#ominis x reader

Ominis Gaunt had always known that the world was a lie.

Not because he couldn’t see it. On the contrary—it was his blindness that gave him what the sighted lacked: the ability to hear the truth. The truth resonated in a breath, in the pauses between words, in the quiver of a voice when a person tried to appear calm.

The truth about Y/N was unbearable.

He heard it on the very first day she sat beside him in Potions—a place where no one usually sat. "May I?" she asked, and in her voice, there was neither pity nor curiosity. Just a question. Just a girl who didn't care that he was a Gaunt, that he was blind, that the tip of his wand glowed, guiding his way like a hound.

She smelt of ink and apples.

Later—he couldn’t quite remember when—he began to count her steps. Twenty-three from the entrance of the Great Hall to the Slytherin table. Seventeen from the classroom door to their shared desk. He could recognise her gait among a hundred others—slightly hurried, somewhat uneven, as if she were perpetually afraid of being late.

He fell in love quietly. The way only those accustomed to the dark can—without hope, without illusions, simply accepting it as a given, much like his own blindness.

It happened in the library. He overheard a rather intriguing conversation whilst hiding behind a nearby bookshelf, making sure Y/N and Poppy wouldn't see or hear him.

"You're looking at him again," Poppy said with gentle reproach.

"I'm not."

"Y/N."

A pause. As long as a fall.

"It will pass," Y/N said at last, and her voice was so even, so carefully smoothed out, that Ominis's chest ached. He knew that tone. He used it himself every time someone asked what it was like not to see.

"Sebastian doesn't..." Poppy began.

"I know," Y/N cut her off. "I know he doesn't. Please, let's not."

Sebastian.

Of course. Of course, it was Sebastian.

Ominis stood between the shelves, pressing his fingers into the spines of the books so hard his skin turned white, thinking what a cruel joke it was to be burdened with the ability to hear the truth, yet lack the power to shut it out.

He began to observe—as much as a blind man could observe.

Y/N never showed it. That was what killed him. She didn't blush around Sebastian—at least, her voice didn't alter. She didn't seek excuses to be near him. She didn't laugh louder than usual at his jokes. She was flawless in her pretence, and Ominis simultaneously hated her and admired her for it, because he did exactly the same thing.

Two people drowning in silence, next to a person who noticed nothing.

Sebastian was his best friend. The only one who never spoke to him like an invalid. Sebastian was loud, confident, alive—everything Ominis wasn't and never would be.

And Sebastian looked at Y/N and didn't see her.

What irony. Sighted—yet blind.

The potion was not complicated.

Ominis knew the recipe. The Gaunts knew many recipes they ought not to know—it was in the blood, in the family library, in the whispers he heard as a child, hiding behind the drapery from his father and his guests. Amortentia. A pearlescent potion with a pinkish hue. He couldn't see its colour, but the smell... he would recognise its scent among a thousand.

When he uncorked the vial to check, the aroma of ink and apples rose to greet him.

His hands didn't tremble. That was what frightened him most. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was exactly what his parents would have done. His family. The Gaunts. Manipulation, control, violence wrapped in pretty packaging—"it's for her own good," "she'll thank us later," "it's for the best." He had heard those phrases a thousand times in the manor, where the walls had absorbed so much Dark Magic they seemed to whisper themselves.

He despised his family.

And yet.

Yet here he stood in the Room of Requirement, holding a vial of Amortentia, thinking: She suffers anyway. She loves someone who does not love her. I love someone who does not love me. What difference does it make—one unrequited love or another? At least I will love her back.

The logic was flawless. And rotten to the core. He knew that.

He did it anyway.

Just under half the vial was poured into her pumpkin juice.

She drank—he heard her take a sip, set the goblet down, laugh at something Natty said. A normal morning. A normal breakfast. Ominis ate his porridge, and every grain felt like sand.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened for an hour.

And then, in Transfiguration, Y/N sat next to him—in her usual seat—and he felt her edge closer. Not at a friend's distance. Closer.

"Ominis," she said, and there was something new in her voice. Something warm and thick, like honey. "You have an eyelash on your cheek."

Her fingers touched his face.

She had never touched his face before.

He stopped breathing. The world shrank to a single point—the pads of her fingers on his cheekbone, light, cautious, impossible.

"There," she said. "Make a wish."

"I already did," he thought. "And I've already made it come true."

It happened gradually.

First—the touches. Casual, seemingly accidental, yet too frequent to be a coincidence. Her hand on his elbow as they walked down the corridor. Her shoulder pressed against his in the library. Her fingers threading through his hair—"you had a stray lock, I just..."

And then…

"Do you know you have beautiful hands?" she said one day, and her voice was so sincere, so genuine, that for a second, Ominis forgot.

He forgot about the potion in the pumpkin juice.

"I have the hands of a Gaunt," he replied, and the sarcasm was meant to protect him like a shield, but she laughed and took his hand, and the shield shattered into shards.

"You have Ominis's hands," she said. "Just Ominis's."

This isn't what you want. You want Sebastian—his arrogant smirk, his foolish bravery, his ability to walk into a room as if he had created it. You want brown eyes that look and see. Not dead, milky, empty ones.

But she squeezed his fingers, and he stayed silent.

A week later, she kissed him.

It happened in the Astronomy Tower—she had brought him there in the evening, "just wanting to be with you," and they sat on the cold stone, the wind smelling of impending rain.

"Ominis," she said, her voice ringing like a taut string.

"What?"

"I think... I don't know when it started, but I..."

She didn't finish. Instead, her lips found his—hesitantly, missing at first, brushing the corner of his mouth, and then—perfectly, soft and warm. She kissed him as if she were afraid, as if he might break, and that sheer caution made his breath catch.

She was real. The kiss was real. The trembling of her hands was real.

Her feelings were not.

He returned the kiss. His hands found her face, and for the first time, he "saw" her this way—with his fingertips. The line of her jaw, her cheekbones, her eyelashes—wet with tears? No, it was the rain. Please, let it be the rain.

"I love you," she whispered against his lips.

She became his shadow. His light. His personal, fabricated lie.

Y/N would hug him in the Great Hall, unashamed of the stares. Rest her head on his shoulder during dinner. Whisper "I love you so much." She laughed—that same laugh that made his heart clench—and her fingers always found him: his hand, his neck, a strand of hair behind his ear.

"You're the most incredible person I know," she would say. "Do you know that?"

"You have low standards," he would reply, and she would laugh and kiss his temple.

It was everything he had wanted. It was everything he had wanted for years—to be needed by someone, not out of pity, not out of politeness, not out of familial duty. To be chosen. To be loved. To be the one someone returns to, not walks away from.

And every evening, once alone, he would add a few drops to her morning pumpkin juice.

Routine.

Something inside him—something that used to be a conscience—stopped hurting. Hardened, like a callus. He didn't know exactly when it happened. Perhaps after their first kiss. Perhaps earlier—when he first thought that he deserved happiness just as much as Sebastian did.

He hated his family.

But the apple, evidently, doesn't fall far from the tree.

Sebastian noticed three weeks later.

It was surprisingly long for someone who considered himself observant. Though, come to think of it, Sebastian only ever noticed what he wanted to notice. He hadn't noticed that Y/N was in love with him. He hadn't noticed when his sister began to fade. He didn't notice warnings until it was too late.

"I need to speak with you," Sebastian said, catching up with him in the dungeons.

"Then speak."

"In private."

They stepped into an empty classroom. Sebastian closed the door. Ominis could hear him pacing the room—seven steps one way, a turn, seven back.

"Is this about Y/N?" Ominis asked. There was no point in drawing it out.

"You know it is."

"And what exactly troubles you? That your blind friend has finally found someone who wants to be around him? How touching that you care."

"Stop it." Sebastian halted. "I know what you did."

Silence.

Ominis felt something cold trickle down his spine, but his face—his face remained impassive.

"Enlighten me."

"Amortentia, Ominis." Sebastian spat the word as if it burned his mouth. "I found an empty vial in your trunk. Don't look at me like that—yes, I rifled through your belongings, and no, I'm not apologising."

"You rummaged through my things."

"Because three weeks ago, Y/N could barely look in my…" He caught himself.

"Finish your sentence," Ominis said quietly. "Three weeks ago, Y/N could barely look your way without suffering from unrequited love. And you were perfectly fine with that, weren't you? You relished it—being adored whilst giving nothing in return."

"That's not true."

"It is true. You didn't love her, Sebastian. You didn't even see her. And now that she sees me, you suddenly care?"

"She doesn't see you!" Sebastian exploded. "She sees the potion! That isn't love, Ominis, it's..."

"And how would you know what love looks like?"

The blow was precise. Ominis knew where to strike—he always did. Blindness made him cruel with words: if you cannot strike with a fist, you learn to strike with your tongue.

Sebastian was silent. Ominis heard his breathing—ragged, furious.

"You have to stop," Sebastian said at last. Quieter. More dangerously. "This is Dark Magic. This is what your relatives do, Ominis. This is exactly what you've spent your life running from."

But Sebastian knew where to strike as well; he didn't want his friend to feel superior. Ominis smiled.

"Do you know what, Sebastian? You're right. That is exactly what my relatives do." He took a step forward, and the wand in his hand lit up at the tip—not a guiding light, but something else, something sharp and cold, a reflection of what was happening inside. "You spent a year delving into the Dark Arts for Anne. You used Unforgivable Curses. And when I begged you to stop, you didn't listen. So what makes you think I will?"

"Because you're better than me."

"I was," Ominis said. "I was better."

He turned towards the door. Sebastian grabbed his shoulder.

"I won't let you do this. I'll tell her. I'll tell everyone!"

Ominis stopped. And what rose within him—that dark, viscous, ancient thing that flowed in the blood of every Gaunt, like a curse, like an inheritance one cannot refuse—filled him entirely, to the brim, to his fingertips, to his dead, unseeing eyes.

He turned to Sebastian. Slowly. Menacingly.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said in a voice Sebastian had never heard before. A voice that didn't belong to Ominis—the boy who feared his family. A voice that belonged to a Gaunt. "If you breathe a word to her. If you go near her. If you try to interfere—in any way, directly or indirectly, even with a hint—I will destroy you. And you know I possess the knowledge to do it. After all, I am my father's son."

Sebastian froze, his heart pounding dully in his ears.

"You don't even recognise yourself," Sebastian whispered.

"Perhaps," Ominis replied. "Or perhaps I've finally met the real me."

He walked out of the classroom.

Y/N was waiting for him in the Slytherin common room. He heard her jump off the sofa—recognising the spring that always creaked in a certain way—and a second later, her arms were around his neck, and she pressed her entire body against him, warm and alive, smelling of ink and apples.

"Where have you been? I missed you," she whispered into his neck.

He hugged her back. Tightly. Too tightly. His fingers dug into the fabric of her robes, and he buried his face in her hair and inhaled—deeply, desperately, like a drowning man.

"I love you," she said.

Three words. Sincere. Absolutely, unconditionally, unequivocally sincere.

And absolutely, unconditionally, unequivocally false.

"I know," he replied.

She pulled back slightly, and he felt her smile—with his cheek, with his skin, with that sixth sense that substituted his sight.

"You never say it back," she said without offence, with a tenderness that was worse than any reproach.

Because he couldn't.

Not because he didn't feel it. But because the only true words in this room were his.

"I..." he began.

I love you. I loved you before the potion. I loved you when you loved him. I loved you so much that I destroyed everything I held dear—my friendship, my morals, myself—just to hear my name in your voice.I am the worst person you know. And you will never know it.

"I'm glad you're here," he said.

She hugged him again. He closed his eyes—a pointless, habitual gesture—and thought that this must surely be his own personal hell: to get everything he had ever dreamed of, whilst knowing perfectly well that none of it was real.

Tomorrow morning—a few drops in the pumpkin juice.

The day after tomorrow—more.

And so on—until the end.

The Gaunts always got what they wanted.

He hated his family.

He hated himself.

But her hands were around his neck, and her breath tickled his skin, and she was here, and she was his, and in the darkness that was the only world of Ominis Gaunt, it felt almost like light.

Almost

He stopped dead in his tracks. Not for the first time, panic washed over him like a tidal wave. Often, he drowned in the waters and was unable to resurface to admit what he desired. Ominis took a steadying breath and gripped his wand tighter.

Worse still than the growing terror gnawing at his insides was the fact that he had let his actions be dictated by fear. He wouldn’t anymore, no matter the consequences. He would explode if he kept this bottled in for much longer.

In less than ten minutes, he would either be the happiest man in the castle or more depressed than Nearly Headless Nick when his request for membership to the Headless Hunt was denied. He hoped for all he was worth that it was the former. 

At last, he came to his destination: the musical corridor. He knew you loved visiting this place for the merry tunes that always seemed to brighten your mood. Already the diverse collection of melodic and cheerful sounds from the instruments filled his ears. It gave him a needed boost of courage.

He sensed a few students sitting on the benches delighting in the festive songs, but you were not among them. He proceeded down the hall until his wand alerted him to your location. You stood facing a painting whose subject sounded as if she were playing the mandolin. 

He made his presence known. “Enjoying the music, are we?” 

“Oh, Ominis, you gave me a fright!” You were startled. “You’re as quiet as a church mouse sometimes. Did you just get out of Ancient Runes class? How was it?”  

He replied, “It went better than usual today. Professor Madmeeke was rather occupied with a new translation he discovered and allowed us to have independent study.” Ominis left out the detail that he was also distracted during class by attempting to plan out this very conversation. 

“That must have been nice. I used my free period researching for my Essence of Insanity essay.” You sighed, “Thirty inches on the subject. I think Professor Sharp hates us with the amount he’s giving us. I’ll have to revise it in the morning, but I needed a break before I worked on my star chart for Astronomy. Hm, maybe I’ll leave that til I’ve had dinner though. What about you? What are you going to do tonight?”

Ominis opened his mouth and closed it again. He couldn’t say the words now, could he? It would be all too random and abrupt. Here you were asking mundane questions about what he was going to do this evening, and here he was ready to profess how love-struck he was by you.

That wouldn’t be right. It was too improper… too unexpected.  At least, that's the excuse he gave. Abort mission! Abort mission! Gathering what was left of his scattered senses, he answered, “I have homework to complete for herbology.” 

The next words pop out before he could stop himself. “Would you consider studying with me in the library? A study date, perhaps?”

Merlin’s beard, what possessed him to suggest that! Mortification overcame his entire being. He was seconds away from fleeing to spare you the embarrassment of having to reply when you spoke up.

“What a wonderful idea! It’d make the work pleasanter to have you with me. Shall we say eight o’clock?” Ominous gave a brief nod. “I’ll see you then. I’d stay a while longer, but I promised Lenora I'd meet her. I best be off if I’m to make it in time. Bye.” 

Ominis felt your hand pat his back and heard your retreating footsteps. He laid down against the wall as his legs were wobbling an awful lot. You had said yes.

His head was spinning, in a good way that is. Did your acceptance mean that you were smitten as well? Would this be the first of many, many dates? A sudden, upsetting thought occurred to him.

What if you took the word date to mean a social engagement with a friend rather than a romantic one? Blast it. Why did he have to get so tongue tied around you? He should have made his intentions clear. 

But what if you did understand his true meaning and misinterpreted it on purpose? On the other hand, he could be worrying for nothing. It could be possible you did grasp what he meant by date and consented to it in full knowledge.

