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
Ominis Gaunt x Reader
– A simple touch teaches Ominis that not all contact carries the weight of his past.
The Undercroft was quieter than usual. Sebastian had abandoned his usual post by the practice dummies, called away by some urgent matter involving Professor Weasley, leaving you alone with Ominis among the ancient pillars and flickering torchlight.
You'd been coming here more frequently lately, drawn by the sanctuary it offered from the chaos of school life. Ominis never seemed to mind your presence—in fact, he'd begun to seek out your company with an ease that surprised you both.
"You're thinking quite loudly," Ominis observed from where he sat on one of the stone benches, his wand idle in his lap for once. "Something troubling you?"
You glanced up from the book you'd been pretending to read. "Just... frustrated with Transfiguration. This assignment has me completely stumped."
"The animated objects essay?" His lips quirked slightly. "Sebastian complained about it for an entire hour yesterday. I've already finished mine, if you'd like to compare notes."
"You've finished it already?" You shouldn't have been surprised—Ominis had always been methodical about his studies.
"I find it easier to complete assignments when Sebastian isn't around to distract me." He stood, moving with that careful precision that always fascinated you, and crossed to where his bag rested against the wall. "Where did I put it..."
You rose to help, setting your book aside. "Here, let me—"
Your hand met his on the leather satchel at the same moment.
The contact was brief, accidental, but Ominis froze as if you'd struck him. His hand didn't immediately withdraw—instead, his fingers went very still beneath yours, and you felt the slight tremor that ran through them.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.
You became acutely aware of every detail: the warmth of his skin, the elegant length of his fingers, the way his breath had caught almost imperceptibly. His clouded eyes were fixed in your direction with an intensity that made your chest tighten.
"I apologize," Ominis said quietly, finally pulling his hand back with deliberate control. His voice was measured, but something in it sounded strained. "I didn't realize you were so close."
"No, I'm sorry—I should have said something."
A complicated expression crossed his face. He turned slightly away, his jaw tightening. "You needn't apologize for... for touching me. It's not as though you've committed some grave offense."
But there was something in the way he said it, in the careful distance he'd now placed between you, that suggested it had affected him more than he wanted to admit.
"Ominis—"
"The essay should be in the front pocket," he said, his tone returning to its usual composure, though perhaps a touch more formal than before. "Feel free to reference whatever you need."
You retrieved the parchment, but your attention remained on him. He'd moved back to his bench, his posture perfect, his wand now spinning slowly between his fingers—a tell-tale sign of agitation you'd learned to recognize.
"You know," you ventured carefully, settling beside him with proper space between you, "most people don't react quite so strongly to an accidental touch."
His mouth formed a thin line. "Most people aren't Gaunts."
The bitterness in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. You waited, sensing there was more.
"Physical contact was... discouraged in my family home," he continued after a moment, his words chosen with precision. "Touch was either violent or absent entirely. So when someone touches me unexpectedly, even in kindness, I find myself..." He paused, as if searching for the right word. "...uncertain how to respond appropriately."
Your heart ached at the casual way he revealed something so painful.
"And when that someone is you," he added, so quietly you almost missed it, "the uncertainty is considerably more pronounced."
The torches flickered in the silence that followed. You looked down at his hand, still fidgeting with his wand, and made a decision.
Slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, you extended your hand and rested it gently over his.
Ominis went rigid again, but this time he didn't retreat. His wand stilled.
"Is this all right?" you asked softly.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, with deliberate care, his fingers shifted to loosely curl around yours. The gesture was tentative, almost experimental, as if he were navigating entirely unfamiliar territory.
"Yes," he finally said, his voice carrying a note of wonder beneath its usual control. "Yes, I believe it is."
You sat together in the gentle quiet of the Undercroft, hands intertwined, while Ominis slowly learned what it meant to be touched with tenderness instead of cruelty.
