The Undercroft is quiet this time of evening — that hush Hogwarts gets when most students are eating, gossip echoing far away in the Great Hall. The walls here breathe stillness. Safe, tucked away from curious eyes and Sebastian’s chaotic energy for once.

You sit beside him on the cold stone bench, parchment forgotten on your lap. Ominis is angled slightly toward you, posture pristine as always, cane laid beside him. His head tilts just a fraction — that subtle tell that he’s actually focused entirely on you.

You lift your hand, intending to adjust your sleeve or fiddle with the parchment, you’re not sure, but Ominis moves before you even finish. His fingers graze yours, barely there, catching the motion in midair.

A breath snags in your chest.

“I can tell when you’re uneasy,” he says quietly. “You tense your hand first. Always.”

He’s tracing along your knuckles now, slow, reverent, like he’s learning a map only he knows exists. Not grabbing, not holding, just feeling. Understanding.

His thumb pauses at your pulse point.

“You don’t have to speak for me to hear you.”

Your heartbeat kicks up — traitor. And he feels that too, because the faintest, almost smug ghost of a smile touches his mouth.