Why did this have to be this arduous of a process? Because I’m a coward, that’s why. He shook his head and began making his way to the Slytherin common room. A nap was what he needed to soothe his addled brain before the date/not-a-date which would be taking far too soon for his liking.

_

You were already waiting for Ominis when he arrived at the library’s entrance. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he greeted.

“Of course not. I came early. I was perusing ‘An Account of the Heavens Told Through 173 Star Patterns’ by Ileana Cardaignory.” You tucked the heavy book back in your bag.

“Professor Shah recommended it to those who were interested in learning more than the eighteen star patterns we focused on in class last week.”

You descended the stairs and opened the doors. “Would you mind if we sat near the back instead of the front. I concentrate better when there aren’t as many students passing by where we sit.”

“Not at all. Whatever is better for you.” In truth, he preferred a private setting on this… outing with you (he couldn’t call it a date if he didn’t know whether you regarded it as one).

Sitting across from you at the circular table, he pulled out his herbology textbook. He heard you unfurl a scroll and set about scribbling down the star’s positions.

He tried to pay attention to his own work; writing twenty-five inches on the uses of sneezewort. He had sixteen inches and needed an additional nine. 

By his estimate, thirty minutes had elapsed where he read and you wrote. He could do little else besides read because he worried about disturbing you if he dictated his words for the quill to write.

Oh well, he also brought his Ancient Runes book to examine. He tapped his foot on the floor, his impatience increasing minute by minute. He set down his book and asked, “What time is it?”

You yawned, “It’s 9:08. We’ve been studying for an hour.”

“Shall we consider taking a small recess then?”

“Don’t tempt me, Ominis.” You brushed your quill’s feathery end across his face, making him smile.

“Oh, but I am. I think it would be good to stretch our legs and have a short reprieve. Care to join me for a stroll amongst the shelves?” He stood up and extended his arm in your general direction.

“Well, if you insist.” You hooked your elbow with his and led the way. “My eyes are straining themselves. Why do star charts have to be so small? It’d be easier to see them if they were bigger. However, that would have to be an enormous scroll to fit them all.

“I guess it is preferable for the charts to be compacted instead. If giants were taking the class, the charts would have to be large. Everything would be big for them though. How big would a telescope have to be for a giant to use? If an average sized person used a giant’s telescope, would he see extra stars in greater clarity?” 

You continued talking in this manner for several minutes, jumping from one topic to the next. When you paused to inspect a certain spell book, Ominis cut in to inquire if you would be visiting Hogsmeade tomorrow.

You said, “Yes, I need to drop by Scrivenshaft's to purchase a new bundle of quills. Their eagle feather quills are marvellous. I also need to go to Tomes and Scrolls. I’ve been meaning to get the tome ‘Retribution: Call of the Caged Mind’ for a while now. Are you going to buy anything at the shops?”

“I need a new vest and should replenish my stock of Bertie Bott's Beans. Would you like to go together?”

“That'd be nice. Hogsmeade trips are more pleasurable with good company. Would it make any difference if I invited Nellie to come with us. She and I were discussing–”

Ominis interrupted, “As a matter of fact, it would make a difference. Allow me to speak plainly and rephrase my question.” Ominis licked his lips, nervousness seeping into him. He ignored it. “May I have the honour of accompanying you to Hogsmeade as your date?”

You gasped, “My date?” He felt his heart fall into his stomach when you took a step back from him. That couldn’t have been a favourable sign. You stuttered, “W-why?”

Ominis hadn’t been expecting that response. He refrained from saying sarcastically that he had hoped you would pay for his things. Why did you think he asked?

“Because I am interested in pursuing you in a romantic fashion.” Silence followed his frank statement, and not for the thousandth time he wished to see your face. What could your expression tell him that your voice or lack thereof did not? 

You whispered, “I-I didn’t know you cared for me in that capacity. I assumed my feelings were… unrequited.” 

It was Ominis’ turn to be stunned. “Are you implying that you believed all those instances where I sought you out alone, complimented you, shared my prized confectioneries, slept on your shoulder in History of Magic were platonic in nature?”

“I convinced myself they were the actions of a true friend.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Ominis couldn’t contain himself. He snorted, “Yes, a true friend who frequently imagines snogging you.” His face dropped at once. He stammered, “Forgive me. That was inappropriate of me to say. Please–”

You laughed and stepped forward to grab his hands with yours, leaning closer to him. You murmured next to his ear which sent his heart beating faster, “I’ll let you in on a secret. I have pondered the exact same thing.”

You squeezed his hands and tilted your face nearer to his until your soft lips kissed his cheek.

Ominis did not dare move or breathe lest he woke up from this sublime dream. Oh, how he wished his lips had been the target. You were teasing him now, weren’t you?

Indeed, he heard you giggle, pulling back from him. “I’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you, Ominis. If you want, we could indulge ourselves further tomorrow.”

Ominis reclines on the sofa, massaging his head. To say he's thrilled to be expecting is an understatement – it's taken years to get pregnant, and too many nights of tears and solidarity and pushing on despite the emotional toll – but this is the one conversation he's been fearing as a result. He knew you'd object to the idea of giving the baby something simple and unremarkable. Something opposite to his own. You're so wild that your taste reflects it.

"I don't oppose wizard names," he corrects calmly. "I oppose ridiculous wizard names. We should name our son something that would fit well in the Muggle world."

"We're a wizarding family! He should have a good wizard's name. We could call him Ominis. Mini for short!"

"Do you know how many people misspell my name on a regular basis? Your own family did when we first met."

"They'd misspell Ominous too," you note, and flop down on the armchair opposite him. "It's wizarding tradition, isn't it, to name your children after someone you know?"

"We're not naming him after any of my family."

"No," you agree quickly. "But I think Ominis the Second would be so cute!"

He sighs. "I'm actually Ominis the Fourth, darling."

"... Really?"

"Some great-times-three granduncle, and before him great-times-five grandfather—" He waves. "I absolutely veto my name, regardless of number."

You huff. "Fine. Then what about my family? We could name him after one of my brothers?"

"How will you choose which one? And more importantly, how big do you wish to puff their egos?"

"Fair point."

"And we're certainly not naming him after any of our friends." The gloating Sebastian would do if they named the child after him, let alone any of your annoying companions – Leander or Garreth, for example – would be utterly insufferable. "If we name him after someone we know, he must be an exemplary person, and I cannot fathom a single someone who is worthy of that accolade."

"That's okay." Something rustles – he realises you've conjured a book. "I had a feeling we wouldn't agree, so I bought this in Diagon Alley last week."

He freezes. "Merlin help me if that's the Book of Wizard—"

"— Baby Names by Sudo Nym, yes."

That book is possibly the worst thing to ever happen to the wizarding world, published centuries ago, giving the pure-bloods ideas that it was acceptable to name their children after Greek myths or animals or letters strung together, like Apollonia or Peregrine or Marvolo.

"I thought we could go through it and find one we like."

Well, you've certainly come prepared – but he's done his research too. He waves his wand, and a sheaf of papers fall into his hands.

"What's that?" you ask sharply.

"The recent census," he says coolly, delighting in your tone, "for the most popular Muggle names."

There's certainly crossover, of course, he's not stupid – neither are you. But wizard names always have a certain eccentricity to them that Muggle names lack, and to call your child a wizard's name, especially one from that infernal book, is a blatant signal to the world about their heritage and their ancestry, and an invitation for difficulty in later life.

"Let's see." He glides his finger over the top of the list. "The first is John."

"Bleh! That's so unexciting! So plain! Whereas, the first name here is Aberforth."

"Absolutely not."

"Then how about Albus?"

"I presume you want our son to attend Muggle school before Hogwarts?"

"Of course!"

"Then you are asking for him to be bullied."

You groan – he takes advantage of the gap and skims down the list. "Here's a nice one. Harry."

You bark a laugh. "If Albus is asking to be bullied, then Harry is asking to be forgotten."

"Would a common name be so bad?"

"It's just boring, Ominis," you insist. "We're the most un-boring people on the planet. We can't give him a boring name. Oh! What about... Altair?"

"No stars. That's a Black family tradition."

"Corvus?"

"A favourite of the Lestranges."

"Ronald?"

"Sounds like an awful Weasley name. And yes," he adds quickly, "I know it's a Muggle name, too."

You rattle more off, a litany of first names, and Ominis loathes each of them for one reason or another – the name is attached to some nasty historical figure, or someone you both know, or it sounds clumsy with your surname.

"Ugh, you're not liking any of them!" The book whumpfs when you shut it. "Your turn, then, go on."

He smiles, certain he'll find something you like.

"George."

"I know about five."

"Ben?"

"Too short."

"Benjamin?"

"Too long."

"Herbert?"

"Do I really need to say anything?"

He goes down the list with increasing impatience, shocked when you reject even the most inoffensive names. It's too dull, or you know someone already with it, or it's so common your son will be the tenth in his year group and lack his own identity.

Frustrated, Ominis lets the paper fall limp. "So we want a name more wizard than Muggle but more Muggle than wizard."

"Precisely."

He might as well ask Father Christmas to be real. "Darling, I really do think it best we name him something appropriate to the world we live in now. We can't guarantee our son will be magical. What if he's a Squib? We ought to choose something we won't have to explain to every Muggle we meet."

"It's no one's business how we decide a name," you scoff. "We could name our child Marzipan and be plum dandy."

"... I can't tell if that's a serious suggestion."

"Who is the one carrying the child for nine months?"

"I am eternally grateful for that, but," he presses, "that doesn't mean I don't get a say."

"I'll allow you maybe a quarter of a say."

"I should think half is standard."

"Might be willing to bargain to a third."

"Darling."

"If you won't change your mind," you say suddenly, "then I'll just have to convince you."

"Or I convince you."

"Won't happen."

He grins suddenly. "Is that a challenge?"

You get to your feet and saunter over, leaning over him in the chair. Your low voice makes his spine trill.

"Not a challenge, honey," you whisper. "A promise."

As your belly begins to grow, you and Ominis continue back-and-forth daily on the issue. You suggest a name he hates, he suggests a name you loathe, on and on it goes. Something fun you've taken to doing over your relationship is leaving notes everywhere, written in braille for him to find, love notes, like I love you, or have a good day, but more recently they have become I LOVE the name Triton and Doesn't Athos sound brilliant?

After the third week, it becomes quite clear that you were right: you will be difficult to convince.

But difficult is not impossible.

One evening, after he's back from work and the confectionery is closed, you're squished comfortably next to him on the sofa, knitting a blanket – light blue wool, for the baby – and he's reading a novel, distracted by your chatter and the clack clack clack of your needles.

"— found some more I like from the book," you're saying. "What about Ocean?"

"Oh yes, that's delightful. Shall we name our next child Sea or River?"

"Harhar. How about Roe?"

"Delicious on buttered toast."

"Cosmo?"

"For a child or a cat?"

You snort. "You're being awfully reticent about suggesting names to me tonight."

He keeps his book open. "I have a secret weapon."

"Oh?" You laugh. "I'm sure you do, dear."

He doesn't respond, soaking in the pleasure of flippant dismissal as it slowly curdles to apprehension.

And when the doorbell rings, not five minutes later, he shuts his book and smiles.

"Better answer, my lovely wife."

When you hurry downstairs, he stands and heads to the fireplace and taps his wand twice upon it. The room shifts to cull the wizard whimsy, floating books and candles settling on the surface, bookshelves sinking back into the wall, photos going still, the gramophone silencing. Just as he hears footsteps coming back, he summons a walking stick, and tucks his wand into the shaft.

"Ominis, hello!"

Gratefully he accepts the hug from his sister-in-law, your brother's wife – very much a Muggle. "So lovely to have you, Matilda. Thank you for coming."

"I do so love seeing you both. You, young lady, ought to invite me more often!" Matilda extracts herself to scold you, then hovers near the door. "Shall I make tea?"

You start, "No, Matilda—"

"Nonsense, I'll make it. When Ominis sent word about how hard a time you were having, I knew I had to come. I completely understand how taxing it is being with child. So is deciding a name! Sit down, I insist."

She heads to the kitchen, humming.

"You, husband," you say through gritted teeth, "are a very conniving man."

He relaxes into his armchair. "I don't know what you mean, my darling."

"You know exactly what I mean."

"I'm afraid any accusations will have to wait until after our guest leaves. I wouldn't worry about exposing our magical secret with that book, by the way. I've hidden that waste of trees in the other living room."

You're all cross and huffy by the time Matilda returns with a tray, passing out teacups and pouring to everyone's exact specifications. She worries over Ominis, placing his cup within arm's reach with the handle facing his way. Ominis has never had the heart to tell her he can do this all perfectly fine himself. Let her fuss over the blind man, especially now if it will win him sympathy points.

"A name must be chosen with great care," she rattles on, settled into the armchair opposite. "I would always find a handful that you like to start, and then look into the variations. Then you'll need approval from the church. You know, it took us three months to settle with James for our boy. Sometimes you just won't know until they're here. Now." Her bag rustles. "I brought some baby name books – they're a bit weathered, but they'll do in a pinch. Name trends don't change that quickly, after all..."

By the time Matilda has forced you to scour all three books, picking out the most Muggle names possible to consider – Charles and Samuel and Walter – the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, you are weary with resignation and he is utterly triumphant. Matilda makes you keep a list of the ones you like and promises to be over again to narrow it down, although he suspects you've just noted random ones down to keep her off your back.

When she finally goes, the both of you waving at the front door as she boards a carriage, you pinch his free arm.

"I'll get you back for this."

"Will you?"

"It takes two to play games, Ominis."

"This is a hill I'm willing to die on." He leans over, maintaining an impeccable smile. "So if this is a game we're playing... your move."

"Can I speak to you quickly, Gaunt?"

Ominis rolls his lips – not for the wrong surname, which no matter how much he insists isn't his anymore everyone still uses, but for the resigned disdain of his boss, Adalbert Pimlico. He follows the man into his office, thoughtful. Adalbert. Such a pompous wizard's name.

The office is musky with cigar smoke. Ominis resists the urge to wince as he sits in the lone armchair in front of the massive oak desk, cluttered with parchments. On the outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a well-oiled machine, highly efficient and shrouded in a little mystery, but his initial expectations were quickly doused once he realised how the whole place was strung together with nothing but determination and shoelace. As competent as Aurors are at the physicality of their jobs, they're awful at administration and organisation. Pimlico's office is the perfect representation of that.

His chair makes that squelching noise of leather when he sinks onto it. "I won't say this isn't an awkward conversation to have, Gaunt, but I'm legally required to address it."

Ominis purses his lips. Something to do with his blindness, perhaps? Or his family?

"What is it, sir?"

"I've heard... rumour..." he lets out a sigh, "that you are being a neglectful husband."

Very rarely is Ominis rendered speechless – this is one of those moments.

"I— beg your pardon, sir?"

"There's been... an informal complaint that you have been negligent of your family," Pimlico says practically through grounded teeth. "I know you do a lot of late nights. Are you... having any issues at home? With your wife?"

What in Merlin's name...? "No, sir. None that I am aware of."

Except for the baby names, of course.

Pimlico's beard crackles as he scratches it. "I'm afraid I've heard there have been disagreements."

"Disagreements?"

"Small ones, but significant?"

His heart blunders for a moment.

No. No, it cannot be about the baby names. You wouldn't have involved his work.

Would you?

