Chapter Text
The Gaunt manor was a place built on pride. Its walls stretched high and proud across acres of land that no longer yielded anything beautiful, save for gnarled hedgerows and twisted old trees. Every surface gleamed, every antique sat precisely where it was meant to, all to give visitors the impression of a family rich in dignity and legacy. The Gaunts had always been proud of their bloodline, and that pride pressed down on every inhabitant of the household like a suffocating fog.
It was late afternoon, and Ominis was on his knees in the east corridor, a damp rag in one hand and a brass polish in the other. The sconces on the walls had already been cleaned, but his brother had passed through earlier and, without so much as slowing his stride, commented that Ominis had “missed a spot.”
The worst part was that Ominis had no way of verifying the claim. He doubted it, of course — he was painstakingly thorough in his cleaning, blindness notwithstanding — and he knew perfectly well how much Marvolo enjoyed taunting him. Still, Ominis had learned not to argue. He only dipped his head and replied in a flat voice, “Yes, brother.”
Marvolo’s footsteps clattered away down the corridor, leaving Ominis alone with his rag and his silence.
If he hurried, he might finish in time to steal a few minutes of reading before his next chore. If Mother caught him resting, she would only saddle him with more work. Fortunately, the library was usually safe; his family assumed he was always off scrubbing some remote corridor.
Ominis had long since memorized the shelves, and he knew that on the second floor, tucked beside a half-forgotten alcove, was a small section of Braille books. There weren’t many, but enough to keep him content. He had never been sure who placed them there. Sometimes he liked to imagine it had been his aunt, leading him as a child to that quiet alcove, sitting patiently as his small fingers traced the raised dots. Yet he couldn’t be certain if the memory was real, or simply a story his mind had invented to comfort him.
In any case, sentimentality was useless. He still had to polish every sconce again, since Marvolo hadn’t bothered to mention which spot he had supposedly missed.
The rag slipped in Ominis’ hand. He cursed under his breath, groping for it.
“Language,” his mother’s voice rang out sharply from the end of the corridor. Lady Gaunt’s voice was always cool, cutting, composed. She rarely differentiated between Ominis and the other servants in the manor. “Do try to remember you are not entirely without refinement, Ominis. Unlike your father, I still cling to some hope that you might make yourself useful in civil company.”
Ominis’s lips pressed into a thin line. He kept his head bowed, fingers working over the metal fixture. His mother’s footsteps clicked closer, accompanied by the rustle of her silk skirts. He could smell the overpowering perfume before she stopped near him.
“What a pitiful sight,” she muttered, as though speaking to herself. “On your knees, scrubbing like a servant. If you were not such… such a defect, we could have found some respectable arrangement for you by now.”
Ominis bowed his head further, biting the inside of his cheek. Arguing never helped. He’d learned that long ago.
“Mother,” Marvolo’s smooth, drawling voice carried down the hall. Ominis stiffened. Of course, Marvolo would appear now, like a cat seeking praise for delivering a dead bird. “You’re wasting your words on him again.”
“Ah, Marvolo.” Their mother’s tone warmed instantly, sweet as honey. “You’re back from your ride?”
“Yes. I took the bay gelding down to the river. He performed magnificently, as always. He’ll do well in the show this autumn.”
“Splendid. Your father will be thrilled.” Her heels clicked as she turned toward him. “We’ll have the tailor in tomorrow to measure you for a new riding coat. Only the best, of course.”
“Of course.”
Neither of them spared Ominis another glance. He might as well have been the furniture.
They swept past, their conversation fading into the distance. Ominis stayed crouched on the cold marble floor long after their voices disappeared.
Hours later, when the manor was quieter, Ominis retreated to the kitchens. The kitchen was the one place in the house that didn’t feel hostile. It smelled of warmth: of baked bread, roasting meat, and herbs drying in bunches above the hearth. The heat of the ovens pressed against his skin, and the air was alive with the clatter of pots and knives.
And there was Poppy.
“Merlin’s beard, Ominis,” she said with a small laugh the moment he stepped in, “you look like you’ve been at it for days.”
Her voice was light, full of gentleness that no one else in the manor ever spared for him. Poppy Sweeting was not much older than Ominis himself, though she’d worked in the household long enough that they’d grown together, almost like siblings. She was meant to be a maid, just another servant, but to Ominis she was — well, she was the only human face in this house of masks.
“I may as well have been,” he muttered, sliding into a chair by the fire. “Marvolo claimed I missed a spot on the sconces. I bet he said so just to mess with me.”
“Well, he’s a prat,” Poppy said matter-of-factly, setting down the basket of vegetables she’d been chopping. “Here, sit. I’ll fetch you something warm.”
“You’ll get in trouble if you—”
“I won’t,” she interrupted firmly. “They don’t come down here unless they want to shout about the soup.”
Ominis smiled faintly, weary though he was. He reached out, fingers brushing the wooden grain of the table until he found his usual spot. The warmth of the fire seeped into him slowly, easing the tension in his shoulders.
A moment later, a bowl was pressed into his hands.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Poppy warned.
He inhaled. Thick stew, fragrant with thyme and onions. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until just then. “You’re too good to me, Poppy.”
“Someone has to be.” She sat across from him, elbows propped on the table. “Tell me, did Marvolo brag about the horse again?”
“How did you know?”
“Because it’s all he ever talks about. That and his looks.” She made a noise of mock swooning. “Oh, Marvolo Gaunt, the handsomest man alive, destined for greatness.”
Ominis nearly choked on his stew. A laugh burst from him, sudden and sharp, and he clapped a hand over his mouth.
