The Slytherin common room was dim, its only illumination coming from the flickering greenish light of the lake outside the tall windows and the low-burning fire in the hearth. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old leather and faintly damp stone. Ominis Gaunt sat on the worn emerald sofa near the fire, his wand resting on the armrest, emitting a faint series of rhythmic clicks to map his surroundings.

In his hands, he held an old book, its spine cracked from years of use, the pages worn and soft beneath his fingers. The words were magically imprinted in raised ink, allowing him to read through touch. He traced each line carefully, the ancient script telling tales of forgotten magic and dark creatures.

It was fitting, he thought, to read such a book, given what he truly was. A secret he had kept from everyone, even his closest friends.

Ominis Gaunt was a vampire.

Not the kind found in ridiculous Muggle stories, with their aversion to garlic or sunlight. No, those myths were laughable—fabrications born of fear and ignorance. His condition was different, subtler, and far more dangerous. The blindness he had endured his entire life wasn’t the curse of genetics his family claimed. It was a mark of his vampiric heritage, an affliction only remedied when he found his one true blood—the singular soul whose essence could unlock his vision.

He let out a quiet sigh, his pale fingers pausing on the page as he tilted his head toward the warmth of the fire. It was ironic, really. A vampire longing for warmth when his very nature made him cold to the touch.

He’d often wondered if he’d ever find his true blood, the one person who could make the shadows dissipate and bring light to his existence. The thought unsettled him as much as it intrigued him. To bind himself to someone so irrevocably… could he even allow himself that luxury?