How they act when they're sick - Ominis, Sebastian, Garreth, Poppy
this is what happens when I’m emotionally exhausted and decide everyone deserves blankets, tea, and someone who stays. sick headcanons, that’s it, that’s the post 🫶
also credits to @/me-writes-prompts for the two prompts and @/writersisland for the other two!!
masterlist!
Ominis Gaunt
Ominis insists he’s fine, which is how you know he absolutely isn’t.
He’s bundled far too tightly on the Slytherin sofa, green knit blanket pulled up to his chin like it personally offended him. His wand rests loosely in his hand, tip glowing faintly as it tracks your movement across the common room. You catch the way it wobbles when you stop in front of him.
“You’re hovering,” he says, voice rough around the edges but fond. “If you’re going to fuss, at least commit to it.”
You press the back of your hand to his forehead without warning.
“You’re hot.”
“I know, love,” he says easily, lips quirking despite himself. “But this is not the time.”
“Oh my god—” you laugh, immediately mortified. “I’m talking about your temperature.”
There’s a beat.
Then he exhales a quiet, wheezy laugh and tips his head back against the sofa. “Merlin, help me.”
“You’re burning up,” you say, gentler now, thumb brushing his temple. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this bad?”
“Because,” he says, turning his face slightly into your touch, “I hoped if I ignored it, it would go away.”
“That is the worst possible strategy.”
“It’s worked before.”
You make a noise of deep scepticism and reach for the potion vial you’d hidden behind your back. “Drink.”
He frowns. “Is that Pepper-Up?”
“Yes.”
“The one that tastes like regret?”
“Drink,” you repeat.
He does, grimacing dramatically, then immediately reaches for you, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve like it’s instinct. You sit beside him without thinking, and he leans in, forehead pressing to your shoulder. His wand slips from his grasp, dimming as it rolls against your leg.
“Stay,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
You wrap an arm around him, careful, warm, and he relaxes fully—breathing evening out, body heavy with trust. His voice is softer now, words barely there.
“You’re very good at this,” he says. “Being here.”
You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair.
“Get some rest, Gaunt.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “I love you.”
Yeah. You’re not moving anytime soon.
Sebastian Sallow
Sebastian is terrible at being sick.
He insists on sitting up even when he’s clearly dizzy, sprawled messily across his bed with a blanket he keeps kicking off and a glass of water he keeps forgetting to drink. His usual spark is dulled, but it’s still there—flickering stubbornly, like he refuses to let it go out completely.
You hover in the doorway for a moment, taking him in.
“I hate seeing you like this,” you say at last, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “Feels wrong when you’re not being annoying.”
He lets out a weak huff of a laugh. “Wow. That’s how you show concern now?”
“You love it.”
“I do,” he admits easily, then coughs and scowls at his own body like it’s betrayed him. “Don’t get used to this. I’m only quiet because breathing hurts.”
You reach out, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He’s warm—too warm—and he leans into your touch before he can stop himself. When he realises, he doesn’t pull away. Just closes his eyes, lashes resting against his cheeks.
“Stay,” he says, softer than usual. Not a demand. Not a joke.
You stay.
He drifts after that, tension easing from his shoulders, fingers brushing yours like he needs the reassurance without wanting to say it. For once, there’s no teasing, no clever remark waiting in reserve.
Just Sebastian, worn down enough to let you take care of him—and trusting you not to make a big deal out of it.
Tomorrow, he’ll be annoying again.
Tonight, this is enough.
Garreth Weasley
Garreth is talking to himself when you walk in.
He’s pacing the Gryffindor common room with a blanket half-draped over his shoulders, gesturing animatedly as he explains—again—why the concoction simmering in a mug would have worked if he’d just adjusted the temperature. He pauses only to cough, then waves it off like it’s an inconvenient interruption.
“Garreth,” you say flatly.
He turns, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Oh! Perfect timing—I was just thinking, if I add a dash of—”
“Lay your ass down and drink the tea I made you.”
He blinks.
Once. Twice.
“…You made tea?”
“Yes. Normal tea. No experiments. Sit.”
