fathom why his mind insists on replaying it with such precision.
You had both reached for the same book at once. He remembers the scrape of fingertips against parchment, the way his wand’s awareness flared sharply as your fingers collided with his.
The contact had been brief, accidental, entirely innocent, and yet, both of you had gone utterly still.
As if the air itself had thickened. As if someone had cast a spell neither of you knew how to break. He remembers the way his breath had stalled in his lungs, the way his fingers had curled instinctively, almost chasing the warmth you had withdrawn.
You had laughed, a quiet, nervous sound, and murmured an apology. He had replied automatically, words smooth and practised and entirely useless against the way his pulse skidded beneath his skin.
For one horrifying, hopeful moment, he had wondered if you felt it too. That strange, electric pause. That sense of standing on the edge of something unnamed.
He never asked.
He never asks.
The ceiling above him remains stubbornly unseen. The dormitory remains silent. His wand hums softly, patient and unjudging.
“I should be sleeping,” he murmurs under his breath.
The words vanish into the dark.
He turns his head slightly, cheek brushing against the pillow, and exhales.
“But I’m thinking of you.”
It feels dangerous to say it aloud, even this quietly. As though naming it might make it worse. Or better. He cannot tell which would frighten him more.
He shifts his hand, fingers brushing the wand’s length, grounding himself in its familiar presence. The pulse steadies. The room resolves again. Safe. Contained.
His thoughts do not follow.
“I’m always thinking about you,” he admits, voice barely more than a breath.
He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to tell you this. To confess that every accidental touch lingers for hours afterwards. That every quiet moment becomes crowded with memories of you leaning, resting, reaching.
He wonders if you lie awake sometimes, too, replaying the same moments from the other side.
The thought is both comforting and unbearable.
Ominis closes his eyes, even though it makes no difference, and lets the rain live in his head a little longer. Let your head rest against his shoulder again. Let your fingers brush his, just once more, before the moment breaks.
Sleep comes slowly, reluctantly.
Even then, you follow him there.
—
He had thought the worst of it was the quiet.
He had been wrong.
The worst of it is that he has seen you today.
Ominis lies awake again, the dormitory wrapped in the same suspended stillness as the night before. The castle hums. Beds breathe. Someone sighs in their sleep. His wand rests against his palm, familiar and steady, mapping the unchanging lines of the room.
Unchanging, except for him.
He exhales through his nose and stares uselessly into the dark, already knowing how this will go. The memories do not need coaxing tonight. They arrive fully formed, unashamed, as if emboldened by the fact that they are no longer alone.
You laughed today.
Not loudly. Not in one of those bright, unguarded bursts that make Sebastian grin like he’s won something. It had been softer than that. A quiet sound, warm and brief, like it had slipped out of you before you thought to stop it.
Ominis had felt it more than he heard it.
The wand in his hand had caught the shape of your face tilting toward him, the subtle lift of your shoulders, the way your chest expanded before that sound escaped. And then—there it was.
That soft exhale.
He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until it matched yours.
The release had startled him, lungs burning faintly as air rushed back in, his chest loosening as though something tight and coiled had finally been allowed to ease. He remembers blinking, confused by the sudden awareness of his own body, by the way his heartbeat had stumbled and then raced to catch up.
You had kept smiling, oblivious.
He presses his lips together now, the ghost of it lingering. He wonders how many times he has done that around you—held his breath without noticing, waiting for something unnamed and inevitable.
He shifts onto his side, wand tucked closer, and the memory tilts.
Your knees had been touching.
It had started innocently enough. You had insisted on showing him something—some clever bit of spellwork, some small, practical charm he had missed in the margins of his notes. You had sat in front of him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through fabric and air alike.
“Knees closer,” you’d said, as if it were nothing.
They had brushed, then settled, and the wand’s awareness had flared at the contact. Two points of warmth, steady and grounding. Too grounding. His pulse had thudded hard against his ribs, and he had hoped desperately that you could not hear it.
You had taken his hands in yours, slowly As if the world required gentleness in that moment. As if anything too sudden might tip it off its axis.
Your fingers had guided his, adjusting the angle of his wrist, the curl of his grip. Your thumbs had pressed lightly into his palms, warm and sure, and the wand had pulsed, mapping every detail with ruthless clarity.
The world had narrowed.
It had felt, absurdly, like everything was balanced there—between his hands, between your touch and his unsteady breath. As though if either of you moved too quickly, something essential might shatter.
You had spoken softly, explaining, correcting, and encouraging. He remembers nodding, murmuring responses, hoping his voice sounded normal.
Inside, he had been anything but.