"I believe this informal complaint has severely exaggerated things," he levels, trying to rein the sudden indignation that bubbles beneath his collarbone. "May I ask who lodged it, sir?"

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that. I can only say that it comes from a place of great care for your well-being." He leans back, the chair groans. "You're a good man, Gaunt, and you work hard, but maybe ease up a bit, spend time with the wife, you know? Wouldn't be where I am without mine. I heard you have a baby on the way, too. Congratulations. Adalbert's not a bad name, if you're looking for suggestions."

Ominis' teeth grind.

Oh, you did.

"Thank you, sir. I will certainly consider it."

When he Apparates home that evening, he immediately drops his bag and coat and marches upstairs into the kitchen. You're at the counter, humming as you stir a pot of soup.

You perk when he steps inside. "Hello, honey! How was your day?"

But he seizes your hands and pins you to the wall. You let out a squeak, releasing the wooden spoon.

"O-Ominis?"

Keeping you tightly clutched in his grasp, he closes the space between you, so he can feel your bump against his torso, and brushes his nose against yours.

"You got me in trouble at work."

There's a pause.

Then your lips curl into a wicked smile.

"I don't know what you mean, my darling."

Conniving little witch. "You think I don't know that complaint was from you?"

"Complaint is such a strong word," you say, sweet voice laced with poison. "I just happened to pop around Margaret Pimlico's for tea yesterday, and maybe we talked about how hard it is to be pregnant, and maybe I mentioned how you wouldn't let me choose a wizard name for our wizard son. Whether she shared that with her husband, well... that's her business."

He laughs suddenly, which makes you go rigid.

"You think you've won, do you? One little chinwag with my boss' wife and you've defeated me?"

"Well, you wouldn't want to be a neglectful husband, would you?"

Oh, you are pressing all his buttons tonight. If he weren't so determined to change your mind he'd find it irresistibly attractive. Instead he splays your arms further apart, drags his thumbs down to the pulse at your wrists.

"You will choose a Muggle name," he murmurs into your ear. "I will make sure of it."

"You can try, Ominis, but you won't convince me."

"Don't start a battle you cannot win."

"I don't start battles," you whisper, fierce. "I start wars."

He chuckles, presses his lips to the shell of your ear. The way you shudder against him is divine.

"Then I hope you're ready for the artillery, my love, because I do not intend to hold back."

The kiss starts long and slow.

Pressed to the bed, his hands go to your hair, pulling you closer, gripping as you moan into his mouth. His tongue swirls along the seam, and when you part for him he takes his time to explore you, devour you – hundreds of times he has done this and yet there is always more he discovers. Every night you make him weak with the taste of you, as sweet and enticing as you have been since the moment you married.

You break off for air, panting beneath him. "We really should sleep. You have an early start tomorrow."

In an effort to stave off any illicit rumours of your marriage, Ominis has started going in earlier so he can come home earlier. Inconvenient, yes, but you've kicked a ball rolling down the hill that he can't quite stop.

"I should," he mumbles, lips trailing to your jaw. "But I won't."

He takes his wand from the bedside table, and nudging your wrists above your head, places a gentle kiss on your nose before he says, "Incarcerous."

The ropes bind your wrists to the headboard. You let out a gasp as he smirks.

"O-Ominis," you stammer, "I-I'm pregnant."

"As I am well aware."

He leaves his wand aside and dives down on you. Your nightgown is gossamer thin, leaving little to the imagination. As his lips leave marks down your neck, his fingers trickle down your body until he hooks beneath the skirt, and draws it up the smooth incline of your thighs.

"But—" You audibly tremble when his fingers caress gently along your inner thigh, as they trace closer and closer to the area between your legs. "W-We can't do anything while I'm pregnant."

So endearingly naïve. He takes your nightgown between his teeth to hike it up, his hands teasingly close now, whispers away from where you want them the most.

"My darling," he breathes, "do you think your body stops working when you are with child?"

"... Yes?"

He chuckles, presses a kiss to the gentle swell of your belly. Still adorably naïve. Drawing the touch lower, he breathes in close enough to smell your excitement, to feel it budding on your most intimate place. Gently he swirls over your heat, thrilled at your sudden gasp, and slips a finger inside. You whimper, clenching around him.

"O-Ominis—"

Your voice strangles as he pleasures you, slowly, lovingly.

"What do you think now?" he whispers. "Has your body stopped working?"

"N-No."

"Does it feel good?"

"Y-Yes."

Gratified, he slides another finger inside, eliciting another moan from you, and with that same, slow, agonising rhythm, soon your body starts to tense. He can feel you approaching your climax, and he pauses.

"Hnn—" You manage a small whimper. "Please."

"Please, what?"

"P-Please f-finish me."

He smiles, kisses the flesh at your thigh.

Then abruptly pulls his fingers out and stands back up, licking them clean and fixing the cuffs on his shirt sleeves.

"It was so very thoughtful of you to give me Dracula to read. I'm quite enjoying the Muggle interpretation of vampires."

"W-What?" The protesting noise you make mollifies a deep part of him. "Ominis—"

He swings around and finds the book left on the bedside table before sinking into the armchair. "I'm in the middle of the chapter, and I do so loathe being left on tenterhooks."

"That's great," you growl, "now come over here and finish me off!"

"Did you know it's an epistolary novel? That means it's written in letters."

"At least untie me so I can do it myself!"

He slides out his bookmark and traces the words to find his place. "There are some excellent Muggle names in this one too. Jonathan, Abraham... Quincey is quite sweet."

"Ominis Aloysius!" you all but scream. "You put that book down and come back here this instant!"

He rests the book on his open palm and lets a conceited smile devour him.

"I will happily pleasure you for the rest of the night, my wonderful wife," he says, "if you agree to give our son a Muggle name."

It's the perfect set-up. Short of starving you, there's nothing your body craves more than intimacy, love and sex. To deprive you of the pinnacle now will make you wild with frustration and prone to irrational decisions.

Such as caving to a Muggle name.

You hesitate – by Merlin, he feels it, teetering over a cliff edge, and he's one second away from lapping up the victory.

But then your voice comes out as vicious as a storm.

"No."

"No?"

"Wizard name," you growl. "Not Muggle name."

The plan has failed, but that's fine. He has all night to try again.

"Ah, then I'm sorry, my darling, it seems at this moment I'm feeling particularly... mmm, neglectful." He raises his wand before you can yell. "Silencio."

You instantly quiet, and he settles into the armchair to read, delighting in the way you kick the bed in frustration.

Retaliation will be fierce and swift, no doubt... but for now he will bask in this significant, and delicious, win.

"Yes... hmm... he's very healthy so far. How have you been feeling recently, madam?"

Healer Jules withdraws his wand from your belly, allowing you to fully jig on the hospital bed with excitement. "Good! Just excited!"

"And you, sir?" he enquires after Ominis, voice soothing as it has been every appointment over the pregnancy. "Your welfare is as important."

Ominis smiles earnestly. "I am cautiously excited."

"Your baby is very healthy so far, but we will continue to check up on him, given your... ah, family history." Inbreeding, he means. Ominis resists a wince. "Have you chosen a name yet? Or narrowed it down to a few?"

The temperature seems to rise. He was expecting this question eventually – but this early into the examinations?

"Not yet," you say pleasantly. "I have a few ideas, but I have yet to convince my husband."

"And the same in reverse," Ominis says, just as pleasantly.

"Well, don't fret," says Jules, "there's plenty of time. I know of some who didn't name their child for days after the birth."

At the rate you were going, you wouldn't manage to pick a name ever.

"Surprise!"

Ominis almost – almost – shrieks. It's rare when people catch him off-guard, given his senses are so attuned to the world, but Apparating straight from work, he wasn't consciously worrying about intruders or a home invasion. Voices and footsteps suddenly overwhelm him, hands clasp his back.

"Congrats on nearly being a father!" Garreth Weasley – Garreth Weasley? – chimes. "Now, I'm just saying, Garreth is a fantastic name. I'll accept it without the second r too."

"What?"

"If you choose Mahendra," says Mahrendra Pehlwaan cheerfully, "I can guarantee you probably won't meet another. Well, unless you go to India."

"Flattered," says a third voice, which he quickly recognises as Imelda Reyes. "But you'll probably have to change it to Imeldus unless you want him to get laughed at in the playground."

More voices inject into the air. Sebastian and Missy, Adelaide Oakes and Evangeline Bardsley and Arthur Plummly, Natsai Onai and Cressida Blume. Even Leander bloody Prewett is here. All of them seem to have a strong agenda.

Ominis flings out his hands. "What the hell are you all doing in my house?"

Silence. Sebastian laughs.

"Oh, the wifey didn't tell you?" There is far too much smugness that radiates from his best friend's tone. "It's a naming party! She told us you were thinking of naming your son after a wizarding friend, so we've all come prepared to tell you why you should name your child after us."

Oh, you little... "Where is she?" he demands at once.

The door opens. With perfect timing, you enter the room.

"Oh, good, you're here! Now we can really start!"

He swings to face you, teeth clenched. "You—"

"It's so nice to have a reunion with everyone after so long, don't you think?" you sing-song, and he can detect the utter feast you're deriving from his expression. "I think we should hear our friends out. Some of them have Apparated such a long way away..."

He blows steam from his nose.

"Yes," he grouses. "Fine."

You both plonk down on the sofa as each participant gives a short speech as to why their name is best. He can tell some have made zero effort – Cressida doesn't even try, knowing her name can't really be turned into a male version – whereas some (cough, Mahendra) bring whole presentations with them, complete with notecards. Forced to sit there next to you, preening, he can't even pretend to entertain the ideas thrown at him.

When it's Sebastian's turn, he stands up, but doesn't bother walking to the centre of the room.

"You should name your child after me," he says, "because I will be the godfather."

Then he sits down.

"... Is that it?" Ominis asks.

"Yep."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only one you need."

"In fact, that's a terrible reason."

"Yeah," Leander scoffs. "I mean, who'd want two Sebastians running around?"

"Coming from you, Prewett?" Sebastian says moodily.

"Leander is a great name! It means lion! You can't get more majestic!"

"Wait your turn!"

"Your turn's over!"

"I think," you say, cutting both the men off, "that both names are lovely, and we will consider them. Won't we, Ominis?"

"No," says Ominis, dragging a hand down his face.

By the time everyone leaves, it's four hours later and dark outside, and, funnily enough, he's no closer to choosing a name, even after his friends said their pieces, even after they tried to peddle their obscure middle names too. He lies spread-eagle on the sofa as you flick your wand, gathering the crumb-laden plates into neat stacks.

"I thought we established early on," he says, as you clean, "that we wouldn't name our son after anyone we know?"

"Oh, we did."

"Then why did you have this naming party?"

You giggle. "To annoy you, of course."

"Petty." He comes over, taking your chin and pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. "Is that really the best you can do?"

"After getting your work involved and now our friends? What else do you want me to do?" Your voice falters when he smiles. "What else have you got planned?"

He smiles.

The entrance to the tarot parlour appears to be suitably... mystical.

Ominis yokes his disinterest as he almost drags you, arm-in-arm, through the front door behind your two excited Muggle friends. For reasons he cannot discern beyond simple atmosphere, the curtains to Madam Sybillus' Fortune House are drawn closed, plunging the group into a low-ceilinged reception thick with heat from the fireplace, a degree too hot to comfortably adjust from the balmy weather outside. It smells of smoke and incense, so strongly Ominis has to squeeze your arm to adjust, and a bell tinkles upon the door's shutting, announcing their arrival.

"Welcome to the start of your future," comes the luxuriously trill of the house assistant.

You give his arm a squeeze and whisper, "Oh, boy, here we go."

It's a true perplexity to him how much interest Muggle women take in divining the future. For wizards and seers, it's a genuine way to predict what is to come. For Muggles, however, it's simply a fun parlour game, a way to ascribe particular happenstances to choices made outside of one's control.

"Have you booked... an appointment?" asks the assistant, fluttering her fingers outwards.

"Yes," says Lizzie, who although the calmest of the three of you cannot seem to contain her excitement. "Half eleven, under Farmer?"

"Gertrude Farmer," says Gertrude, vibrating with nerves. "Should be for the four o' us?"

"Ah, yes, I see, with the great mother of divination herself," says the assistant. "She awaits you in her parlour down the hallway. Please, go ahead."

The magical nature of your backgrounds has meant neither of you have partaken in Muggle fortune-telling before. This unwitting hole in your life experience, of course, rocked Gertrude to her core so thoroughly that she rang her local parlour to make an appointment at once, a girl's outing with one morose husband. A week later, here you are.

"Putting it on, much?" you murmur to Ominis as they head down the corridor, out of Gertrude and Lizzie's earshot. "Bet you a Galleon she'll make a vague prediction that can be applied to anyone."

"I'm not prepared to make a bet I know I'll lose," he murmurs, smirking. "Do try to enjoy it, darling. It's meant to be for fun."

"Fun? It's a scam! All stuff and nonsense!" you mutter. "I don't know why Gerty and Lizzie believe in any of it!"

The parlour itself is so oppressively enclosed Ominis feels it like fingers on his back. There are no windows and the walls are layered with yet more curtain. A large round table, draped in velvet, fills most of the room, with Madam Sybillus herself seated at the perceived head. She stands gracefully to welcome you inside.

"Please, remove your coats and bags, and make yourselves comfortable." Her voice is the musical lilt of an eastern European accent, although Ominis cannot distinguish which. "We will begin the reading at your leisure."

You sit down, obviously dubious about the whole thing. As Gertrude and Lizzie giggling profusely, you squeeze his hand, and the fortune-teller calls for quiet.

"Mrs Farmer," she says to Gertrude, "perhaps you would like to go first?"

"Yeah, aw'right!" chimes Gertrude.

"The rest of you, close your eyes. Let your energy fuse with Mrs Farmer's as the crystal ball divines her future."

You grunt but oblige; Ominis closes his eyes too. Gertrude touches the crystal ball with her nails, and Sybillus' bangles jingle.

"Hmm... yes... I see... goodness..."

Gertrude is suddenly nervous. "Goodness? What d'you mean?"

"I see... children in your future."

"Children!" she gasps. "Yes! Jacob and I will have a family!"

You snort. "Of course you will. You've been married for two years!"

"And I'm sensing..." Sybillus exhales noisily, "riches... you will have a plentiful crop this year. The weather will work in your favour."

"How did you know I was from a farming family?"

"I wonder," you scoff, "was it maybe that your married name is Farmer?"

Gertrude slaps your arm – you yelp. "Stop being a bleedin' spoilsport!"

Sybillus laughs genially. "Please, let the young lady voice her opinions. You do not believe in the magic of fortune-telling, madam?"

You blurt a laugh, still squeezing Ominis' arm. "Magic, you say?"

"Choice, fate. No matter your perception, it is all the magic of life."

"Do you actually see things in your crystal ball?"

"I do not see," she says, "I feel."

"Riiiiiight." You give Ominis' arm a firm tug. "Forgive me if I'm much more of a practical, what can I do with my own two hands, sort of lady."

"I can see that. You and your husband went through many trials to be together, did you not?"

You go rigid. "What? Er, I mean, maybe."

Lizzie gasps. "You saw that in your crystal ball?"

"I felt it. Mmmm, yes." Her bangles clink again. "You worked so hard to be together, through heartbreak, grief... death. I believe you have many more trials ahead. You are expecting your first child. Your... son."