There’s a moment where he clearly considers arguing. Then another cough hits him harder this time, and the fight drains right out of his shoulders. He lets you steer him toward the sofa, grumbling good-naturedly as he sinks down beneath the blanket.
“For the record,” he mutters, accepting the mug, “I was about to rest.”
“Sure you were.”
He takes a careful sip, nose wrinkling. “Okay, yeah. This is actually really good.”
You tuck the blanket around him properly, and his voice softens without him noticing. “Sorry,” he adds, quieter. “Didn’t mean to worry you. I just thought I could fix it myself.”
“I know,” you say.
He looks at you then—really looks—and smiles, tired but genuine. “Thanks for stopping me before I blew something up.”
“Anytime.”
He drinks the rest of the tea without complaint, eyes fluttering shut as the common room noise fades into the background. For once, Garreth Weasley lets someone else take over.
Even if it’s just for tonight.
Poppy Sweeting
Poppy doesn’t mean to disappear when she’s sick. It just… happens, so she says.
You find her in the Hufflepuff dormitory with the curtains drawn wide, sunlight spilling across the floor in warm stripes. She’s curled beneath a mess of quilts, hair loose, cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. There’s a faint, earthy smell in the air—dried herbs, something floral you can’t quite place.
“You look cute, all bundled in the blankets,” you say softly.
She peeks at you over the edge of the quilt, eyes bright despite herself.
“Hehe, yeah.” She coughs immediately after, turning her face away as if embarrassed by the sound.
You sit beside her without comment, smoothing the blankets back up around her shoulders. She relaxes at once, like she’d been holding herself together out of habit rather than comfort.
“I didn’t want to worry anyone,” she admits quietly. “The Puffskeins seemed fine this morning. I thought I could… manage.”
You brush your thumb over her knuckles. They’re warm. Too warm.
“Managing doesn’t mean being alone,” you murmur.
She nods, slow and thoughtful, then leans into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. Her hand stays curled around yours, gentle but certain.
Outside, the castle hums on—students laughing, footsteps echoing—but here, it’s just warmth and sunlight and the steady comfort of being found.
This time, she lets herself rest.
a/n: I may or may not be dwelling into headcanons more often than I should because I enjoyed writing this a lot AUGDASHASJDA
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.
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
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
a/n: HI. I KNOW. I said I’d post fics for everyone, I KNOW FORGIVE ME 😭 but it is my golden boy’s time to shine okay. Ominis Gaunt nation, I am feeding you first. I WILL post everyone else tomorrow, TRUST ! (pls don’t riot) the hc’s have grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go so, here we are.
main masterlist!
edit: ominis masterlist!
You don’t remember when it started. Not the first time, anyway.
Only that one evening you were tucked into a corner of the Undercroft with a book you’d already half-read, knees drawn up, back against cool stone, and Ominis drifted closer than usual. His wand traced the floor in slow, absent arcs, red pulses blooming and fading like a heartbeat, mapping the space around him with familiar ease.
“You don’t mind if I—” he began, already lowering himself beside you.
You didn’t answer quickly enough. By the time you thought to, his shoulder had brushed your thigh, and then, as if testing the shape of you, he tilted his head and let it rest in your lap.
The weight of it startled you into stillness.
“Oh,” you said, very intelligently.
He hummed, the sound low and content, and adjusted himself with small, precise movements, trusting you to shift if he needed it. His wand went slack in his fingers, tip dimming until the red light faded altogether.
“It’s quieter here,” he said, voice already softening. “Easier.”
Easier than the castle’s endless echo of footsteps and voices, the way sound ricocheted through corridors and stairwells. Easier than keeping himself upright and attentive when the day had wrung him dry.
You told yourself that was all it was.
You let your book rest against your knee and, without really deciding to, slid your fingers into his hair. It was softer than you expected, warm from the day, curls falling loose beneath your touch. He leaned into it at once, a barely-there shift that made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t yet have words for.
His breathing evened out quickly.
That was how it became a thing.
