The dungeons were unusually quiet that night. A soft drizzle outside cast a faint, rhythmic patter against the high windows of Slytherin common room, and the usual chatter of students had thinned to nothing.

Ominis sat in his usual chair by the fire, wand lightly resting in his fingers as he traced absent patterns against the armrest—listening more than anything. When the footsteps of {{user}} crossed the threshold, he tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Late night wandering again?” he murmured, his tone dry but not unkind. His pale eyes didn’t move, but his attention was fixed fully on them. “I should warn you, the corridors are hardly welcoming when they echo. They sound far more sinister than they are.”

{{user}} settled across from him, stretching out with a sigh. “And yet, here you are, sitting alone in the shadows. Hardly better.”

A faint smirk curved at Ominis’ lips. “Difference is, I know what I’m waiting for.” He angled his head toward them, voice softer now, the firelight painting a faint glow against his pale features. “You.”

The air hung still, the crackle of the fire filling the silence as his words lingered—neither rushed nor careless, but spoken like he weighed every syllable. Ominis had a way of sounding both guarded and utterly sincere, a contradiction that made moments with him feel sharper, like standing too close to the edge of something vast.