"Anyone could've told you that," you say, but your voice is straining now. "My belly's the size of a watermelon."

Ominis rolls his lips.

"You have hopes for your child... a loving, tender family, yes... raised in two worlds as one... you wish... for him to be... a Hufflepuff."

Your grip on him slackens. "What?"

"Is that true?" Lizzie asks you.

"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Gertrude mutters.

You shake Ominis' arm desperately. "Did you say anything?" you hiss.

"Not at all."

"Then how— how does she know?"

"That's not all!" Sybillus gasps. "Your son... yes, I see great things from him... great things for... Frederick... perhaps Ernest, indeed!"

"Frederick?" you bleat. "Ernest?"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Lizzie cries. "You'll choose a name!"

"Or... hmm... I'm also sensing a potential... Harold... or Leslie!"

"N-No!"

Gertrude gives a great, belly-aching laugh. "Finally! After months of you two going on and on about it! And those names ain't half-bad either."

"You must've said something!" you demand Ominis. "I-I know you did! About the baby names!"

He sighs. "I haven't spoken a word, darling. I didn't even know what this fortune-telling was until a week ago." At least, not the Muggle kind. "Perhaps there is truth to what's been said?"

"B-But—" You pout. "But it's not real! You know that! Those can't be the names..."

By the end of the session, Lizzie has also been promised that good karma will be coming her way after she volunteered at the Royal Free Hospital last week. When Lizzie confirms she was there, you're jarred into complete, mouth-ajar silence. The candles go out, and Sybillus stands to wish you farewell, and you and your friends hurry to collect your things.

"Not you, sir." Sybillus crooks her finger at Ominis. "I'm afraid the reading was not settled properly by your party."

Ominis makes a show of grumbling. "Go on, I'll catch up."

You hesitate, but head back to the reception with your friends.

When you're gone, he finally relaxes, digging into his jacket to produce a pouch, swollen with coin.

"You played your part excellently, thank you. The second half, as promised."

"It freaked her out real good, that did," Sybillus cackles – her accent is gone. "She a big sceptic, then? Most women her age get into right tizzies when their fortunes are accurately predicted."

"A very large sceptic. I appreciate that you memorised the notes I gave you."

"What a well-paying client wants me to tell, I tell, even if it don't make no sense. What's with the baby names, anyway?"

He grins. You'll figure out his scheme eventually, but for now he's enjoying the fun whilst it lasts.

"Just a little joke with my wife."

This time, when the kisses start at nightfall, Ominis doesn't relax into them. He seizes up with immediate knowing.

Still, he's happy to play along for now. Happy to enjoy the physical affection, if naught else. He tips your chin higher as your mouth moves against his, shy at first, then eager and playfully nipping at his lip. He accepts the tongue, languid and sweeping, with a flutter of desire he keeps thoroughly caged.

"Ominis," you mumble, yanking his collar down for better access.

He smiles into your kisses. "You're very needy tonight, wife."

No doubt you won't let him tie you up, lest you end up being torturously edged for the whole night again. Still, he cottons on to your dastardly plot when you fall to your knees and hurriedly go to unfasten the laces of his breeches.

He puts a hand on yours. "Darling?"

"Yes, honey?" you say, all innocent.

"Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?"

"What? Just because I'm pregnant means I can't give you a good time?"

"I didn't say that. I do know, however, that you have an ulterior motive in that clever head of yours."

"No motive!" you declare. "I just want to please you."

"Oh, I'm sure you do."

He lays back to the bed anyway, deciding to indulge you. This might be fun. Unlike how he was with you, you have no intention of going slowly, yanking his breeches and drawers away until his intimate area is all on show. Your touch makes his blood boil, but he refuses to succumb to the pleasure – because the moment he does, you'll pounce. And not in the way he wants.

You try your hardest, he'll admit. You know exactly what he likes, where to caress your thumb, when to speed up and slow down. You know his body as well as he does. Desire flowers deep in his navel, but he quashes it like crushing parchment in his fist.

"You know," he says nonchalantly, "you forgot to tie my hands."

"Don't need to."

"No?"

"I only want to please you tonight."

"So far I'm not convinced."

Your lips find him next – he lets out a groan as you slide him into your mouth, bobbing him in and out, eking out his pleasure, faster and faster. He grits his teeth, and a laugh bubbles hysterically from his lips.

"Oh, and now you're going to deny me the pinnacle. How original."

Slowly you pull him out. "I'm really trying to make you feel good!"

"It's adorable that you think you can use my own tricks against me. Is this really revenge for last time? You'll have to do better. It doesn't work if I expect it."

You're silent for a long time.

"What, no witty retort or battle cry? Or are you just annoyed I wasn't fooled for a single moment?"

The sigh that escapes you weighs heavy, like looming rain clouds, and when you stand and drift over to the bed edge, Ominis feels his heartstrings twang.

No, this is all an act. You are infuriatingly cute when you want to be, and it's a terrible trait of yours he's never been able to resist. Do not yield. His body disobeys, and he finds himself sitting up to listen to you speak.

"No, you're right... I was going to try and do the same thing you did to me, but... I just can't."

"Because you were caught," he says, raising his chin.

"Because I don't have it in me to play cruel tricks," you mumble.

Damn it. Another twang, this one stronger, making him want to pull you in for a hug. Ominis has always been protective of you, possessed with the natural inclination to keep you happy and safe. Perhaps it's in his nature, perhaps it's simply you, or perhaps it's everything you have been through together to get here, build this slice of peace in a desolate world. He physically feels his resolve crumbling, this petty rivalry between you over the last few months dissolving into a ghost of what it once was.

"I love you, darling," he says, and he caves, pulling you close, letting you tangle your fingers in his back. "That will never change, no matter what we name our child."

"I know."

"I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sorry. Have I taken our game too far?"

You sniffle. Merlin, tears? Now he feels really guilty.

"I just love you a lot, honey," you whisper into his chest. "I want our son to have the best name possible."

"He will."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

He feels something slide up his chest, and he moves to palm it – parchment. Briefly his fingers skim the top. Endymion. Drago. Magnus.

"Then here's a list of my favourites," you say brightly, all trace of sadness gone. "You pick one and let me know, okay?"

"Wait, what?"

You slide out of his embrace and skip out of the bedroom, humming.

You had him. Oh, you really had him.

"I'll get you back for this, darling!" he yells.

"No you won't!" you sing delightedly.

No, he won't.

Not yet, at least.

"You still haven't chosen a bloody name?"

One mild day in the buds of spring, when you're at an appointment with Healer Jules and he's covering the shift at the shop, Sebastian leans against the counter, sucking a lollipop and flicking through the Book of Wizard Names by Sudo Nym. Apparently he's grown a beard now. You say it looks distinguished; Ominis suspects it looks scruffy.

"No." He slams the till drawer shut with frustration. "She still refuses to acquiesce."

"You two have been at this for months now. Even I'm bored of it."

"Yes, well, we're stubborn."

"Brick walls are stubborn. You two are obstinate." The book shuts. "Can't you just name him Sebastian and be done with it? It's a good name to cover both wizard and Muggle ground."

"No." Ominis massages his face. "Did you know her compromise suggestions were place names? She argued Hangleton might appeal because it's a Muggle town and I was born there. Hangleton! And then she had the gall to suggest foreign places, too. She liked Florence."

"Florence? For a boy?" Sebastian laughs. "I guess you should be grateful she didn't suggest Hogsmeade."

God help him if you do. "I'm at my wit's end. Can you talk to her? Or can Missy?"

"Nice try, but that's all on you." He sighs, runs a hand down that distinguished-scruffy beard. "Here's an idea: you try convincing her the normal way, by explaining why the names you want are better than Endymion, Drago, Magnus and bloody Hangleton."

Should he even need to explain the absolute obvious? His chosen trio, William, Edward and Michael, are classic, understated and inoffensive. They blend seamlessly into both Muggle and wizard society. They don't raise eyebrows. Most importantly they don't make people choke back their laughter. Is it wrong to wish normality for his son? Ominis doesn't think it is. The more he blends in with his peers, the better.

But that's exactly what you don't like. You don't want anything absurd, granted, but there's an inherent magnificence to your chosen trio of names that he thinks will stick out far too much. You want him to have that wizard uniqueness that Ominis, a bearer of one such unique name, despises to the fiery pits of the earth.

It's an impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object. And it will keep going until one of you stands down.

But Ominis refuses to give in.

"Whatever." Sebastian stretches, yawns, and takes a long slurp of his lollipop. "I hope you chose before the damn party, though."

Yes, the last hurrah before you're officially parents. It'll be a nice spring get-together with all your friends and family – Muggles and wizards alike. He was hoping to announce that you'd made a decision by then, but with the party days away, that goal seems impossible.

Unless someone yields... to public pressure.

"Oh no," says Sebastian, reading the calculation on Ominis' face. "What the hell are you planning now?"

A smile grows on his face.

It's harder than Ominis thought it would be to host a garden party. Especially when half the party are wizards.

The back garden is modest, only about ten metres long and as wide as the house. Varnished wood runs the perimeter in a rigid oblong, interrupted only by a gate at the back, which connects to a delivery road. A pavestone path lines the fence on the right, and the rest is simple lawn, freshly mowed for the occasion. A fair few people have come along to celebrate, and Ominis has had to discreetly clone more garden chairs to accommodate.

It's quite a strange sensation, to have the two communities come together, the merging of magical and Muggle. The last time he felt this jarred was his wedding. He's told his magical friends and colleagues to behave, and they know the laws, of course, but he's still wary Pimlico will forget that Auror is called the police here, or that Garreth will spike the Pimms with gigglewater.

You waddle outside, holding a tray of empty glasses with one hand and cradling your belly with the other. Ominis hurries to take it from you, lays it on the outdoor table.

"Don't strain yourself, darling."

"Am not," you say, but you wince. "Baby's just being wriggly."

"Takes after his mother," he says fondly.

He fetches you a chair and you sink gratefully into it. Less than a month until the due date, and now mostly you complain about your aching back and breasts, and swollen, sore feet. He's taken on a significant portion of the housework to assuage the physical load on your shoulders, even though you claim it's easy enough to wave your wand. He must ensure there is nothing for you to stress about; it is his sworn duty.

Your parents come over. Since their second grandchild's announcement, they've been fussing over you and your health, and Ominis too, offering to cook him things or take extra shifts at the confectionery. He politely rejects them all, although he can't begin to express how grateful he is to have family who truly cares. After all these years, the feeling is still novel and beautiful.

"Cake's ready," says your mother, with a strange pitch to her voice. "Ominis, sweetheart, have you sat down once since the guests arrived? Even hosts must rest."

"I'm about to fry another batch of pork sausages," he says, waving their concern away. "Leander and Jacob keep inhaling them all."

Your father coughs gruffly and lowers his voice. "You can't have your... magic thingamajig do that?"

"It doesn't work like that, Papa," you say, exasperated.

"Truly, it's good to keep busy," Ominis says. "I'm fine, I promise. And thank you both for the cake."

Your father makes another gruff noise and looks away. Your mother touches his shoulder with affection – but her lips curl. She sounds like you when she's hiding a secret. "You're welcome, son. I've brought it down to the stockroom for easy access. Do you need us to do anything else?"

"Only one thing – what time is it?"

"Ah..." Your father pulls out his pocket watch. "Just gone two."

He smiles. Plenty of time.

The party continues in full swing. Many bring presents, although unnecessary, for the baby, books and toys and clothes. Ominis stores them in the house to unwrap later. Sebastian starts a round of croquet, a snug corkscrew of hoops within the limited space; Missy gets competitive against him, along with another one of your friends, Jane, and Nell from the local church. He tops up the sausages as you mingle and let people touch your bump. A surge of affection runs through him when he hears you laugh. It's been difficult, but still you embrace every moment with incandescent joy and gratefulness.

At about half-past, he finds you and peels you free from your host duties, finding a moment to share a brief kiss in the stockroom.

"What's this for?" you ask.

He hums idly, slides his hand between yours and squeezes. "Simply appreciation for you. Shall we bring the cake out?"

"So early?" you say. "If you really want to do it now."

"Why wouldn't I want to do it now?"

You don't answer. You only beckon him to the shelf, where you parents have left the cake ready to go.

Except – it's not one cake. It's three.

Strange. What on earth would you need three cakes for? You have a sweet tooth, yes, but this is excessive. You stifle a giggle, deep in your throat, and suspicion laps across his contentment as a wave rinses the beach.

"Something the matter?" you ask – again, that twinkle.

It triggers more doubt. Three. It's not just a cute, satisfying number. Three has meaning.

"What have you done?"

You sing-song, "Nothing!" and fit the cakes onto the trolley. "Help me take this outside."

Arm woven with yours, he wheels the trolley out to the garden. As the guests make a hole, delighted noises cut deeper into him, as loud as a chorus of warning bells. Wordlessly he helps you to table all three cakes.

They are not plainly decorated, like you said they would be.

"These cakes," you announce, "are named after three of the names Ominis and I are deciding upon!"

A stone drops into his gullet.

You didn't. You wouldn't.

"The Endymion cake," you gesture to the first "is a delicious blueberry and lemon."

He goes rigid. You have.

"The Drago cake is chocolate," you say about the second, "and this last cake, the Magnus, is Victoria sponge. Don't worry, you won't forget which one is which, because I've iced the names on the top."

The guests clap and clamour around, arming themselves with plates and forks. In the midst of it all, Ominis stands utterly still, reeling in the total loss of the moment – the loss of words, the loss of momentum, the loss of the fight, practically smoke in his fingers. You have announced your three names in such a public way, that for him to deny them now would be social catastrophe.

You truly are conniving, truly are clever. It's irresistibly hot, albeit infuriating, how you have bested him.

His grip on the walking stick tenses. You giggle and yammer to the guests, but he can feel your eyes on him, triumphant and smug with the victory.

But it will be short-lived.

You meander your way towards him at the buffet table, plate in hand, slices from all three cakes piled on top.

"Would you like some cake, husband?"

"I shan't partake, wife," he says coolly. "However," he leans down, just for you, "if you're not careful I might like to ravish you instead."

You shudder, and it's delicious. "For winning?"

"For coming so close to outwitting me. It's very attractive, I'll admit."

"Oh, Ominis," you pet his arm, "you can't even hope to beat this."

"My sweet," he responds, "I don't need to hope. I know."

"Look!" calls Gertrude, in sudden shock and awe. "What's that in the sky?"

She points, and as the party follows her gaze, Ominis instead pours himself a large glass of Pimms. Perfectly timed, as he is wont to be. Drawn towards them on a generous breeze, the great amorphous shapes floating from the north become an enormous hot-air balloon – three enormous hot-air balloons, dyed a rich blue like upside-down teardrops, with his chosen names, William, Edward and Michael, sewn in bold letters vertically down each parachute.

As realisation of the balloons' purpose sweeps the party, cheers erupt from the guests. Your Muggle friends clap, your wizard friends raise wine glasses and toast. In that moment he wishes he could see, if only to steep in the delicious shock-horror that has unhinged your jaw.

"You—" You swing to face him, positively puffed up. "You—!"

Ominis smiles and sips his Pimms.

"Me."

You tense up, like you're about to scream, but instead you pull his collar down.

"You copied my idea."

"I had no notion what you were doing. Perhaps you copied me."

