Morgan

Same shoes because I'm a lazy wimp

HOW DO YOU GUYS DO THOSE AMAZING IMAGE EDITS???? I NEED THOSE TUTORIALS NOWWWW🫩

Next stop, Eloise from Moonlight Lovers but in Morgan's dialect 🤤🤤🤤🤤

Are you all going to hate me if I've changed the game's lore even a tiny bit? 🥺

"WTF, wdym, you idiot?!!"

Like, they're totally normal humans, they don't even have violet eyes. But then, when the test happens, the chemical reaction not only produces fire in their hands but also turns their hair pink

Ykhar will research the unique chemical reaction instead of humans with violet eyes X]

Ah, about the braids, Mery and Alajéa did them for them outside the HQ during a free afternoon, and Morgan purposefully chose the colors without revealing the reason for each one. Even so, at some point, each of the boys [Valkyon, Ezarel, and Nevra] became aware of the colors that represented them.

All this just so that in the new era, Valkyon's braid is almost falling out (they refuse to remove the last thing that remains of him) and during an argument with Ezarel, they cut off his part of the braid LOL

"Oh, but so dramatic, you're too sensitive"

YES I AM, LEAVE ME ALONE

It's so cool to talk to myself while I write this, oh my god

That's all, BYEE

You'd collected these smiles like treasures, catalogued them, replayed them in your mind during dull History of Magic lectures.

Which was probably pathetic, but you'd stopped pretending your feelings for Ominis were anything less than catastrophic sometime around October.

Now it was February, and you were in the Undercroft—the secret space Sebastian had shown you, that Ominis had reluctantly allowed you to share—working on Charms homework while Ominis practiced a complicated spell sequence.

"It's the wand movement," he was muttering, frustrated. "I can feel it's wrong, but I can't—"

"Here," you said, setting down your quill. "May I?"

He hesitated, then nodded, extending his wand hand.

You moved closer, gently guiding his wrist through the proper motion. "It's more of a spiral than a circle. Like this—feel the difference?"

His fingers twitched slightly under your guidance, learning the movement. "Yes. That's—yes, I see."

You smiled at his choice of words. Ominis always said "see" despite his blindness, and you'd learned it wasn't carelessness but rather his own form of defiance—refusing to let his lack of vision define his language.

"Try it now," you said, stepping back.

He performed the movement perfectly, and the spell ignited with a soft shimmer of light.

"Excellent!" you said. "That was perfect."

"Only because you showed me." But he was smiling—really smiling, not the sardonic twist or polite expression, but something genuine and unguarded.

The words were out before you could stop them: "You have a beautiful smile."

The smile vanished instantly. Ominis went very still, his pale eyes widening slightly, and you watched color creep up his neck.

"I—" you started, mortified. "I'm sorry, that was—"

"Don't apologize." His voice was quiet, careful. "I just—no one's ever said that to me before."

"Well, they should have." You were committed now, apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter completely abandoned. "Because you do. Have a beautiful smile. You don't use it nearly enough, and when you do, it's—"

You stopped yourself before you could say something truly mortifying like "devastating" or "the best part of my day."

Ominis turned toward you with that uncanny precision he had, as though he could see you despite the cloudiness of his eyes. "You're staring."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"You're quiet. You're never quiet. And I can hear your breathing change when you look at me." A pause. "You do that a lot, actually. Look at me."

Your face was burning. "I don't—"

"You do." He stepped closer, and there was something different in his expression—tentative, almost vulnerable. "Sebastian's mentioned it. Said you watch me when you think I'm not paying attention. Which is ironic, considering."

"Sebastian needs to learn to keep his mouth shut," you muttered.

"He also said—" Ominis stopped, seeming to reconsider. "Never mind."

"No, what did he say?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Ominis."

He sighed, that particular exasperated sound he made when you were being persistent. "He said you look at me the way people look at art in museums. Like I'm something worth studying. Worth..." He trailed off, jaw tightening.

"Worth what?"

"I don't know. Worth seeing, I suppose." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Which is absurd, because I'm a Gaunt. We're not particularly known for being worth much beyond our bloodline and our cruelty."

Your heart clenched. "You're not like them."

"How would you know? You've been here less than a year."

"I know because you helped me with Potions when you didn't have to. Because you stand between Sebastian and his worst impulses. Because you refuse to use Unforgivable Curses even when it would be easier. Because—" You stepped closer, close enough to see the silver flecks in his pale irises. "Because when you smile—really smile, not that sardonic thing you do—it transforms your entire face. Makes you look happy. And I don't think you let yourself be happy nearly enough."

He was very quiet. Then: "Why do you care?"

"Because I—" You caught yourself, swallowed the confession that wanted to spill out. "Because you're my friend."

"Is that all?"

The question hung between you, delicate and dangerous.

"No," you admitted quietly. "That's not all."

His breath hitched audibly. "You should be careful about saying things like that to me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm selfish enough to want them to be true." He reached out, slowly, giving you time to move away. When you didn't, his fingers found your face, tracing your features with the same careful precision he brought to everything. "And if they're true, I won't want to let you go."

Your heart was hammering. "What if I don't want you to let go?"

His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and his expression was raw in a way you'd never seen. "Then you'd be a fool. I come from a family of dark wizards and blood purists. I have nothing to offer you but complications and a surname that makes people cross the street."

"I don't care about your surname."

"You should."

"Well, I don't." You covered his hand with yours, keeping it against your face. "I care about you. The person who helps first-years find their classrooms. Who plays the violin when he thinks no one's listening. Who stands up to Sebastian when he's being reckless, even though it scares you. Who smiles so rarely that when you do, it feels like a gift."

"Stop," he whispered, but he didn't pull away.

"Why?"

"Because you're making it very difficult not to kiss you."

Your breath stopped. "What if I want you to?"

He leaned his forehead against yours, and you could feel him trembling slightly. "Tell me this is real. That you're not—that this isn't pity, or curiosity, or—"

"Ominis." You said his name firmly enough that he stopped. "I have been catastrophically in love with you since you spent twenty minutes describing the precise smell of rain on stone because I mentioned I missed it. This is not pity."

He made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Catastrophically?"

"Completely. Utterly. Catastrophically."

"That's redundant."

"I don't care."

He kissed you then—tentative and careful and absolutely perfect. His hands framed your face and when you kissed him back, he made a soft sound of surprise, as though he hadn't quite believed you'd want this.

When he pulled back, he was smiling—that genuine, unguarded smile that you'd been collecting like treasure.

"There it is," you whispered.

"What?"

"That beautiful smile."

He laughed, and it was bright and real and everything you'd hoped for. "You're going to say that every time now, aren't you?"

"Every single time."

"That's going to be insufferable."

"You'll survive." You kissed him again, quick and sweet. "Besides, it's true. You have a beautiful smile, Ominis Gaunt. I intend to see it as often as possible."