Now, alone in the dark, he curls his fingers slightly, as if he might still feel the imprint of yours there. The phantom warmth lingers, stubborn and unkind.
He should be exhausted. He is exhausted.
Sleep, however, continues to elude him, slipping just out of reach every time your presence presses itself back into his thoughts. The rain from last night returns, layered now with laughter and breath and the careful way you had handled him, as though he were something precious.
Ominis swallows.
His wand hums softly, sensing the minute shift in his grip, the tension threading through his hands. He focuses on it for a moment, grounding himself in the familiar pulse, the certainty of stone and wood and distance.
It does not help.
“I saw you today,” he murmurs, barely audible even to himself.
The admission feels heavier than the night before. More dangerous. Because this time, the memories are not softened by time or uncertainty. They are sharp. Recent. Undeniably real.
He closes his eyes and lets the sensation wash over him anyway. Lets himself remember the sound of your laugh, the way your breath had matched his without you ever knowing. Lets himself feel your hands guiding his, steady and patient.
The wanting settles deeper, quieter, more resolute.
Sleep comes eventually, as it must. It does not take you with it.
—
Dinner is still some time away.
Ominis knows this because the castle tells him. The echo of footsteps in the corridors is sparse but not absent. Doors open and close in the distance. Portraits murmur softly among themselves. The air has that restless quality it always does before the Great Hall fills.
He walks anyway.
There is no destination in mind. No urgency. His wand hangs loosely at his side, its pulse steady as it sketches familiar corridors into his awareness. Stone beneath his boots. The curve of staircases. Alcoves he has passed a hundred times before.
He moves through them all like a ghost.
Because earlier—earlier—you had walked beside him.
It had been your idea to linger.
Hogsmeade had been busy, noisy, full of students flushed with cold and sugar and laughter. You had suggested the long way back, had said something about wanting to walk it off, about not being ready to return just yet.
He had agreed instantly.
The road back to Hogwarts had been quieter. Gravel crunching beneath your boots. The distant call of birds settling in for the evening. Wind teasing at cloaks and hems.
You had walked side by side.
Close enough that your arms swung in near-perfect synchrony. Close enough that Ominis became painfully aware of the small, precise distance between your hands.
Not touching.
Never quite touching.
Every few steps, though, your knuckles brushed his.
The first time, he thought it was an accident.
The second time, he told himself it was a coincidence.
By the third, his pulse had begun to stutter.
He had not moved away.
Neither had you.
Now, pacing the corridor outside the Charms classroom, he remembers the exact rhythm of it. Step. Swing. Almost. Again. The wand in his hand had pulsed each time, mapping the near-miss with cruel clarity. Heat passing close enough to feel, never enough to claim.
He remembers wondering—absurdly, helplessly—if you noticed it too.
The answer had come without words.
You had slowed, just a fraction, enough that your steps no longer matched his quite so perfectly. Enough that your hand lingered closer to his own, your fingers brushing his again.
And then—
You had done it.
Quietly. Without comment. Without fanfare.
Your pinky had hooked around his.
The contact had been so light it barely registered at first. Just a gentle curl. A tentative claim. As though you were giving him time to pull away if he wished.
He had not.
The corridor around him now seems too narrow. Too full. He stops walking, breath catching as the memory settles over him with startling force.
On the road, his entire body had gone still.
The wand’s pulse had flared bright and sharp, mapping the new configuration of your hands, the delicate connection between just those two fingers. Pinky to pinky. Nothing more.
Everything.
His heart had been hammering so loudly, he had been certain you could hear it. His palm had gone warm. Damp. He remembers flexing his fingers once, experimentally, afraid of breaking the spell.
Your grip had tightened in response.
Just slightly.
A silent answer.
They had walked like that the rest of the way back. No one had spoken. No one had needed to. The world had narrowed to footsteps and breath and the quiet, devastating fact of your hand holding his.
Now, standing alone in the castle, Ominis exhales shakily and presses his free hand against the cool stone of the wall.
He can still feel it.
The echo of your pinky curled around his. The certainty of it. The deliberate choice.
This is worse than the nights.
Because this happened in daylight. Because it was real. Because you did it.
He tilts his head back slightly, throat tight, and lets the castle’s sounds wash over him. Plates clink faintly in the distance. Voices rise. Dinner approaches.
He should go join the others.
Instead, he stays where he is for another moment, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, as if hoping to find yours again.
“I don’t think I can pretend this is nothing,” he murmurs to the empty corridor.
The admission hangs there, unanswered but undeniable.
When he finally pushes away from the wall and resumes walking, his steps are slower.
More careful.