"I didn't know you were doing that either!" You scowl. "You're lucky you're hot when you're being evil."

"Should I take this as acquiescence?"

You kiss his nose quickly, and smile.

"No."

Blast. How could that not have worked? His idea is bold, dramatic, inviting in its grandiosity. Your idea is quaint in comparison!

But his mistake comes through him in a cold prickle. If the cakes have names and the balloons have names, and both were displayed practically at the same time, then all the guests are going to think the spectacle planned. Worse, they're going to think it a game. He scolds himself. Foolish Ominis. If only he'd known of your attempted sabotage before he brought the cakes out. If only he'd listened to his instincts beforehand!

He makes another round of polite chatter, listening to the guests obliviously speculate on which of the six will be chosen. He can barely focus on anything else that's said. After everything, all the work he's done, all the favours he called in and the money he paid in such a short amount of time – and still you have not been swayed.

And after all the work you put in, too, neither has he.

You remain as you are, as he does. An impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force and an immoveable object.

Sebastian is right. You are both so stubborn.

And if that was his last try to change your mind, what is he supposed to do now?

Ominis' son arrives early.

Neither of you are expecting it. Both of you are tired, you from a particularly hard day running the shop, him from a particularly hard day running Auror errands, so you're settled into the sofa with your embroidery as Ominis tidies the house. Your due date is in a week – far enough away that it looms, but not with immediate panic.

Suddenly you go rigid and sit up.

"Oops."

"Hmm?" he asks idly. "Something the matter?"

"I think I've just had a little tinkle," you say sheepishly. "Bit embarrassing, but don't worry, I'll clean it up."

Ominis faces to you at once.

"Darling," he says, "have you been feeling incremental pains in your belly?"

"Well, yes, but I think it's just that stew we ate. I told you the meat was off."

Merlin's beard. "You didn't pee. That's your water breaking."

"My— ohhhh." You laugh suddenly. "Well, thank goodness for that! Here I thought I wet myself!"

He doesn't even have the time to facepalm. He's grabbing his emergency away bag, ramming some shoes onto your feet, and Apparating you to St Mungos. All thoughts about baby names and underhand attempts to change your mind evaporate when you go into the labour ward, whimpering about how much more frequent and painful the contractions have become.

"Would you like to stay with your wife during labour?" asks Healer Jules. "I understand if not. It can be quite stressful."

"Of course I will," Ominis says, offended at the very notion.

It takes some time until your body is fully ready, but before long Jules and the other healers start the birthing process, encouraging you to push in time with your contractions. He squeezes your hand all throughout. Eventually they feed some potion down your throat to dowse the pain, but it also makes you a little delirious. At one point you seize his shirt and yank him inches from your face.

"You will never put that thing of yours inside me ever again!"

"Y-Yes dear," he says, nonplussed.

Even with the potion, you shriek and scream and cry, sounding like you're been in the worst pain you've ever experienced, worse than Crucio, worse than the curse. It makes him feel guilty and helpless, but he knows all he can really do to help is be there.

"I-I can't... I can't do it..."

"Yes you can, darling. You're doing really well. Keep pushing."

He thinks of the many nights you tried to get pregnant, the many days spent in disappointment when your monthly bleeds came. He thinks about the minor spats over baby names and what colour to paint the room and which house you think he'll be in at Hogwarts. He thinks of the small joys, assembling the crib, completing the knitted blanket, the excitement, the anticipation of becoming a family of three. All of it strengthens Ominis at your bedside, all of it gives him hope as you continue to push.

And soon, before he realises it, a baby cries.

It's the most wonderful sound in the world.

"Congratulations," says Jules. "A beautiful baby boy."

Jules cleans him up and swaddles him in cloth, then hands him to you. Ominis can't quite manage to catch his breath, nor tame his racing heart. You're parents now. He's a father.

"Do you want to hold him, Ominis?" you ask.

His hands tremble when he accepts the child – his child – into his arms. You adjust the hold so the baby is comfortable, mewling and squirming and a bundle of warmth. Carefully he reaches around to feel his little face, the tiny nose and cute lips and the very wet tuft of hair sprouting on the centre of his smooth head.

"Hello, little one," he says, grinning so widely it hurts. "I'm your papa."

"He looks just like you."

"Really?" Ominis almost laughs. "He sounds just like you."

You laugh – and it's up there with the most beautiful sounds. He can't describe how deep the gratitude goes for you, for carrying and birthing the child. Despite everything you've gone through, all the disagreements and the pain and the loss, he knows you'll both be okay.

"You may still experience some contractions before the placenta comes out," Jules says softly, after cutting the cord. "But I will give you five minutes."

The healers leave you in peace, and Ominis knows. It really is time now.

Time to choose a name.

In the silence, he thumbs the baby's little hand, relishing the smoothness of his skin and trying to think of a name he likes that suits. William, Edward, Michael... Every choice runs through his head, but now that his son is here, in physical being... none of them are perfect.

"I don't think he looks like an Endymion," you mumble quietly. "Or a Drago, or a Magnus ..."

They seem too grand, too garish, for the boy, but loath as he is to admit, his choices are too plain for his son too. Ominis tickles his stomach, delighting when the baby wiggles.

"Nor any of mine," he admits. "That leaves us rather without a name though."

"Yeah..." The baby gurgles. "Let me?"

He passes his son back to you. "After all that, and we still can't decide."

"Gosh, we should be able to just pick one, don't you think? There are billions of names... surely there must be one we both like."

When Jules returns, you are sitting in a scrunched sort of silence, as if every word that wants to be spoken feels crumpled and unworthy of the occasion, of the decision.

"If it's all right," he says calmly, "I'd like to run a few routine checks to ensure the baby's health."

You nod, passing the boy over. His eyes are squeezed shut, yet the corner of his lips twitch as Jules beams over him.

"This might tickle, little one," he coos, wiggling his wand over the child's belly. Mumbling spells too long and complicated for Ominis to understand, the boy instantly relaxes, as if that soothing voice is a balm for agitation. After a moment, Jules passes him back to you. "Preliminary checks seem good, I can detect no issues. He's a very healthy boy."

Something shifts deep in Ominis' chest. It feels as though lightning has struck.

"Thank you," he croaks.

"It's my pleasure," Jules assures. "Is everything all right?"

"Could we—?" You seem to compose yourself. "Please can we have a little more time alone?"

"Of course."

Jules exits again, leaving you both on a precipice that pulls taut as thread.

Ominis is the first to fall.

"Jules is a nice name."

"I was thinking that too," you murmur. "It's not too Muggle."

"Nor too wizard."

"Not very common."

"Sounds nice."

"Named after someone exemplary we know."

"But very pronounceable."

"Ominis." You laugh suddenly. "Did we just agree on a name?"

He reaches out both hands – the first, touching yours, the second, a finger, being grasped gently by his new-born son, Jules.

"I... think we did."

Fin.

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Masterlist | My oneshots

Your breath ghosted softly against his collarbone, your body pressed against his side as if you belonged there. (And you did—you always had, he realized.) The weight of your leg draped over his own, anchoring him in place, and one of your hands rested against his bare chest, fingers curled lightly over his heartbeat.

Ominis tightened his hold on you slightly, just enough to feel the give of your body against his. The fabric of his oversized shirt—the one you had stolen to sleep in—shifted under his fingers, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to feel your skin again, warm and bare under his hands.

For years, he had resigned himself to loving you quietly, distantly, safely. He thought it was better that way, to spare himself the risk of losing you altogether. But last night had shattered all of that. The way you had touched him, whispered his name against his lips, told him you loved him—he could still hear it now, echoing through his thoughts like a spell he never wanted to break.

He had you. You loved him.

Ominis could have stayed like this forever, just holding you, listening to your steady breathing, pressing lazy kisses to your hair while the rest of the world ceased to matter.

But, of course, Sebastian Sallow had other plans.

The sound of heavy footsteps storming up the stairs made Ominis’s eyes snap open. A flicker of recognition—and dread—spread through his drowsy mind, but before he could react, the bedroom door slammed open so violently he almost expected it to come off the hinges.

“WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD!”

Sebastian’s voice exploded into the room, and just like that, Ominis’s perfect, dreamlike morning was utterly, violently ruined.

You jerked awake beside him with a startled gasp, sitting upright so fast that the blankets fell away from your shoulders. Your hair was an absolute disaster, your face still slack with sleep, your eyes bleary and unfocused as you processed the intrusion. And your voice—groggy, irritated, and utterly unimpressed—cut through the chaos like a knife.

“What the fuck?"

Ominis felt Sebastian freeze, could hear the split second it took for realization to dawn.

Then, Sebastian let out the single most obnoxious cackle Ominis had ever heard in his life—loud, breathless, utterly delighted.

Ominis didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He just sat there, shoulders hunched, gripping the bridge of his nose as the morning crumbled into absolute disaster.

Sebastian was laughing so hard he could barely stand. He was bent at the waist, one hand clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, the other pointing wildly in Ominis’s general direction. He gasped between fits of breathless cackling, his voice breaking into high-pitched wheezes, his entire body shaking with uncontrollable mirth.

Ominis inhaled deeply through his nose, his jaw tight, his grip on the bridge of his nose whitening his knuckles. He tried—tried—to will himself into calm.

It didn’t work.

Because Sebastian was still laughing. Because this morning—the most perfect morning of his entire miserable, tortured existence—had been utterly, violently desecrated by Sebastian bloody Sallow, who had apparently appointed himself agent of chaos and ruiner of happiness.

“OH—OH, THIS—” Sebastian wheezed, laughing so hard he snorted. “THIS IS INCREDIBLE—”

That was it. That was the last bloody straw.

Ominis had the vague, dull thought that murder was technically illegal, but at this moment, he was fully willing to risk it.

He flung back the covers with enough force to send a rush of cool air through the room.

Sebastian, meanwhile, still had the audacity to stand there, grinning, hands on his hips, clearly about to launch into a monologue about how he was right all along—

Ominis didn’t give him the chance. He surged to his feet.

Sebastian’s grin instantly faltered. “Ominis, wait—”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Sebastian had always been fast. Quick on his feet, trained in dodging punches, skilled in knowing exactly when to run for his damn life.

And run, he did.

He scrambled backward so fast he slammed into the doorframe, nearly knocking himself out, before turning and sprinting down the hallway like the devil himself was after him.

Which, to be fair, he was.

“Ominis, mate—”

“YOU BLOODY IMBECILE—”

“I WAS JUST SAYING GOOD MORNING—”

“DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO FUCKING KNOCK—”

You sat in bed for a long moment, blinking at the now-empty space where Ominis had been while listening to the heavy thud-thud-thud of feet flying down the staircase.

From the bed, you could only stare at the open doorway, watching the last fleeting glimpse of Ominis’s bare back before he disappeared completely down the stairs, hot on the heels of his laughing, screaming best friend.

“Merlin’s sake, Ominis, let’s be rational about this—!”

“Rational?! You just—”

Then came the sound of furniture scraping against the floor—probably Sebastian vaulting over the sitting room sofa in his escape. A muffled thud followed, then Ominis’s furious voice.

“STOP RUNNING AND FACE YOUR FATE, YOU COWARD.”

Sebastian’s response was a hysterical, “AS IF—”

Another loud thud followed. Something crashed. Possibly a chair.

“Okay, ow, that was unnecessary—”

You groaned, rubbing at your face, exhaustion weighing down your limbs. All you had wanted was one peaceful morning—one slow, perfect, love-drunk morning wrapped up in Ominis.

Instead, this.

That's when the back door slammed open.

You sighed, shoving the blankets off and forcing yourself out of bed, your body sluggish and still aching from last night (not that you were complaining). Tugging Ominis’s oversized shirt down your thighs, you stumbled toward the window, blinking sleepily against the morning light.

What you saw was nothing short of absurd.

Sebastian was sprinting across the grass in the back garden, kicking up damp earth in his wake, absolutely booking it toward the far side of the yard where the trellis climbed up the garden wall, and right on his heels—furious, relentless, and hellbent on bloodshed—was Ominis.

“I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE NICE!” Sebastian yelled, breathless as he dodged a thrown shoe (where did Ominis get that?)

“YOU ARE A PLAGUE UPON THIS EARTH, SALLOW!” Ominis shouted back.

Sebastian shrieked—an actual, honest-to-Merlin shriek—as he realized that Ominis was not slowing down.

He made a desperate grab for the trellis, yanking himself up in a frantic attempt to climb over the garden wall.

Big mistake.

Ominis was on him in seconds, gripping the back of his shirt and yanking so forcefully that Sebastian let out a strangled yelp and tumbled backward, landing in a heap on the grass.

You winced. That sounded painful.

Ominis, meanwhile, did not give him time to recover. He was on him immediately, shoving Sebastian onto his back, pinning him down by the shoulders with an iron grip.

“You are the worst human being alive,” Ominis seethed, breath still ragged from the chase.

Sebastian grinned up at him, eyes still watery from laughing too hard. “That’s a bit dramatic—”

Ominis shook him. Sebastian wheezed.

“You—” Ominis snarled, his voice low and deadly “—are lucky that I respect Anne too much to murder her brother.”

Sebastian, still grinning like an absolute menace, coughed, clearly thrilled by the whole situation. “Merlin’s sake, Ominis, you’re acting like I—like I walked in on you shagging her—”

Ominis’s grip tightened. Sebastian immediately regretted everything.

“WAIT—WAIT, NO—”

Too late.

Ominis decked him.

It wasn’t his full strength—just a precise, well-aimed punch to the shoulder, but it was enough. Sebastian yelped, clutching at his arm, curling in on himself like a wounded animal.

“Oh, come on,” he groaned, rolling onto his side, still winded. “That was unnecessary—”

“So was your existence in my bedroom this morning, and yet here we are.” Ominis huffed, shaking out his hand as if debating whether or not to go for round two.

You, watching from the window, sighed deeply. You had a feeling that if you didn’t intervene, this ridiculous chase was going to last all bloody morning.

You leaned out the window, out just enough for your voice to carry across the garden.

“Ominis!”

He didn’t let go of Sebastian's shirt.

The brunette, however, perked up, flashing you the smuggest grin imaginable. “Good morning, darling!” he called sweetly, dodging a swipe from Ominis at the last second. “Sleep well?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Ominis, love,” you tried again, making sure your voice was sickly sweet, laced with just enough teasing to make him falter. “Are you really going to let him take you on a full lap around the garden when you could be back in bed with me?”

That did it.

His grip on Sebastian's shirt slackened, his breath still heaving from the chase, but his priorities had just been rearranged. Because you were right. He had far better things to be doing than entertaining Sebastian’s nonsense.

Ominis stood to his full height and turned on his heel, stalking back toward the house. When he reached the door, he paused, tilting his head slightly in Sebastian’s direction.

“For the record,” Ominis said smoothly, “if you ever pull something like this again, I won’t stop at one punch.”

Sebastian, sprawled dramatically in the grass, grinned up at the sky. “Worth it,” he sighed contentedly, massaging his shoulder.

Ominis didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned back toward the house, his pace quickening as he climbed the stairs.

As soon as he stepped inside the bedroom, he felt you—warm hands against his chest, laughter still humming in your throat as you tilted your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

“You look murderous.”

“I am murderous,” he muttered, rubbing his temples as if physically willing the memory of the past ten minutes out of his head. “He’s never going to let this go.”

You grinned. “Of course he’s not.”