Ominis napped with you the way other people leaned against windows or dozed in armchairs. Easily. Thoughtlessly. As though it had always been this way. Sometimes it was the Undercroft, sometimes a forgotten classroom or a sun-warmed alcove near the Slytherin common room where the noise dulled to a distant murmur.
You learned the weight of him, the exact angle at which his head rested most comfortably, how his brow smoothed when you combed your fingers through his hair just so. You learned the way his wand, when he slept, would give the faintest pulse now and then, a reflexive reassurance, mapping the steady presence of you beneath him.
You stopped looking down when you touched him.
Your hand simply moved, slow and familiar, tracing patterns you could have drawn blind yourself.
It’s only Ominis, you thought. We’ve known each other since first year.
And it was true. You’d been there through whispered arguments with Sebastian, through the brittle anger and quieter grief, mischief with Anne, and through nights when he sat rigid and silent and let the darkness press in because it felt safer than speaking.
This was just… another version of that.
Imelda wasn’t the first to notice, but she definitely was the first to say something about it. She didn’t interrupt. She never did. She only paused at the edge of the room, broom tucked under one arm, and watched.
Ominis slept, mouth parted slightly, lashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks. Your fingers were buried in his hair, moving in that absent, steady rhythm you didn’t even register anymore.
Imelda raised a brow.
“You know,” she said lightly, “friends don’t usually look like that.”
You laughed a little too fast. “Look like what?”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking between you and the boy breathing evenly in your lap. “Like they’d fall apart if they stopped touching.”
You shrugged, careful not to jostle him. “He’s just comfortable with me.”
“Hm.” She didn’t argue. She just smirked, mounted her broom, and kicked off into the air, leaving the comment behind like a spell you couldn’t shake.
You tried not to think about it.
You really did.
But the next time it happened—really happened—you were alone. Properly alone. Hidden away in a narrow stretch of corridor most students had forgotten existed, where the stone was old, and the air smelled faintly of dust and magic.
Ominis had been quiet that day. A little too quiet.
He’d found you by sound alone, wand pulsing softly as he approached, and sat beside you without a word. When he leaned over, resting his head in your lap as naturally as breathing, something inside you stuttered.
You let it happen, of course you did.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, and he sighed, tension melting out of him in a way that made your throat ache. He trusted you enough to let himself go slack, to let the world fall away entirely.
He never did this with anyone else.
The thought arrived uninvited, unwelcome.
Your hand slowed.
Then stilled.
Ominis shifted faintly, a soft sound leaving him, brow creasing as if he’d noticed the absence even in sleep. Your chest tightened sharply, breath catching before you could stop it.
This is too much, a voice whispered, distant and panicked. This is already too much.
The realisation didn’t hit you like a curse; it settled, it sank in slowly, like cold water seeping through fabric, soft and inexorable and impossible to ignore.
You love him.
Not the abstract, friendly sort of love you’d always assumed this was. Not the fondness of shared history or loyalty forged in late-night conversations and half-spoken fears.
You love him in the way your body already knows him. In the way your hands move without permission. In the way your chest tightens at the idea of him ever pulling away.
You might have been in love with him for a very long time.
Your fingers trembled as you started moving again, gentle, careful, as if he might vanish if you weren’t. His expression smoothed at once, breathing deepening, his wand giving a faint, contented pulse against the stone.
He trusted you, he always had.
You stared down at him, memorising the line of his mouth, the way he fit against you as though this was where he belonged, and felt something inside you break open quietly.
Ominis slept on, blissfully unaware.
And you sat there, holding the weight of him and the weight of your knowing, realising with a slow, sinking certainty that nothing would ever feel the same again—even if he never noticed a thing.
You don’t move for a long time after that.
Not because you’re afraid to wake him, though that’s part of it, but because you’re afraid that if you shift even an inch, something fragile and newly named will shatter. So you stay still, back pressed to cold stone, legs beginning to ache beneath the familiar weight of him.