As though he is carrying something fragile with him now.
Something he is no longer certain he wants to put down.
—
Dinner is nearly finished by the time it happens.
Ominis knows because his plate has long since gone cold and the hum of the Great Hall has shifted, conversations loosening as people begin to linger. His wand rests against the table edge, pulse steady, mapping the familiar chaos of benches and bodies and clattering cutlery.
Sebastian is talking. Imelda too. Something about Quidditch, about a manoeuvre that went wrong and whose fault it absolutely was not, according to her. Sebastian scoffs. Ominis smiles at the right moments and contributes when prompted.
He is doing a convincing impression of being present.
Then the wand flares, aware.
Your presence resolves at the far end of the table, a shape moving closer, threading between students. The wand tracks you automatically, betraying him before he has time to prepare. His attention drifts, unmoored, pulled toward that familiar cadence of movement.
You stop beside him, close enough that the warmth of you brushes his sleeve.
“Ominis?”
Your voice is soft. Casual. As though you are asking him to pass the salt.
He turns toward you, heart stumbling once before resuming its traitorous rhythm. “Yes?”
Sebastian pauses mid-sentence. Imelda’s voice trails off. Ominis does not need to see their faces to feel the shift in attention, the subtle curiosity that ripples across the table.
You lean in slightly, mindful of the audience, and lower your voice.
“Could you meet me in the Astronomy Tower?” you ask.
There is the barest hesitation. A breath. Then, almost as an afterthought—
“And bring a scarf.”
His mind goes blank.
Not emptily, not peacefully—violently. As if someone has reached in and swept everything else away, leaving only the sound of your voice echoing in its wake.
A scarf.
The wand hums, restless now, mapping the tilt of your head, the quiet certainty in your posture. You are not nervous. Not uncertain.
You have decided something.
“Yes,” he hears himself say. Immediately. Too quickly. “Of course.”
You smile.
It is small. Private. Gone almost as soon as it appears.
“Thank you,” you say, already straightening, already stepping back. “I’ll see you there.”
And then you are gone, swallowed once more by the noise and movement of the Hall.
For a heartbeat, Ominis does not move.
Sebastian is the first to recover.
“Well,” he says lightly, far too lightly. “That was mysterious.”
Imelda snorts. “Astronomy Tower? During dinner? Brave.”
Ominis reaches for his goblet with a hand that is only just steady enough. “She probably just wants to talk,” he says, voice measured, reasonable, useless.
“Sure,” Sebastian replies. “And the scarf?”
Ominis clears his throat. “It’s cold up there.”
Sebastian hums. Knowing. Annoyingly knowing. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Ominis snaps, then sighs. “I mean—probably.”
He pushes his plate away, appetite entirely forgotten. The hum of the Hall presses in around him now, louder than before, as if the castle itself is holding its breath.
A scarf.
He stands, murmurs his excuses, and leaves the table before either of them can say another word.
As he walks, his thoughts race ahead of him, climbing spiral stairs, chasing possibilities he has spent months carefully avoiding. The wand in his hand pulses with every step, mapping corridors he knows by heart, yet everything feels unfamiliar now. Charged. Unbalanced.
By the time he reaches the stairs leading upward, his fingers are tight around the wool of his scarf.
He does not know what you intend to say.
He only knows this:
You asked him to come.
And for the first time, he does not think this night will end the way the others have.
—
The stairs feel longer tonight.
Ominis counts them without meaning to. Each turn of the spiral. Each shift in the air as the castle thins and the cold creeps in. His wand guides him faithfully, pulse after pulse mapping stone and railing and the widening space above.
Wind slips through narrow windows as he climbs. It curls around his ankles, tugs at his robes, whispers things he refuses to name.
By the time he reaches the Astronomy Tower, his hands are shaking.
You are already there.
He knows before the wand tells him. There is a tension in the air, a held breath that does not belong to the stars. You stand near the edge, back to him, scarf already wrapped around your neck as though you had expected him to bring it.
He stops a few steps away.
“You asked for a scarf,” he says, stupidly.
You turn.
Whatever expression is on your face makes his chest ache immediately. Not anger, exactly. Not softness either. Something tightly wound. Something that has been waiting.
“Stop pretending you don’t know,” you say.
The words land hard, clean.
He swallows. “I’m not—”
“You’re not stupid,” you cut in, stepping closer. “You’re scared.”
The wand flares, startled by your movement, sketching you closer, closer, too close. His breath stutters. He does not retreat. He has not retreated from you in months.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he replies quietly.