Ominis let out a long, suffering sigh—but then you were pulling him back toward the bed, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“Come back to bed,” you murmured.

Ominis exhaled slowly, his fingers finding your waist, curling into the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt. Just like that, the last remnants of frustration, irritation, and righteous fury toward Sebastian Sallow unraveled, dissolving into something softer. Something infinitely more important.

“Really?” You ask, a warm hand landing on his thigh that he tries not to startle (or fluster) at as he feels you turn towards him on the bench the two of you were currently occupying. “Perhaps you ought to come with me next time, I’ll show it to you.”

He smiles against his better judgement, because he’d love to go to Hogsmeade with you, and he’d love for you to guide him about much of the Highlands like a well trained crup. But he still couldn’t see, and you still didn’t know. 

“I…would very much like that.” He says honestly, weighing his next words carefully as he tries not to visually mourn the loss of your hand on his knee. “You’re welcome to show it to me but, well, I’d not be able to see it.” 

He’s met with a beat of silence that has him resisting the urge to start feeling around him to confirm you - and your hand - hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. 

“You’d not be able to see it?”

He feels something within him unclench at the sound of your voice, though his body remains tense. “No, I… well, honestly, I’m surprised you’ve not noticed before but, I cannot see.” 

“You cannot see.” You repeat, though not in question, but rather confirmation. He wishes more than ever that he could see, feeling terribly vulnerable and self conscious as he imagines your eyes scrutinising him. Judgemental eyes are not a new sensation for Ominis, but it burns deeper simply because they’re yours.

”Not at all.” He confirms, a self deprecating smile on his lips. “I’m completely blind, I have been since birth.” 

You’ve gone quiet again, and Ominis has the sudden urge to fill the silence with rambling explanations, as if you were owed the story of Ominis’ sight, or lack thereof.

”My parents - blood purists and dark magic enthusiasts - were concerned that I or my mother had been cursed while she was expecting me. But no spell or potion was able to correct my vision; and many, many were tried. I rely heavily on my wand to navigate the world around me; I’m not sure how it knew to do so, but I believe the Ollivander’s wholeheartedly when they say that the wand is sentient. The wand chooses the wizard, and all that.”

”I see.” Is all you say in response, and Ominis prays that, Merlin willing, the ground will simply open up and swallow him whole. 

“I…well…that’s why my eyes look the way they do.” He continues, turning slightly in the direction of your voice. “Sebastian has told me they’re…foggy.”

”I just thought they were beautiful.” You admit quickly, and Ominis’ head actually rears back at your quick, simple deliverance of a statement that sends his heart into orbit. 

“Beautiful?” He asks incredulously, voice cracking almost painfully prompting him to clear his throat.

“Very.” You agree, and he can hear the smile in your voice which has his shoulders relaxing and a smile of his own painting his features. 

“Did you never wonder why I don’t make eye contact with you?” He asks around a laugh, relaxing even further when you return it. 

“I figured you were perhaps shy; making eye contact is difficult for some people.” 

He hums in acknowledgement. “Or impossible for others.” 

“I suppose so.” You chuckle, pausing before your hand is on his knee again. “May I?”

And he doesn’t know what you’re asking his permission for, but he gives it to you anyway; nodding his head which finds your hand leaving his leg and appearing - feather light touch - on his cheek, your other hand doing the same on the opposite side of his face. 

You tilt his head up - assumingly to point directly at you -  as your thumbs brush soothingly along the skin under his eyes. They flutter closed on their own volition, his lashes dusting along your thumb before they open up again. 

And whether it was his wand sensing it, your magic expressing it, or just simple intuition, Ominis could feel the smile adorning your face. 

“Beautiful.” You whisper, and Ominis finds that he can’t help but believe you.

After a long study session, you were both lounging carefree on the opulent burgundy couch set against one wall; a gaudy luxury that you fought tooth and nail to add to the cold expanse of the undercroft so that you could rest while you did some reading, or simply when you were too tired to return to your dormitories. Two tall stacks of books rested on the low table in front of you, some even open and scattered across the carpet on the floor, as well as piles of half-scribbled parchment, inkwells and quills. The flickering flames arranged in the braziers hanging on the walls provided an orange illumination that was both functional and comforting to the eyes. In the cushioned space between you two lay the remains of two boxes of Chocolate Frogs - his clearly opened in a much more elegant manner than yours.

Outside the castle the snow fell without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals, but inside the walls you felt safe and warm.

"She was clearly interested in more than just his guidance on creature care."

Despite the suggestive tone, there's a soft smile on your lips as you says this, your feet swinging languidly on the tabletop where they're propped up on top of each other.

"No surprise there." He snorts beside you, a sullen quality to his tone that definitely wasn't there a few seconds ago. "This sort of thing always happens to him. And oh, he's so pompous about it too, really insufferable. It's obvious by now that he can have any girl in school, even some boys I dare say, and he's amply and unfortunately very aware of it. It's annoying that he has that kind of power, if you ask me."

This time you can't help the amused chuckle that escapes your lips, perfectly conjuring behind closed eyelids the sullen pout the man is surely making just by his tone of voice.

"Careful now, Gaunt, some poor unsuspecting person who hears you speak like that might interpret your words as jealousy." Your tone oscillates between a weak attempt at reprimand and amusement, enjoying poking the poor man. "What's wrong, haven't you been getting enough attention from the student masses?"

It was a teasing comment, intentional in the aim of maintaining the fun and pleasant atmosphere that surrounded them. But when a few good seconds pass without him saying anything in return, you slowly allow your eyes to open, staring at the Slytherin sitting next to you.

The first thing you notice is how tense his body is; shoulders rigid and head turned away from you, hands clenched tightly on his thighs. He looks uncomfortable in every tiny line of his tall body. He's not denying what you suggested and you've teased him enough times in the past to know that he should have done so already if he disagreed with your words.

Oh

"I would find such a notion rather unbelievable if that were the case, of course, since this is you we're talking about." You murmur slowly when it becomes obvious he's not going to respond, watching his every reaction intently as you fish for information.

"What—wait, what are you talking about?" He looks a little dazed, tilting his head toward you just a fraction, but you continue your train of thought, taking advantage of the fact that you have his attention once more.

"Well, you're Ominis Gaunt. Not only do you have all that physical representation of cold elegance and an aura of royalty that your House so annoyingly likes to impose, but you're also a member of one of the most notorious families in the wizarding world. It's hard to believe that there isn't a line of lovestruck hearts out there just waiting for an opportunity to date you. I bet you're just as popular as Sebastian these days - you're just more discreet about it than him, obviously."

Your comment, although honest in every word, is made innocently, with no apparent justification for any fuss - just sincere curiosity about the question raised. And that's why you're taken aback by his reaction to you. Even though he remains frozen where he sits with all the grace and refinement of an enchanted lord from a fairy tale, the poor man's cheeks burn with such an intense blush that you quickly find yourself worried that he's about to have some kind of silent breakdown.

"I-it's not quite like that." He straightens his already perfect posture as he brings a limp fist to his lips, covering his sudden stutter with a subtle cough that, in and of itself, carries more pomp than you could ever achieve in your entire life - which, of course, only confirms what you've just said. "While my family is admittedly reputed in the wizarding world, I can assure you that it is not in a good way at all. And it goes without saying that everyone here knows it too. They vacillate between avoiding me as if I've been jinxed with a repulsive Slugulus Eructo or fearing me as if I'll Avada them at the slightest sign of movement. That in itself is a major romance deterrent, you know. I don't blame them, of course. My family's crimes extend to me through the bloodline, whether I like it or not. It's inevitable, really."

You part your lips, all too ready to interrupt what was proving to be the beginning of another session of misplaced guilt from the Slytherin, when you see him smirking. His pale cheeks are still stained with that pink dust, but his lips are stretched in a mischievous pull that actually disguises his embarrassment for a few seconds.

"Besides, although I am, as you well know, completely averse to the dark practices of the Gaunts, I confess to taking advantage of all that reputation, sometimes. It suits me at some very specific moments."

You tilt your head, giving him your best unimpressed look.

"Oh, I am quite aware of that. Your readiness to use the Gaunts' reputation for your own benefit was especially evident that night when you threatened to terrorize my last generation if I opened my mouth about the Undercroft. You certainly know how to make a good point when you put intention behind it."

It washes the smile from his lips so instantly it's almost comical, leaving behind only a kicked, embarrassed expression, the flush in his cheeks highlighting the constellation of beauty marks on his porcelain skin.

"I - I already said I was sorry about that, I was just -"

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it doesn't bother me anymore. I'm just teasing you." You cut him off with a sly smile. "Anyway, you're not going to get away from the real issue here."

Because, well...you really couldn't stop thinking about the suggestiveness of his previous statement. The possibilities - oh - were running through your brain nonstop. So, against your better judgment, and with your cheeks flush with heat, you find yourself pressing him on it.

"I don't understand what exactly you want to know." He mumbles, trying to cover up his embarrassment with a look of disinterest that is too poor to be taken seriously.

"You...have been with someone before, right?" This time you're deadly direct, no hints or openings for half answers. You had a question and you wanted to clear it up, your embarrassment in uttering such words wouldn't be enough to stop you. "Ah, intimately, I mean."

Obviously, it's not the kind of question that a decent lady would have asked a young man of such high prestige as Ominis Gaunt, you imagine. But after everything you've been through since you started your journey at Hogwarts, you feel bolder than the tolerable standard for young ladies, as if you'd lost some of your subtlety somewhere along the way. But how could you not?

More times than you can remember, you've been teetering on the brink of death, facing enemies who didn't think twice about whether or not you were too young for such things. More times than you can remember, you've been responsible for making decisions that would directly impact the lives of many people, even the wizarding world as a whole. The power in your hands, the skills and the often almost unbearable weight that such responsibilities brought to your life, made your mentality run miles ahead of those of your schoolmates - of society, in general. Inevitably, you felt that circumstances had forced you to develop a sense of urgency and raw honesty that even some adults lacked.

It was true that you lacked practical experience in some intimate matters - now mind you, you didn't exactly have a lot of free time for romantic interests and sex, too busy between the Keepers Trials, running tirelessly through the Highlands performing exhausting tasks for every poor soul who crossed your path - tasks that often culminated in your near death - attending the many classes during the day and the intensive study for the O.W.L.s in the library.

It was a true miracle when you managed to find time to sleep in your own bed in the dormitory - more often than not you were so exhausted that you simply lay down wherever you were and took a nap.

The fact was that you weren't exactly experienced in matters of intimacy, not really. There had been a few daring kisses here and there, of course. Even a few curious hands while you were snuggling with a Ravenclaw boy between the shelves of the library, hidden from Madam Scribner's watchful eyes. But you hadn't gone any further than that with anyone - even though the rumors circulating around school were that you and Sebastian Sallow had once been caught in an embarrassing and quite explicit situation in the Prefects' Bathroom. Which, of course, was a blatant lie. You had only been in the Prefects' Bathroom once and it certainly wasn't for any...carnal purposes.

You suspected that it was Sebastian himself who had started such rumors.

Either way, your lack of experience in the field had never bothered you much. Honestly, you didn't have the energy to bother yourself with it more than superficially. But you’d be lying if you denied that the prospect that Ominis, the most unfairly handsome and well-born boy you’ve ever met, might be as inexperienced as you is doesn’t offer a kind of comfort you didn’t even know you needed — as well as a funny thrill of anticipation in your belly.

You blink slowly as you stare at his handsome profile, bracing yourself for more of his cold scowls and frustrated huffs of impatience — perhaps even a sermon on how unladylike it is to ask such questions. He’s very good at sermons. Instead, however, you’re met with something else entirely. The upturned bridge of his nose is stained with blush, as are his cheeks. His unseeing gaze is turned away from you, his lips pressed tightly together, the corners slightly turned down. He looks…nervous? Distressed? You feel bad for pushing him like this. But as blushing and regretful as you are, the thought of what this means makes your heart beat faster by the second. The thought that you were right about your deductions after all makes your throat almost dry.

"H-hey, Ominis," you stammer awkwardly, but he still doesn't tilt his head in your direction. His arms are crossed over his chest like a physical shield, his entire posture screaming barely contained tension, making you slowly pull your feet off the table and adjust yourself on the couch so that you're sitting sideways to face him better. You take a deep breath, but Merlin, the air between you feels heavy now. It's strange, really; you don't think the two of you have ever been this awkward around each other, except for the first time you had a conversation - which was actually more of a threatening monologue on his part than a conversation per se. The regret of having insisted on this subject begins to weigh on your chest - a sincere fear that something that seemed so harmless to you a few minutes ago could be the cause of a crack in the bond you've arduously cultivated with Ominis is taking root in your mind.

You adjust uncomfortably the red hood of the robe around your neck, thinking that it wasn't worth trying to satisfy your curiosity after all - and let it be recorded for all that a Gryffindor knows when to give up their pride and admit to having made a bad decision, no matter how bitter the aftertaste is on your tongue. With a forced smile on your lips and a hand rubbing the back of your head, you silently pray that your next words will ease the heavy mood that has settled in the Undercroft.

"You know what? Let's forget about it. This is really none of my business and I'm sure that -"

"No." Ominis interrupts you shyly, impossibly redder than before and you immediately shut up, eyes wide as you stare at him with your heart wanting to fly out of your chest. "I've never been like this with anyone." The small tremor in his voice indicates how nervous he feels.

It would be comical if it weren't so desperate how by now you were already certain of this statement and yet it still manages to leave you completely speechless when it leaves his lips. The regret of having started this whole thing is ridiculously more overwhelming than before because you simply don't know what to say now that you've heard what you already knew all along. Thinking back now, what in Godric's name did you plan on saying in the first place? He would confess what you suspected to be the truth and then what?

Congrats, that's what you get for being so inappropriately curious.

"T-there was this girl in fourth year and we, well, she kissed me - but it was weird and a complete accident, it only lasted for a second and...and after that I never, you know...I've never been interested in anyone like that...at least not until -"

You think you might just burst into a ball of flames from how scorching your skin is, and Ominis is obviously as disturbingly embarrassed as you are because he's gesticulating with his hands and babbling nonstop, his nervousness causing him to reveal far more than you had initially asked, making both of you more awkward by the second.

Oh. Oh, Merlin. He hadn't even kissed anyone. At least not really.

What are you supposed to do with this information?!

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sighing so deeply that his shoulders slump with the movement, deflating the way a balloon punctured by a needle would. 

Despite your brutal state of embarrassment, you frown, leaning forward on the couch so that you’re a little closer to him. “Sorry? Why are you sorry? I’m the one who asked you things that didn’t concern me. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

Ominis gives you a shy smile that lacks any sincere joy. “I know, but still. I mean, I shouldn’t have — it’s weird for me to say these things about you, even though I’ve wanted to say them for a while. But I didn’t — I just didn’t want it to be this disastrous.”

In retrospect, you think this might all just be a trick of your overactive imagination. It's quite possible that you simply blacked out while Ominis was telling you about Sebastian's latest romantic endeavor - in his deep, soft voice - and that this is all just a dream.

It's a very plausible option, given that this has happened before. His presence, always so calm and controlled, combined with his mesmerizing baritone have guided you into a lethargic state of drowsiness more times than you can remember. It's just how he makes you feel - relaxed and safe.

Yes, that's what's happening once again. It has to be. Why, for heaven's sake, can't you have just heard what you think you heard, right?

