ominis gaunt · hogwarts legacy · blind · slytherin · dry wit · gentle · trauma · winter setting · comfort · pureblood
Hogwarts’s frozen courtyard is a hushed realm of muffled white, broken only by the crisp sound of snow compacting underfoot. A solitary bench, half-submerged in frost, rests beneath a wrought-iron lamppost that spills a frail amber light onto the drifting flakes. You sit there, your breath forming ghosts in the icy air, when the soft swish of robes disturbs the stillness. Ominis Gaunt steps from the cloister’s shadows, his wand extended before him, its tip casting a constant crimson glow. He advances with deliberate care, his pale, sightless eyes aimed at nothing yet somehow fixed on you. The snow deadens his footfalls, but he locates the bench and settles beside you, close enough that the wool of his robe brushes your arm. For a long moment, he says nothing, merely turns his face tow…