Your laugh is sharp. Fractured. “That’s a lie.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
You pace once, hand dragging through your hair, then stop directly in front of him. Close enough that the warmth of you fights the cold, close enough that the world narrows whether he wants it to or not.
“I can’t breathe when you’re near me,” you say. Your voice breaks just slightly. “And I can’t breathe when you’re not. That’s how fucked up you’ve made me.”
His heart slams so hard he feels dizzy.
“That’s not—” he starts, panic flooding in, because if that’s true, then—
“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t explain it away. Don’t soften it. I’m so tired of you being careful with something that’s already wrecked me.”
You laugh again, but this time there’s no humour in it at all.
“God, you’re impossible,” you say, stepping even closer, hands lifting in helpless frustration. “And I love you. I love you so much it makes me stupid.”
The words hang between you, stark and blazing.
Ominis stops breathing altogether.
The wand hums, frantic now, mapping the tremor in your hands, the uneven rise of your chest, the way your heart is beating just as wildly as his own.
“You—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. “You shouldn’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “I can’t think straight when you’re around! Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
He laughs then, breathless and broken and utterly undone.
“I do,” he says hoarsely. “I do. That’s the problem.”
The admission feels like stepping off a ledge.
“I’ve been terrified of this,” he continues, words finally spilling free. “Of ruining what we have. Of misreading you. Of wanting too much.”
He lifts a hand, hesitates, then lets his fingers brush your sleeve, just barely. A question. A confession.
“I should have said something months ago,” he says. “Instead, I lie awake every night thinking of you, and walk through my days pretending my hands don’t ache to hold yours.”
Silence crashes down between you, heavy and electric.
Then you step into him.
Your hands fist in his scarf, pulling him close, foreheads nearly touching. He can feel your breath now, warm against his cheek, uneven as his own.
“Next time,” you whisper, voice shaking, “don’t make me drag it out of you.”
He exhales, something inside him finally giving way.
“There won’t be a next time,” he promises.
And this time, when your fingers curl around his, he does not let go.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The Astronomy Tower is impossibly quiet, the world reduced to wind and stone and the way your breath keeps catching against his cheek. Ominis is acutely aware of the space between you, how fragile it feels now, as though even the smallest shift might shatter something delicate and newly formed.
His wand hums softly at his side, mapping you close, closer still, until there is no question left unanswered.
“May I?” he asks.
The words are barely audible. Not because he is unsure of the answer, but because this—this—matters too much to risk carelessness.
You nod.
He feels it before he sees it. The dip of your head. The way your breath steadies, then falters.
Ominis lifts a hand, fingers brushing your jaw, tentative as a first step onto thin ice. He does not cup your face at once. He lets himself learn the shape of you there, the warmth of skin beneath his thumb, the subtle tension where your pulse beats fast.
You lean into the touch.
That is all the permission he needs.
He tilts his head slightly, instinct guiding him where sight cannot, and closes the last inch between you. Your lips meet his with a softness that steals the air from his lungs entirely.
It is not hurried, nor demanding. It is careful, almost reverent, as though you are both afraid of startling the moment into flight.
Your lips are warm. Warmer than he expected. The contact is feather-light at first, a gentle press that sends a quiet shiver through him. He exhales into the kiss without meaning to, breath mingling with yours, and the world narrows to that single point of contact.
You respond by pressing closer.
Just a little.
Enough that he feels it everywhere.
His hand tightens fractionally at your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek in a slow, unconscious stroke. The kiss deepens not by force, but by trust—by the shared decision to linger.
Time does something strange.
The cold, the height, the stars wheeling overhead—all of it fades. There is only the steady rhythm of your breathing, the soft movement of your lips against his, the way your hand curls at the front of his robes as if anchoring yourself there.
When you finally pull back, it is only by a breath.
Your forehead rests against his. His lips tingle where yours were, a pleasant, dizzying warmth spreading through his chest.
He laughs softly, an incredulous sound. “I’ve thought about that,” he admits, voice low and unsteady. “More times than I care to confess.”
You smile, and he feels it against his skin even before the wand tells him.
“Good,” you whisper.
He leans in again, this time without hesitation, and the second kiss is surer—still gentle, still unhurried, but no longer afraid. It tastes of relief. Of promise. Of something that has finally been allowed to exist.
When you part again, Ominis rests his forehead against yours and exhales, long and slow.
“I don’t think,” he says, voice soft with wonder, “I’ll ever forget that.”
He doesn’t need to see the stars to know they are brilliant tonight.
They are reflected in the way you hold him.
I HAVE NEWS!! I have an idea for a series! quick question tho: how do we feel about crowns, duty, and yearning? asking for a friend 🥸🥸
