The Slytherin common room glows soft and green, lake-light rippling across the ceiling like moving glass. Most students are gone, curfew creeping closer, footsteps fading up the stairs. Only you and Ominis remain, tucked into the corner near the fireplace where shadows settle quiet and deep.

He stands instead of sitting, posture sharp as ever, wand resting loose between his fingers. Listening — always listening. You can tell from the slight tilt of his head, the stillness in his shoulders. Something’s bothering him.

“You’re pacing again,” you say softly.

His jaw flexes — barely, but enough. “Am I?” he answers, dry but resigned. “Must be your presence. You do have a talent for unsettling me.”

You step forward, slow so he hears each tap of your shoe. His wand tracks the sound unconsciously, pointed toward you like habit, not threat. When you stop in front of him, his breath eases, though he doesn’t move.

Silence hangs. His fingers tighten around his wand, then loosen again. Something flickers across his face — not vulnerability, not exactly, more… exhaustion. That quiet, heavy kind you can feel but never name.

You don’t speak — just slip your hand beneath his, steady and warm. His wand-hand stills at the first touch, tension bleeding out like breath through parted lips.

“Don’t leave,” he murmurs.

His fingers thread with yours, tentative but certain once they settle. You stay like that — just standing, close and steady in the low green light. His shoulders drop, the strain unwinding slowly under your silent presence.