Ella

Education, skills

Highly skilled in Potions

Highly skilled in Herbology (assumed)

Apparition

Preference for practical magic e.g. Transfiguration, Charms, DADA

Can also assume that whilst Garreth is a talented wizard, he often lets his education fall by the wayside in favour of his passion for brewing experimental potions and beverages.

Career

Entrepreneur/business owner - potions/magical drinks

Potioneer - experimental potions

Scope for him to have a career related to healing or ministry work (likely he wouldn’t find this interesting).

Garreth would prefer to be able to carry on his experimentation in whatever capacity.

Whilst he is interested in magical drinks during school, this could develop into something more serious as he grows older. Much like F&G start to use their skills in aiding the war e.g. protective clothing, peruvian darkness powder, Garreth could turn his potions expertise to more 'worthwhile' problems.

Personality traits

Inquisitive

Since he knew about the One-eyed-witch passage to Honeydukes we can assume he is inquisitive and possibly a bit of a troublemaker.

Entrepreneurial, creative, passionate

He enjoys experimenting with brewing potions and drinks, often using his family and younger students to test out his concoctions on.

Playful, confident, outgoing

We see this side of him during his time at Hogwarts. Upon meeting Gryffindor MC he is friendly and forthcoming.

Family-oriented

Comes from a large family, assumed Weasley-family trait.

Brave, courageous

Gryffindor traits (assumed)

Chivalrous, honourable

Gryffindor traits (assumed)

He's loved her since those very first days.

Since the threads of him first tangled with the threads of her - tentative. A curious meeting outside of the Undercroft; he was angry, then, at the intrusion of the thing. It felt like the twisting knife that curled in his heart, and he was blinded (if you'll forgive him that one) by a rage too thick to see through.

It's always been the three of them, you see.

Sebastian, and Anne, and Ominis. A triad of troublemakers; or friends, at the least of it. Three people who have trusted eachother, beyond all recognition. Beyond sense, or sanity, or any which ways you turn the dial.

But then there was her.

Oh, Merlin--he never expected this.

It's the way she kisses him. The way her lips press to his that makes him drunk on it; on the madness that can barely be contained in him. Ominis Gaunt has grown around the madness: a pox of his family, and he's the pox on that, too. Stains upon stains, until you become lost in the fabric of an addled tapestry that doesn't make you a Gaunt. Doesn't make you anything else, either - but he's not sure where he fits, anymore.

Between her lips, though: he fits there just fine.

He thinks he'd like to stay there forever. Build a home in the space between those places; write poetic lines right into the cords of her throat. Tell her she's magical; tell her she's shaking the very fabric of him into misery and madness, just by the way her back arches against this window.

He shouldn't be fucking her here.

But he's fucking her all the same.

Not yet: not quite. But his lips drag up her ankle: her back pressed against the window of the Common Room like it's solid enough to support the way their souls vibrate. He can feel the way she's trembling against it; how the water pushes and pulls against the glass as she hitches her skirt, and Ominis Gaunt is lost in kissing upward. Upward, inch by inch: as slowly as one can kiss, when all is said and done.

"You don't know, do you?" he asks her, between smattered promises on her skin, "don't know what I've held back from doing to you all day?"

Of course she doesn't.

If she did - she'd hardly be threading her fingers through his hair and dragging her nails over his scalp like this. She'd be shredding her voice on his name; aching, wild: she'd be tearing the tapestries from the walls with screams of his name. There's a strength to the thoughts he's brimming with: too deep and dark to explain to her, in the heat of this moment.

"Tell me," she begs him, and it drips like honey. Right down his spine; right over the fabric of his clothes. Drenches him.

He kisses up towards her knee, now. Sucks a kiss on the inside of her right one, pulling it just up over his shoulder. His hands thread higher to the curves of her; he can see her in perfect detail like this. The way she'd fill a uniform to perfection. Fill a skirt to absolution.

Fit around him like she was made to.

Perhaps that's too crass of him. Filth and dirt: not befitting a man of his station.

Ominis cares little for it.

He cares for the way gooseflesh pricks under his fingers, though. And that's far more real than any suppositions might be.

"First," he tells her, his voice husky in his throat, "I thought of you at breakfast. Sitting in my lap. The way you like to put those delicate lips to my neck."

He tells her it without any need to compose himself: he's already lost in her. His trousers are too tight, when he kisses upward. Bites, a little bit, at her left leg first. He moves to the right to give it equal attention, and his nails dig crescents ever so gently against the outside of her thigh. She intakes sharply; a lungful of air that feels almost reverent.

"Go on," she implores, and he feels rather lost in it all.

"Then; Charms."

Ominis lets his breath flutter on her as he moves upward; it's warmer, here. Softer. The skin is tender and untouched by anyone but him - he's maddened by the salty taste of the sweat against his lips.

"You held that wand deftly," he feels almost wild, now. His cock throbs in his trousers; spitting. Spilling. "Agony. All agony. You're a vision; and I wish your hands had been on me in much the same way."

He can feel her heartbeat in her thigh, and it's enough to bring him further into a deep, agonising place.

Merlin; but this worship is better than what his body craves.

To show her what this is is bliss in of itself. The denial is half of the prize: a man earns his keep, after all.

"I wish I had, now." Her voice cracks on the last word; his nails drag on the inside of her thighs, and there is no fabric to bar him at all.

"At dinner," he swallows, desperate for air, "I craved only this."

I craved only you.

He thinks he says it in English, at first. But there's a brilliant tremble to her body as he breathes it, so close to the wet heat of her - and it's not English at all. It's a hiss, and a flick of the tongue; the language of snakes, and a blessed relief to finally let free from himself. Like a breath he's been holding for far too long; he feels the tip of his tongue ache with the sound of it.

Or, perhaps, the desire to taste her.

She's trembling beneath his touch, and Ominis can barely contain it, as he kneels in blissful reverence before her. He's never been one for sermons, but it feels like something of a pledge; a promise, and a hymnal, and a tempestuous force from his lungs that wants to swallow him whole.

She whimpers at the touch, and he nibbles just so.

"Ominis," she begs, her pulse fluttering, "please. Please."

Ominis Gaunt is many things.

But no - he will never deny her this.

So his mouth creeps upward; lips parted, teeth nibbling. Gentle and slow, as he feels the fabric of her skirt against the nape of his neck. He breathes in the scent of her, and it makes him just about mad with the promise of the whole bloody thing.

"Oh; you have no idea how delicious you are, do you?"

She can't ever know.

There are no words for it. None he knows; none that matter. None that would make sense  - not to him, not to her, nor to anyone. But his nails grab at the curve of her: higher, feeling the flesh ooze around his fingernails, and he's no longer a devout follower.

He's a reverent, repentant sinner.

His tongue comes first - stretches out. The tip of it is ever so gentle: he wants and wants, begging for a taste of her as though it'll cure every ill in his body. Maps her with his hands; but his tongue is the true vision of the peace. When he finds her; she trembles with a whine, and Ominis wishes he were a stronger man.

He isn't. No man is this strong.

He buries his face into her cunt: presses his lips to it in absolute, agonizing want. The feeling is ecstasy; the taste is madness. Keening, pure absolution - incomprehensible, in all that it is.

His groan is loud enough to wake half the Common Room; but that's half of the daring of it.

The other half is deep within her; and he'll gladly lick it out. Spread the flat of his tongue clean against her, until she's writhing and wild against his face; fisting his hair and begging with his name upon her lips.

(⌐■_■) 💚💕