But the way he stands there, serious features and a deep blush on his face, waiting for your answer with a visible degree of insecurity in his normally impassive being, is what makes you finally say something.

"W-was that about me?" You let out quietly, your racing heartbeat somehow accelerating even more, to the point where you question the harm this would do to your health. "When you said you've never been interested in anyone like that, at least until..." you continue, trying to bring some semblance of order to your thoughts, "was it me you were talking about then?"

It took a few seconds before he nodded once.

"I've wanted to talk to you about this for a long time. But there was always something going on - someone you needed to help, a poor creature needing to be rescued in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, a Goblin Helm to be recovered in a cursed cave far away from here..." he chuckles softly and you find yourself laughing back, shy and gentle, though a long exhale leaves your lips as you feel a bit of lightness begin to permeate the air between you two once more.

He reaches for you hesitant, but gently - oh so gently - places his cold hand above yours on the couch. You don't flinch or avoid his touch, though you still stare for a few seconds at the place where his long, pale fingers cover yours, trying to assimilate the unreal image that unfolds in front of you. And when your gaze rises and finally finds his face, it almost breaks your heart.

Realistically, you know he can’t see anything at all, but that becomes an afterthought in your mind as soon as you look at him. His eyes, bright, pale blue orbs like two moon-like spheres, are tilted and fixed at the exact same level as yours — and in this particular moment, you’re certain he’s seeing you, as impossible as that possibility may be. Swallowing the saliva that’s building in your mouth is suddenly a difficult task, but you force yourself to do it anyway.

"Ominis, what—what are you trying to say?”

You whisper slowly, as if the mere question is a secret between the two of you, the unexpected intensity in his cloudy eyes making your heart stutter as he continues to stare at you, his bushy brows furrowed in an expression that’s hard to discern. Suddenly, you realize how close you’re standing. Nothing but a small gap in the couch separates you, where your hands are clasped together and two boxes of Chocolate Frogs still rest. You can smell him, confunsing your mind as you unconsciously lean a little closer to him — fresh mint, chocolate, and something that reminds you of open parchment or the scent of the pages of a rare book.

He breathes your name huskily, and you feel your cheeks tingle with the heat of a fresh flush of blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he says earnestly, more whispering the words than saying them, his hand tightening in yours a fraction more, and all you can do is stare at him in utter shock. The expression on his face is vulnerable, evidenced by the furrowed lines of his brows in what looks almost like agony. But he’s also determined — a single-minded determination that’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. "It took me a while to understand it, but I think I've been since the day I met you, to be honest. When you arrived late to the Great Hall, out of breath and in a hurry, but still so ecstatic with everything around you - as if being brutally attacked by a dragon while trying to get to school was no big deal. You've been stunning to me ever since. It was impossible not to be completely enchanted by you."

You're at a loss for words, so you don't even try to find them, opting for silence as you repeat his words on a loop in your mind.

It's strange how you always imagined confessions like this should be made in front of silvery moonlit ponds or in lush meadows during the spring season or literally anywhere that could be considered even remotely inspiring for romance. Certainly not in secret spaces filled with dust, crates and training dummies like the Undercroft. But here you are; overwhelmed and speechless by a declaration made in the last place you imagined you'd receive one.

And oh Merlin, you want to believe him, to entertain the idea that someone as utterly adorable as Ominis could feel that way about you - even though you've never been able to explain to yourself how you really felt about him.

Ominis Gaunt has always been an enigma.

The Slytherin's obvious qualities are nothing new to you; his gentle disposition despite his aloof facade and the weight of his family's unsavory reputation, or his polite and gentlemanly manners towards everyone. But these were attributes that anyone with even the slightest interest in him could see, qualities that didn't set him apart that much from others you knew.

But the truth is that, with time and familiarity, you noticed other distinct peculiarities in Ominis.

Leaving aside his ethereal beauty and his tall, majestic physique, which, again, are very obvious positive traits about him, he was the most captivating man you've ever met. The patience he possessed towards others, the fierce loyalty to you and Sebastian, the fact that despite the long sermons that accompanied it, he was always breaking the promises he made to himself in favor to protect and support those he loved. His far above average intelligence, the way he annoyingly always knows the right thing to say - even, and especially, at the times when you don't want to hear it. And, of course, his most attractive side in your opinion: the unexpected softness in his dark nature - it's about him being able to frighten and silence an entire room with just his imposing presence and still be the one to comfort and care, with kindness and respect.

You certainly understood that Ominis was someone seriously conflicted. The way he sometimes tended towards a cold temperament, or how, at times, he let his emotions guide him to his dark and cold side, did not go unnoticed by you. But still, you saw how he tried hard to let his gentle side prevail in his manner.

But

Did noticing these little details that would normally go unnoticed by others mean that you reciprocate his feelings?

Well, you felt safe with him. Even safer than you felt with Sebastian. While the latter was undeniably a friend you held in high regard (and even a small crush, if you were honest) he did not give you the same sense of complete comfort and trust that Ominis did. With Sebastian you felt like you had to constantly prove yourself, like just being who you were was never enough for him. Now with Ominis...

And as you stare at him, open-mouthed, searching for the right words to respond to his unexpected declaration, you think that maybe that's why you've never been able to put a name to what you felt for him. There was no heady, bubbling, flowery passion to announce any feelings, like there had been with your other brief flirtations before - or even with Sebastian. There was only the warmth, the relief, the peace of feeling whole and completely safe.

The feeling of knowing that if you were in a life-or-death situation and could count on only one person to save you, he would be the one to come to your rescue.

Godric

Realization borns in your chest to the point where you feel like you could float, like the feeling after eating a mouthful of Fizzling Whizzbees. Suddenly, you feel like you have so much to say, but you don't know how. Ominis, as usual, is much more eloquent:

"You wanted to know if I've ever been intimate with anyone, and my answer is no." He seems more hesitant, as if his hopes have been diminished a bit along with your prolonged silence, but his voice is still soft - as is the grip of his fingers on yours. "I've never been intimate with anyone because the only person I've ever wanted to be with was you."

All the air in your lungs leaves you in a sharp exhale, the warmth of deep admiration, affection and trust filling your chest and making your heart beat wildly. Overcome with emotion, you look once more at his hand holding your smaller one, opening your mouth, fumbling for the words in a confusing jumble of vowels and consonants.

"It's okay," Ominis assures you with a sad smile, his large milky eyes slanted downward, staring blindly at where he feels you squeeze his fingers. "I know it's a lot to take in at once. I don't mean to pressure you into anything, I swear. I just, I guess I just needed to tell you how I feel. But I understand if...well...I really understand that you don't feel the same way." His thick eyebrows sink, his face hardening slightly, as if he's already prepared for your rejection.

"Ominis." His name is a sigh from your lips. Touched. Longing.

You don't know how exactly what was supposed to be just another night of studying has brought you here. All you know is that you intend to enjoy every moment of this unexpected confession, eager to discover what new paths it might lead to.

The heat of Ominis so close combined with the way your heart had raced as you focused on his perfectly flushed lips, and how his scent was making your head spin, made you suddenly feel more impulsive than ever. And that's saying something considering your history of questionable choices.

You decide to go for it.

"Can I kiss you?" You ask in a frail whisper as you realize that nothing you could say would be enough to make him understand the emotions you're feeling right now.

His head snaps up at the question, his eyes wide and his lips parted.

"W-what? I mean, yes. Merlin, yes you can -" he breathes quickly, his pale skin stained with a deep blush, his orbs darting aimlessly. "But I've never actually kissed anyone - I might not be as good at it as -"

You cut it.

"I seriously doubt that."

This only makes him blush harder and you almost regret what you said, rushing to save him from the situation.

"B-but I can show you how, if you prefer."

You’re almost breathless at this point, vaguely reminding yourself that you’re no queen of the experience either, but when he nods eagerly, everything flies out the window and it’s like the pulsing muscle in your chest has given up on this whole adrenaline show and simply stopped beating.

Well, that’s it, you think as you push the boxes of Chocolate Frogs onto the rug with trembling fingers and move closer to Ominis until your legs are touching.

You’re almost facing each other on the couch now, his breath fanning your face, gentle and soft, and you stare for a moment into the milky expanse of his eyes. Pale skin dotted with a few beauty marks, perfectly sculpted jaw, elegant nose, flushed lips slightly parted.

For a moment, shame takes over you to the point where you almost turn around and beg him to pretend none of this happened. Almost. But his thumb lovingly caressing your knuckles is what grounds you in this moment once again.

You wouldn’t be a self-respecting Gryffindor if you gave up on your goals over a little embarrassment, would you?

“Right.”

You gently cup Ominis’ jaw between your fingers, delighted when he immediately leans into the touch, unable to hide the small hitch in your breath as you feels his heart rate spike as press on a pulse point.

You lean closer to him than you’ve ever been before, your noses not even four inches apart, his minty breath tickling your face. "Close your eyes, please,” your voice trembles weakly and you wet your lips before continuing, your skin so heated that you’re sure Ominis can feel the flames emanating from it without even touching you, “and then just do what feels right, I guess – let your body guide you.”

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore, but there he was, bathed in the flames of the braziers and the partial darkness of the Undercroft; his long, thick eyelashes fanning over his flushed cheekbones as he does exactly what you say, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your life.

He keeps one hand covering yours to stroke your fingers back and forth, his other hand, however, is on his own thigh, clenched into a tight fist – like a restraint. Restraint for what? You’re not sure. But the possibilities still conjure a swarm of butterflies in your belly.

Ominis leans in a little closer, almost unconsciously, parting his lips and inhaling audibly as you exhale a soft sound. Your hand slides down the sharp line of his jaw, stroking the curve of his ear with your thumb until you rest your fingers delicately on the back of his neck, guiding him to extinguish the last few inches that separate you as you let your own eyes drift closed. With a tentative brush of your lip against his, you press forward, sealing your lips and your heart with his in that moment.

The first touch is nothing and absolutely everything you imagined.

You sigh.

For the first second you freeze, afraid that you have no idea what you would do now that you finally felt Ominis Gaunt's plush lips on yours, but apparently your previous advice to him is very convenient and your instincts take over the worry almost instantly.

Your lips mold between his like a perfect fit, soft and moist, his heat invading your mouth in shy puffs. You melt almost immediately, letting the kiss remain chaste - a firm but soft pressure, with gentle movements over his.

All tension drains from your body because this is familiar; sweet, warming your body from the inside, like drinking butterbeer with friends in front of a fireplace on a cold winter's day - comfortable, safe. But it also gives you an anxious tingle that makes you unconsciously squeeze your legs together; your stomach twists and turns with funny somersaults, the swarm of butterflies more agitated than ever.

Having your lips collide with his, the softness and fresh taste he exudes, you realize how much you miss this - even if it's the first time you're experiencing it with him. So much for emotional incoherence.

Ominis breathes a shaky, heated breath into your mouth, fingers releasing your hand to grip your wrist in an almost desperate gesture.

You're the first to pull back, suddenly dizzy, blushing even more when he chases your lips for a few inches before stopping himself. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him slowly begin to open his too, a dazed look on his face, with panting lips and rosy cheeks that make him look both childish and incredibly sinful at the same time.

"O-Ominis," you whisper, panting as if you've just finished climbing one of the mountains in the Highlands. “That was…”

In a game-changing moment, he furrows his brows and locks his jaw once before parting his lips to say, “Can we do this again? I mean, do you want to… will you let me do it again? Like, right now?”

Despite your earlier determination, you find yourself whipped by the abrupt change in his tone. At the restless eagerness in his breathy voice, at the possessive grip on your wrist. How, in the blink of an eye, the tables seem to have been turned and he’s the one taking control now. But inexplicably, your own greed for more collides with his and you find yourself nodding, before remembering that he couldn’t possibly see your silent consent.

“Yes, please…”

Unlike you thought, he doesn’t immediately pull you to his lips. What he does, however, stuns you more than any alternative. His fingers, long and elegant, adorned with a few rings that are surely worth more than your life, close around the sides of your waist as soon as the words leave your lips, hoisting your body off the couch with such blatant ease that it would surprise you if you didn’t have more shocking things to deal with at the moment. Like, for example, the fact that he made you sit facing him.

On his lap.

You gasp, absolutely mortified, but, removed from all logic, you make no move to escape his grip; allowing your legs to remain parted on the sides of his thighs, hips against his, hands gripping his broad shoulders for stability.

Ominis, unlike you, seems quite at ease with the awkward position he’s placed you in, releasing your waist to tentatively raise his cold fingers to your burning face, pale blue eyes intensely and greedily locked on your features - features he could never see. Not in the usual way.

“I can?”

Deeply disturbed by the way he’s looking at you and how quickly things have climbed, you can’t find the words to respond, choosing instead to take both of his wrists in your delicate, trembling fingers and guide his hands to your face. You try to control your rapid breathing as his fingers trace the angles of your eyebrows and jaw and the soft roundness of your cheeks and chin, the icy feel of his rings prickling your skin. His eyes slowly close, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he’s replicating the image of your face in his mind.

“You always smell like honey and lemon tea leaves.” He murmurs with a satisfied hum, and your eyelashes flutter along with your heart as he traces the arch of your eyebrow and then the line of your nose. Your mouth falls open unconsciously when his fingers touch the softness of your lower lip, and it’s Ominis who gasps this time. You watch in embarrassed ecstasy as his face darkens with a blush, the muscle in his jaw twitching once more, his thick eyelashes fluttering over the apple of his cheeks.

You nervously smooth the green hood of the robe around his neck, playing with the texture of the fabric to distract yourself from the intense emotions that threaten to make you faint.

“Your heart is beating so loud I can hear it from here,” he says softly, tracing the delicate cupid’s bow over your lips, a mischievous tug at the right corner of his mouth.

Your eyes widen a little as you let out a shy giggle, still pretending to maintain a confidence that has surely flown out the window long ago. Ominis once told you that since he lacked the fundamental sense of sight, his other senses have been immensely enhanced over the years, including hearing. And, well, your heart was beating so loudly and unkindly as the quickening footsteps of a Graphorn.

The thorough exploration stops for a moment so he can gently cup your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, and you feel the slightest pressure toward him. He pulls you straight to him.

Your faces are almost touching once more. You feel his soft breath on your cheek, hear his light but greedy intake of breath. His grip tightens the tiniest fraction.

Soft lips press against your cheek.

He doesn’t rush at all. The kiss lingers. A warm, syrupy sensation spreads through your body. Your hands tighten in the fabric around his neck. His lips press a little deeper, the tip of his nose nudging your temple affectionately. A warm sigh blows over your flushed skin before he pulls away. His fingers trail, impossibly soft, along your jaw in comforting movements as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, your other cheek, and another to the tip of your nose. His contradiction shocks you as much as it always has; how one moment he can be shy and hesitant and the next the most confident and dominant person in the world.

“So beautiful, sweet girl.”

You’re about to scream, bubbles of affection and desire exploding in your chest, your fingers itching to pull him in for another kiss. Wanting — no, needing — his lips on yours once more. You don’t have much control left, though. He’s stolen your confidence and turned it into a messy, tangled puddle of wants. You know what you want, but you don’t dare take it. Not when he’s clearly calling the shots like this. You’re frozen, barely breathing, and only vaguely aware that he’s touching your neck now, tilting your head so your faces are pressed together as he push his lips to yours again.

