Chapter Text
The Gala is an atrocious cacophony of sounds.
Ominis’ ears itch with the steady buzz of chatter, his throat itches from the firewhiskey, and his calves itch underneath his wooden trousers. He fidgets with the empty glass in his hand, trying to both smile charmingly and blend seamlessly into the tapestry.
It’s important that he be here. He needs to be as much here as he can bear — to chat, and greet, and hand out warm smiles. He knows that he’s an important figure and that his performance can help gather more funds for the children. This whole affair is a celebration of what they already achieved. He should love it. He does, in a way. It’s just so loud.
Someone clinks a glass loudly, and the crowd's roar dampens to whispers. The music fades out with a twirl of the violin. Ominis steps forward into the centre of the room, lips curled, head tipped up.
“—the opportunity to be here—” comes a male voice from the stage, rough and disfigured with the Sonorous. There’s a sharp crackling sound; the man coughs, and begins to speak clearly.
The room spins. Ominis clenches his fingers around the blessedly cold glass, begging himself not to faint. His head is heavy, swollen, and so are his knees. The voice is—
“—to be here with you today. I hope we can all flaunt our generosity today as much as we are flaunting our best attire — Yes, Mrs Buckwheat, I am talking to you.”
It’s not him. It can’t be him. It’s never him.
Of course, Ominis still hears him all the time. Usually, it is a tad more normal than this full blown delusion — a chuckle there, a familiar mannerism or twist of a vowel there. But this— It’s slightly roughened with age, a note lower, but almost unmistakably—
“I do not expect most of you to know me, so let me introduce myself. My name is Sebastian Sallow and I am representing the Hogwarts Library today. We have gathered a few of our rarest specimens for the auction later this evening and trust me, ladies and gentleman, when I assure you that even if the cause was not so noble these would be more than worth your while. Everything you have ever wanted to lay your hands on during your studies at Hogwarts is now right within your reach.”
Ominis does not drop the glass; it’s a very near thing.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes,” he says. “Must be the lack of fresh air here. There’s quite a crowd, no?”
He hears himself speak and feels himself nod, but he’s not quite sure what the conversation is about. He doesn’t hear one more word the man on the stage says, either.
He doesn’t hear one more word of what Sebastian Sallow says. Here, at the charity gala dedicated to Ominis’ children care unit, seven years after their last halted goodbye, seven years since Ominis stomped over the heart he’s been wearing on his bloody sleeve all that time and never turned back, never looked back— Seven years since—
There’s a round of applause, and before it dies out a decision is made in some wild subconscious part of Ominis’ brain, and he is squeezing through the moving, cheering, white musk-smelling crowd.
Someone steps on his foot. He apologises profusely.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry, excuse me.”
What if he doesn’t make it and Sebastian disappears into the sea of voices again, this time once and for all? What if he does make it, but Sebastian doesn’t—
An edge of the carpet curls under Ominis’ shoe and he slides on the polished floor, tipping forward. He grapples for his wand, but before he manages to think of a cushioning spell, a firm hand grasps him underneath the elbow and somehow simultaneously pulls him back up and turns the whole world on its axis.
Ominis would know this grip anywhere. It has guided him through enough. It’s so practised, so easy, as if Ominis’ bones have grown dented to fit the fingertips against them, and maybe they have—
“Ominis?”
Dear Sebastian,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I realise that you sharing the fact that you still live at Feldcroft was most likely not an invitation for me to reach out, but I could not quite stop myself from hoping that perhaps it was one. Feel free to ignore this letter in case it was not.
I wonder what Feldcroft is like right now. Did you change anything? Do the roses still bloom in June? Do you still have the gnome infestation problem every summer?
More importantly, what have you been doing all these years? I should have asked more back at the ball, but suddenly it was impossible to tell how much time had passed and none of the right questions came to me. I never would have expected to meet you there. Your voice is not that different at all.
I wonder what you look like right now. Is this too much to say? I suppose I have little to lose. Perhaps I should have waited longer to write this. And yet, here I am, still in my dress robes, heading straight for my owl as soon as I returned home.
Time is such a fickle thing. I do not want it to get away from me again.
I wanted to write to you, before. I wrote a few letters, actually. It just never seemed like enough or like the right moment to send them.
It still does not feel like enough, to be frank with you, but just talking to you made me think that… Well.
I would like to hear more about you, that is all. In case you are amenable yourself.
Sending you my very best regards,
Ominis
Dearest
My
To the one
Ominis,
I must admit that I was quite surprised to see your owl. Sunny, was it? She’s feisty as ever. I got a new owl myself. The previous one, well, she had a bit of an accident with a window. Multiple ones, actually. She wasn’t the pointiest egg in the nest. If you want to win the trust of this new addition to my absolutely fabulous bachelor family, just give her scritches behind her ear. (Her name is Bonner but she doesn’t know that yet, so don’t bother remembering it.)
Feldcroft. Well, what can I say? I suppose it hasn’t changed much since you left. Or it has. For me, at least, it has.
Forgive me, I promised myself I wouldn’t make this depressing. Seems like that’s all I do nowadays.
Yes, the gnomes are still here. No, I am not going to go out there and tell them you said hi.
I have a job, believe it or not. At the school library, but you probably already heard me say that at the event. Would it appal you if I told you that I actually enjoyed working with Scribner when she was training me? There’s quite an admirable ensemble of works that I never knew of in the restricted section. Perhaps I should show you some day after curfew, if it pleases you? See, now that was an invitation.
Somehow, I feel like I’ve only talked about myself. I want to hear about you. So, you’re a healer now. Admirable. I thought you were terrible with potions. Furthermore, I’m quite positive I caught a whiff of tobacco on you. A new habit? A lover? To be honest, I’m not a fan of either.
You wrote letters for me? You can still send them, you know. I don’t mind. As long as it’s not all about Hobhouse and how much you still hate him. Or, I don’t know, maybe I’d love to read those too.
Sebastian
P.S.: I included something with the letter. Don’t crumple it.
