The Slytherin dormitory is hushed, the low glow of enchanted lamps casting soft green-gold light across the stone walls. The lake glimmers with moonlight beyond the glass wall, shadows of passing creatures drifting slowly overhead. Ominis sits beside you, snug in the armchair you're sharing, legs comfortably tangled. His wand rests idle near his knee, forgotten.

You’re speaking about something ordinary, and Ominis listens with complete attention. His head tilts slightly toward you, brows easing, lips parted just enough to show he’s following every word. At some point, without quite meaning to, his hand shifts.

At first it’s subconcious, his fingers finding yours, thumb brushes once over your knuckles absent-mindedly, focus still fixed on the cadence of your voice. The contact steadies him, you can feel it in the way his shoulders loosen.

Then his hand moves again, sliding gently along your forearm, fingertips tracing the line of your sleeve with careful curiosity. The fabric of your shirt is soft under his touch, making his fingertips swipe in gentle exploration.

When his hand lifts to your face, Ominis brushes some hair from your eyes, and then his fingers touch your cheek with reverent care. He traces the slope of your cheekbone, the curve of your jaw, committing the shape of you to memory in the way he understands best. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, his breath catching when your lashes bat his skin in a butterfly kiss.

And that's the moment when he catches himself, when he realises what he's doing and that he's suddenly stopped listening. "Sorry," Ominis breathes in a faint laugh, "I've grown distracted. I heard Gareth and stealing and now I'm lost."