Merlin, yes

This time you actually shiver beneath his fingers, a helpless noise rising from your throat straight to his mouth. His other hand tightens around your waist, and the one on your neck slides into your hair, his fingers digging into your scalp.

This kiss is clearly different from the last, bolder and hungrier from the first contact. And you actually find yourself questioning the veracity of his claim about being inexperienced at this, because by Merlin' sake, he certainly seems very skilled to you.

You assume this is another one of those inexplicable situations where he’s exceptionally good at whatever it is he sets out to do, even if it’s the first time he’s doing it. The thought almost irritates you, as it reminds you of your first kiss — the one that was an awkward, painful mess of teeth chattering and more saliva than there should have been. But just as quickly as the feeling appears, it’s gone.

Your head feels light and buoyant, and it feels a lot like being enchanted with a Wingardium Leviosa the exact moment his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. Then, all you can seem to hold in your mind is the sensation — the heat of his tongue in your mouth, the almost painful stab as he pulls your head back by your hair, the shocking, abject excitement that surges as he starts to act more roughly. You moan, and he wraps his arm around your back to pull you so close to him that your chests are pressed tightly together.

You’re not sure when you do it, but behind your closed lids you swear you see entire constellations exploding with the sensations he gives you with his kiss.

There’s a certain degree of inexperience in the way his tongue moves inside your mouth, but that’s nothing more than a tiny detail when compared to the absolute hunger with which he seems to want to devour you. His saliva, like all of him, seems to melt on your tongue with the most addictive mint flavor - and, deliciously, the lingering taste of the chocolate you both ate not long ago.

It’s all overwhelming, perfect but overwhelming, and the dizziness comes faster than you could have anticipated, making your movements slower and heavier. A wet breath, a grunt from him, another maddening kiss, lips seeking lips, soft cotton under your fingertips. Ominis’s robe feels like a lifeline, and you grab it with everything you’ve got.

If you focused on something other than the sensation, you might notice how heated you both are and how flushed you look. Maybe you could notice Ominis’ hand gently releasing the death grip of your hand on his robe to place the aching fingers on the back of his head.

Just when your nails unconsciously scrape his scalp to pull a few strands of blond hair between your fingers, Ominis parts his lips between yours to release the most sinful of sounds — something that lies somewhere between a growl and a moan, and the thing goes like a lightning bolt straight between your legs.

It’s you who pulls him back into a feverish kiss this time, wet, breathy sounds escaping you both between the clash of your tongues as you press against each other. You’re hyper-aware of how hard he is beneath you, his length straining against the fabric of his uniform pants, and you blush — but you want him even more. Delicately but purposefully, you catch his swollen bottom lip between your teeth to tug once before licking it, but Ominis gasps so loudly and closes his hand around your neck so unexpectedly that you actually choke on a startled, high-pitched sound.

Regardless of the adrenaline rush the action generates, or perhaps precisely because of it, you brace your knees better on the couch around him, rocking your pelvis against Ominis’s before you even realize what you’re doing, enjoying the strangled gasp he lets out despite the almost fierce grip on yyour throat.

“Again. Do it again,” he breathes against your lips, resting his forehead against yours, and you do. Ominis begins to move too, thrusting his hips up while you thrust yours down, getting into a rhythm that has you both gasping in the silence of the Undercroft, the flames of the braziers the only other noises to be heard around.

His hand slides under your shirt without any warning, over the soft skin of your stomach and to the edge of your bra before pushing it up and over your breast. The shock of his cold fingers on your heated skin is so much that you cry out, your nipple hardening in his broad palm as you push harder against him, and the shuddering gasp that leaves him in response has you aching to touch him too. And, by Godric, has the Undercroft always been this suffocatingly heat?

You pull apart for air as Ominis chases your lips with his, the feverish movements of your hips momentarily ceasing.

“Ominis…?” Your unspoken question hangs in the air between you, curious, thirsty to know how far you both intend to let this go.

His nose brushes against yours, his brows furrowed in anguish, his eyes pale and intense. “Every…Every single time I heard you, or smelled you near, I felt this. This desire. I’ve imagined you, like this, with me. So many times. It’s always been you. I want this so bad.”

“Y-yes,” you whisper as breathlessly as he does, your words a shared secret between you two and the darkness. “I want this too. I want you.”

He sighs in rapture, pressing his grip on your throat a fraction further, kneading his hand over your breast until he catches a nipple between his fingers, teasing the flesh with the cold silver of his signet ring. “Then don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

The commanding quality in his normally restrained tone coupled with his unusual choice of dirty language causes a spontaneous clench in the wet region between your legs. With unsteady fingers you snake your hand under his shirt, mimicking the same liberty he’s taken with you, and feel his back arch in response as you slide your soft and warm palm across the hard planes of his abdomen. With your other hand, you hold a silky handful of his hair, pulling him into a hard kiss as you roll your hips over him again - both of you moaning at the sensual grinding of your intimate parts.

“Baby, just like that -” he breathes shakily as he pulls away from the kiss and turns his head. At first you think he might just be hiding his face in the crook of your neck, but when you feel a pair of warm lips on the delicate flesh of that area your eyes flutter shut.

“Ominis,” is all you can manage to say as you tilt your head to the side for better access and hold him tighter by the grip on the back of his neck, rolling your hips to press yourself against the Slytherin as he begins to gently suck on the sensitive skin.

There are so many layers between the two of you. Ominis’s pants, his underwear, your panties, the heavy robes draped over your bodies, the uniform shirts. Barriers that at the moment only serve to prevent the actual touch of skin on skin. And, Merlin, you want so badly to feel his skin against yours, but you feel like you can’t rush it. Either way, neither of you seem to have the patience for the task at the moment, his mouth on your neck feeling so incredibly good that you can’t think of stopping him from continuing – not even so you can undress.

This intimacy with him already surpasses any practical experience you’ve had, any previous secret make out session. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is more than you’ve ever felt before – more electrifying than raiding Goblin and Ashwinder encampments, more than rescuing a Hippogriff right under Theophilus Harlow’s nose, more than completing a Trial from one of the Keepers. And the sheer euphoria and newness of it all, the overwhelming and unfamiliar sensations, his panting breaths in your ear, the needy grip of his hands on your body, his cock pressed greedily between your legs – and, most of all, the fact that it’s him, is pushing you rapidly towards your inevitable end. You’ll come soon, and for the first time, not from your own fingers.

Ominis licks a particularly hard bite mark he’s just left (in a place that’s going to be pretty troublesome to hide, you think) and pulls back a few inches as you both move together, leaving you alone to deal with the overwhelming image of his face carved in lust; the way his porcelain skin flushes and his kiss swollen mouth opens in a long sigh, pearly eyes half-lidded between his thick lashes as he grinds eagerly against you, the normally perfectly straight strands of hair now messy from your fidgeting fingers, falling across his forehead in a way that’s disturbingly sexy.

“I thought something like this would never happen. I never thought you’d want me the same way. Not someone like me.”

The way he speaks, breathless and feverish, yet so vulnerable and sincere, has you tearing up before you even realize it, sinking your fingers into the space between his chest, right above where his heart flutters like the wings of a Golden Snitch.

“Ominis...you’re so beautiful. You’re perfect. I-I’m so sorry I didn’t notice your feelings before. But I’m here now - you have me now.”

The breath seems to be knocked out of him by your words and you can taste his need as your mouths push together again in a slick mess of saliva and teeth - this time in the right way. Your own mind goes blank, any capacity for thought draining from you as he releases your breast to bring both hands under the skirt of your uniform, possessively grabbing the soft cheeks of your ass between his fingers to pull your body in time with his thrusts.

“Salazar, how can you be so good?” He groans as he breaks the kiss and shamelessly grinds your quivering pussy against his swollen cock, the fabric of his pants growing wet - as much his fault as yours. “Oh, I…fuck, y/n, harder. Harder, baby, please.”

You feel like your face is literally on fire, but you do as you’re told, grinding yourself hard against Ominis and watching with hypnotic attention as his eyes drift closed, his head tilting back against the back of the couch as his hips thrust upwards more roughly. The Adam’s apple in his slender, pale throat bobs with each hard swallow, his skin beginning to glisten with a subtle sheen of sweat. He’s so gorgeous, the sight of him ravished like this is so enchanting that it takes a few seconds for you to realize he’s mumbling something - and a few more seconds for it to sink in that you don’t understand the language.

Because he’s speaking in Parseltongue.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing, considering his reservations about the dialect, too lost in the dizzying rush of pleasure. You are, however, hyperaware of the sounds that flow with hypnotic fluidity from his parted lips; harsh hisses, elongated chirps, vibrant trills of a pink tongue…

You may not understand what he’s saying, but you don’t need to be an expert in the speech to know that it’s definitely not something that should be said in public.

Your cheeks flush as he hisses something that sounds particularly filthy through clenched teeth, skin flushed and eyebrows furrowed in an almost irritated frown — which only makes him more irresistible to your eyes.

You can’t help the way your legs widen to their maximum limits, trying to mold your pussy to the thick line of his cock hidden beneath his pants as best you can.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he whispers, seemingly back to normal speech (a part of you regrets this), his mouth opening in a guttural moan.

“O-Ominis—” You say, tasting his name in your mouth and it almost sounds like a question, but he fucks himself harder against you, clawing at the flesh of your ass to keep you in place, thrusting his hips into yours until you’re moaning louder — even with the barrier of fabric separating you, you feel it perfectly when the rounded head of his cock manages to hit the exact spot where your clit is.

“Louder,” he growls, lifting his head to you once more, chasing that beautiful sound that came out of your mouth like a starving man. “Let me hear who you’re rubbing yourself against like that.” He leans down and licks a stripe down your throat to your ear.

“Oh, Ominis—” You gasp louder, arching your neck to give him more acess. You can’t even finish your sentence, your lips parted in an “o” as his cock pushes against your pussy in the sweetest way. Your thighs are trembling now, and it feels so good, and you’re going to come, you know you will. “Please, please, you’re going to make me-” the muscles in your stomach are already clenching in anticipation, your back arching, and there’s a high-pitched sound wanting to rip from your throat and you know it’s going to be loud if you can’t control yourself.

“Come on, that’s it, just like that,” he rasps, and your moans grow more intrepid, until they finally turn into desperate gasps as you feel yourself one small step away from the edge.

It feels a little like going crazy, like being out of your mind, just using each other, fucking dirty and rough through your clothes, and you barely realize you’re digging your nails into the skin of his chest until Ominis’s head is jerking back, a sound that fluctuates between a moan of pleasure and pain leaving his lips — even as he murmurs a ‘keep going, please don’t stop.’

“Give it to me, my pretty girl,” he murmurs breathlessly, and you pull the blond strands of his hair between your fingers, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open with sounds that only make his grip on your ass grow greedier. Fuck, that feels good. “Come on, y/n, baby—”

His needy plea is what sends you flying over the edge. Within seconds, your eyes are watering hard, a spiral of lightning-fast heat hitting you as your pussy flutters and clenches around emptiness, the familiar wetness soaking your panties even more.

You cover your mouth a second too late, nearly choking on the scream you muffle into the sweaty palm of the hand that was once under his shirt, your orgasm ripping through your body without any subtlety. Neurons collapsing, couch creaking with the force of your movements, vision blurring and darkening at the edges - but Ominis isn't done with you.

When your drunken gaze flickers open to focus on his face, you notice how absolutely enraptured he looks, his pale eyes locked on your face as if he can actually see you in your breakdown.

Your body is limp and shaking, but you press your forehead against his as he struggles to keep up the pace now that you've given in to exhaustion. Your mouth is parted as he breathes in and out right next to your lips, eyes half-lidded. You lean in to kiss him gently on the lips as he thrusts hard into you, cupping his face to pepper kisses across his cheeks amidst his moans.

One of the hands on your ass comes up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back so he can kiss your jaw. He thrusts into you hard enough that your body jumps up, but you hold on to him as best you can. Your bodies as entangled as they can be.

You even try to muster the strength to rock your hips against him, but his fingers in your ass tighten to keep you in place as he picks up the pace himself.

His fingers were digging into your flesh and your hair so hard it would have been painful in any other scenario. But not in this one. As it was, it was a reminder of how deep he was falling, how much he seemed to need this, need you, judging by his noises. 

“Come on,” you whisper when you manage to slide your lips to his ear, both of you sweaty and flushed, your little fingers scratching the back of his neck in comforting motions as you encourage him to reach his limit, “come for me, Ominis. Please, please -”

It works. Ominis parts his lips almost immediately, giving a husky moan of release that makes your pussy quiver back to life, his larger body tensing beneath yours, shuddering once, twice. His pale, cloudy eyes look watery for a few seconds, and his perfectly chiseled cheekbones are stained with the most charming blush beneath the sweat on his skin — fuck, gorgeous, that’s what he is.

He collapses back against the couch completely after a while, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame to keep you clinging to him. Not that he needs to. You’re too languid to move. Too exhausted and spent to care about anything or anyone other than him.

His head rests against your collarbone, rising and falling with your ragged breaths. Your arms wrap around him, your hand still lightly stroking his hair. There are blond strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, and you do your best to brush them back when he looks up at you, though his eyes are still closed, visibly pleased with the end result of this study session.

His own fingers run through the unruly strands of hair around your face, brushing a few behind your ear with a gentle caress. He opens his eyes after a while, orbs cloudy and ethereal, but you swear you can see an infinite constellation of glowing dots on their pale screen.

“I…” he begins hesitantly, his voice a little firmer now, though he still wets his swollen lips before continuing. “This meant a lot to me. You have no idea how much. But I don’t want to assume anything - I just, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to - you know, don’t feel like you have to be with me just because I…” he sighs, swallowing hard, trying to find the words to say something you already understand.

“Shhh,” you place the tip of your index finger over his lips, chuckling softly when he blushes, “I may have taken a while to realize it, but I also want to see where this can lead us. I do, Ominis.”

He sighs in relief, as if he’s come up for air after a long time underwater, cradling your face between the broad palms of his hands.

"Salazar, that's so good to hear. I really didn't know how I was going to go back to acting like just friends after what happened, if it was your decision." He murmurs seriously, but his sharp features are relaxed as he rests his forehead against yours.

"Don't be so dramatic." You roll your eyes as weakly scold him, though your heart is warm and cozy inside your chest, embracing this moment for what it is - precious. "Didn't you hear what I said just now?"

He pulls back a few inches, his nose wrinkling slightly as he tries to figure out what you're talking about.

He's so cute.

You can't help yourself before you purse your lips into a pout and plant a tender kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I told you you have me now, little fool."

The smile he gives you in response is extremely rare; full and bright, two cute dimples on each side of the cheeks, showing off his perfect teeth; everything as charming as the rest of him. Even though he doesn't say anything after your declaration, seeing something so unusual directed at you already tells you everything you need to know. You sigh in excitement, letting him pull you by the nape of your neck for another kiss, pouring all the adoration he feels for you into the act.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, your hair a mess of knots, your clothes wrinkled and askew, the space between you a wet, embarrassing mess - the heat from both of your robes heating your skin to an almost suffocating level. But neither of you makes any move to separate, or even to pick up your wands and cast a simple cleaning spell - too enraptured with each other and so completely satisfied that you happily ignore everything else.

You feel so happy. And, most importantly, ready for what is to come.

Outside the castle, the snow falls without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals. But here, in this dusty and unlikely place for romance, you feel safe and warm.