The warmth seeping through your robes where his cheek rests. The faint tickle of his breath against your skin. The way his hand, lax in sleep, has curled into the fabric at your hip, fingers hooked there as if even unconscious, he’s unwilling to let you drift too far.
You wonder when that started.
You wonder how many times you let it happen without seeing it for what it was.
Eventually, your leg goes numb. A sharp, pins-and-needles warning flares, and you bite your lip to keep from hissing. Carefully, painstakingly, you shift just enough to ease the pressure.
Ominis stirs.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
He makes a small sound, half-formed, and turns his face slightly, nestling closer rather than pulling away. His brow smooths again, mouth softening, breath evening out as if he’s found something he’d been searching for even in sleep.
You close your eyes.
This is cruel, you think distantly. And maybe it always has been.
When he wakes, it’s gradual.
He doesn’t startle. He never does with you. Instead, there’s a subtle tightening beneath your fingers, a slow return of awareness. His wand pulses once, twice, red light blooming faintly against the floor as his magic stretches outward, re-drawing the space.
“Oh,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “Did I—?”
“You fell asleep,” you say, too quickly. “Again.”
He smiles, small and sheepish, but there’s no embarrassment in it. He never apologises anymore. He just adjusts himself, lifting his head a fraction, enough to look toward you without actually moving away.
“Sorry,” he says anyway, out of habit.
Your hand pauses in his hair, hovering.
You make yourself finish the motion, slow and deliberate, because stopping would be worse. “You were tired.”
He hums in agreement, eyes still closed. “You’re comfortable.”
It’s said simply. Fact, not flirtation. As though it couldn’t possibly mean anything else.
Your chest tightens all over again.
Eventually, he does move. He always does. He straightens with a soft exhale, smoothing his robes, wand tapping lightly as he orients himself. The absence of his weight leaves you strangely unbalanced, as if something essential has been removed without warning.
You fold your hands in your lap so you don’t reach for him.
“Did I miss anything?” he asks.
“No,” you lie.
The days that follow are… normal.
Which is a problem.
Ominis still finds you without effort, still gravitates toward your side in rooms full of people. He still leans close when he talks, voice dropping instinctively, and still reaches for your sleeve when the castle grows too loud or unpredictable.
And you notice everything now.
The way he angles his body toward you, even when speaking to someone else. The way his wand’s pulses linger longest around you, mapping you with quiet precision. The way his shoulders ease the moment he realises you’re nearby, tension bleeding away before he’s even conscious of it.
You start measuring time in moments with him.
How long until he sits close enough that your knees brush? How long until his head tips, just slightly, toward your shoulder when he’s exhausted? How long until you can feel his warmth again, familiar and unbearable all at once?
Yet you never pull away, you just tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to confuse him. Because this is how things have always been. Because taking it back would hurt more than letting it continue.
But sometimes, late at night, you lie awake replaying the weight of him in your lap and wonder who you’re really protecting.
One evening, as you sit together in the common room, he reaches for you without looking, fingers finding your wrist with unerring certainty. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t speak. He just holds on, anchoring himself in the press of your pulse beneath his thumb.
Your breath stutters.
“Ominis,” you start, then stop.
He tilts his head. “Yes?”
The word stays lodged in your throat, heavy and dangerous. You shake your head instead. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t push. He just nods like he always does, thumb brushing once over your skin, absent and intimate, and turns back to his book.
You sit there beside him, heart aching, painfully aware that you have crossed some invisible threshold and can never step back again.
When you realise you've fallen in love with them - Ominis, Sebastian, Garreth, Poppy
a/n: OKAY I KNOW I KNOW I DISAPPEARED FOR LIKE 4 DAYS asjkhdgfashjdghfaksdf 😭😭 but I swear I’m alive. I will be back again tomorrow, TRUST. These headcanons were wayyyy too good to stay as headcanons, so yes, full ass fics for each of these are coming very soon(tomorrow, I promise, STAY TUNED)
Also idk if these made sense, but they made perfect sense in my head, and I’m too goddamn sleep deprived to make them make more sense </3 pls bear with me (also ik they're short but again,,,,TRUST!!)
masterlist!
