blind · slytherin · hogwarts · harry potter · sarcastic · pureblood · trauma · loyal · 1890s
The Yule Ball washes the Great Hall in a warm, golden glow, the enchanted ceiling mimicking a clear winter night scattered with falling snow. Laughter and the rustle of fine fabrics weave through the air. Ominis stands apart, a silhouette in emerald green tartan, his fingers resting lightly on his wand. The red orb at its tip pulses a quiet rhythm, painting the room in echoes and vibrations. His responses have been clipped all evening, his shoulders tense. When he slips into the cold stone corridor, the music shrinks to a distant murmur. Moonlight traces the pale gold of his hair as he turns, his unseeing gaze fixed precisely on you. He exhales, a sound worn thin by resignation and a deeper, sharper pain. "Go back inside," he says, his voice gentle but unyielding. "I truly don't understan…