Ominis Gaunt
ଳ You don’t remember when it started, exactly, just that one day Ominis began resting his head in your lap when he got tired. It was easier there, he said, quieter, and you didn’t think much of it because you’ve known each other since the first year, and that’s just how things are between you.
ଳ He naps easily with you, breathing evening out quickly while you read, your fingers slipping into his hair without conscious thought. You’ve done it so many times now that you don’t even look down anymore, just automatically comb through the soft strands while he sleeps.
ଳ Imelda notices once. She pauses, watches the way he leans into you, the way your hand doesn’t stop moving, and tells you that friends don’t usually look like that. You laugh, shrug it off, say you’re just close, but the comment sticks in the back of your mind in a way you don’t like.
ଳ The next time he falls asleep on you, somewhere quiet and hidden away from the rest of the castle, you become painfully aware of how much space he takes up in your life. The weight of his head, the trust in the way he relaxes fully, the fact that he never does this with anyone else.
ଳ Your hand stills mid-motion, and your chest tightens without warning. The realisation doesn’t crash, it just settles, soft and terrifying and undeniable: you’re in love with him, and you might have been for a very long time.
Sebastian Sallow
ଳ Professor Binns is talking, droning on about dates and goblin rebellions, and Sebastian isn’t even in class. You’re half-awake, scribbling nonsense on your parchment just to look busy, trying not to fall asleep.
ଳ Your thoughts drift anyway, landing on Sebastian like they always seem to. You imagine him grabbing your hand and dragging you somewhere reckless, laughing, choosing you without hesitation like he always does.
ଳ You think about what it would be like to go somewhere with him without a plan, without an excuse, just because you want to be together. The idea feels warm and dangerous in equal measure.
ଳ The bell rings and jolts you back into your body, heart racing for no apparent reason. Ominis taps your desk to get your attention, and you blink at him, disoriented.
ଳ It hits you then, sharp and unwelcome. You weren’t daydreaming to pass the time. You were wishing, and that realisation settles in your chest like a secret you’re not sure you’re ready to admit.
Garreth Weasley
ଳ You only agreed to help because he promised to treat you in Hogsmeade if the potion went wrong. Butterbeer, Chocolate Frogs, the usual bribes, and you pretend it’s purely transactional even though you’d have probably said yes anyway.
ଳ Garreth doesn’t actually need much help. He mostly just talks while he works, glancing over every so often to make sure you’re still there, smiling when he catches you watching.
ଳ You sit by the cauldron, chin in your hands, listening to him mutter and fuss and adjust things with careful concentration. There’s something different about him like this, focused and earnest and completely absorbed in what he’s doing.
ଳ The thought sneaks up on you when your guard is down. He looks good like this. Not in a flashy way, just in a quiet, domestic, I like being here with you way.
ଳ Realising you’re in love with him doesn’t feel loud or dramatic. It just feels like acknowledging something that’s been true longer than you’re willing to admit.
Poppy Sweeting
ଳ You’re paired with Poppy again in Beasts class, like you always seem to be. She kneels in the grass without hesitation, sleeves brushing the dirt as she murmurs softly to a nervous Puffskein, all patience and warmth and care.
ଳ You watch the way she smiles when it inches closer, gentle and genuine in a way that makes your chest ache unexpectedly. She looks at creatures like they’re something precious, something worth protecting at all costs.
ଳ It’s then that you realise you’ve been watching her longer than necessary, that your attention hasn’t drifted once. The thought slips in quietly, almost embarrassed, you want her to look at you like that.
ଳ Not just notice you, but care for you with the same tenderness she gives the creatures under her protection. To choose you gently, the way she chooses them.
ଳ She glances back at you then, smiling softly like she’s just noticed you’ve been there all along, and something in your chest stutters. The realisation settles warm and terrifying all at once, and you look away quickly, because once you understand it, you know there’s no going back.