“There it is,” Poppy said softly, her tone shifting. “That’s better. You deserve to smile, Ominis. Even here.”
His throat tightened. He set the bowl down carefully, afraid his hands would shake too much.
“I don’t know if I do,” he admitted. “I feel like… like I’ll never be more than this. The blind boy, the shameful son. Father ignores me, Mother scolds me, and Marvolo … Marvolo doesn’t even see me as human. Just a flaw in the family portrait.”
Poppy’s chair scraped as she moved closer. Her hand found his on the table, warm and steady.
“You’re more than all of them put together,” she said fiercely. “They don’t see it because they don’t want to. But I do. You’re clever, and kind, and braver than you realize. And one day, Ominis Gaunt, you’ll have a life that isn’t defined by their cruelty.”
The conviction in her voice made him believe it, if only for a moment.
But the manor’s walls loomed heavy around him, and Ominis knew better than to hope too much. Hope, in this house, was fragile as glass.
The days blurred together. Morning after morning, Ominis rose at dawn to the sound of his father barking orders: clean this, polish that, ensure Marvolo’s boots were shined before he awoke. He scrubbed floors until his hands were raw, fumbled through endless chores designed to humiliate, and endured the constant chorus of comparison.
“Why can’t you be more like your brother?” his father sneered one evening after Marvolo had displayed his horsemanship to some visiting family friends.
“Because I am not Marvolo,” Ominis said quietly.
“Indeed. You’re not even half of him.”
Ominis stayed quiet. He was hungry, but he didn’t dare ask if any food remained for him. Later, he would have to ask Poppy if there were leftovers. Sneaking into the kitchen on his own was pointless; his family took care to tuck bread and fruit into hidden corners, knowing he would never find them without knocking things over in the attempt.
At night, when he finally returned to the small room tucked away at the far end of the servants’ quarters, he lay awake listening to the manor creak around him. Poppy had slipped him some bread and an apple, and despite his stomach being full, his chest felt empty. The silence was vast, pressing, broken only by the distant laughter of his family gathered in the drawing room.
And always, he wondered: was this all there would ever be?
One evening, after finishing his chores, Ominis sat alone at the kitchen table, his hands resting idly against the cool wood. The faint smell of baking lingered in the air, though the ovens were quiet now.
The door creaked, and light footsteps padded across the floor. Poppy slipped in, her voice carrying a grin.
“Did you hear?” she asked, excitement bubbling up before she’d even sat down.
“Hear what?” Ominis lifted his head, curious despite himself.
“There’s going to be a ball in town. A proper one. Everyone’s talking about it.” She slid into the chair opposite him, her hands clasped tightly, as though she might burst if she didn’t share the news.
“A ball,” Ominis repeated, and nearly laughed at the absurdity. “Do you really imagine my esteemed parents will allow their defective son to attend?” His tone was dry, almost bitter.
“Well, no, perhaps not,” Poppy admitted quickly, “but you’ll go anyway. Somehow. We’ll figure it out.”
He shook his head, lips twitching faintly. “You’re ridiculous. It would never work. Firstly, I’ve nothing suitable to wear to a royal ball. And secondly, even if I did, how am I meant to get there alone?”
“I could go with you,” Poppy said without hesitation. “You wouldn’t be alone. And I’ve got a friend that works as a maid at the castle. I’m sure she could find a way to slip us in. No one would notice a pair of extra guests in all the bustle.”
Ominis let out a long sigh, as though trying to blow away the tiny spark of hope she was coaxing to life. “If my parents find out, we’re both dead. More or less literally.”
Poppy made a humming sound.
“Maybe. But just imagine it, Ominis. Music, dancing, people who don’t know your name, don’t care about your family, don’t see you as anything but yourself. Wouldn’t you like that?”
For a heartbeat, he let himself picture it. The sound of violins, the warmth of voices untainted by contempt. The possibility of belonging, if only for an evening.
His chest ached with the thought.
“Yes,” he admitted softly. “I would like that very much.”
The formal invitation arrived a few days later, on a crisp sheet of parchment, embossed with the royal crest in gold. The butler carried it into the drawing room as though he were bearing a sacred relic, though in truth, it was the sort of invitation the Gaunts had expected for years.
Lord Gaunt snatched it before the man had even finished announcing it, tearing the seal with greedy hands. His wife leaned over his shoulder while Marvolo lounged on the settee, all lazy elegance, as though the entire world existed to amuse him. Ominis lingered by the doorway.
“By order of His Majesty the King,” Lord Gaunt read aloud, his voice swelling with self-importance, “their Highnesses Prince Sebastian and Princess Anne invite you to a masquerade ball at the palace this Saturday evening.”
“A ball!” Lady Gaunt gasped. “At last, a proper occasion to place our Marvolo where he belongs: among royalty.”
Marvolo smirked, tossing back his dark hair with calculated charm. “I hear Princess Anne is rather fetching. Perhaps I’ll take pity and offer her my hand.”
His mother swatted him. “Do not jest, Marvolo. This is serious. If you catch her eye, it would secure our family’s place forever.”
“And Prince Sebastian?” Lord Gaunt added. “He’ll no doubt be considering potential brides. It is a shame our second-born wasn’t a girl. Or intact.”
All three of them laughed, the sound grating against Ominis’ ears.
He stood a moment longer, face carefully schooled into neutrality, disinterest. Then, quietly, he turned and slipped from the drawing room before anyone thought to notice him.
In the privacy of his small bedroom, he sank onto the edge of his bed. Their words clung to him, echoing. Not whole. Not fit. Not enough. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could blot them out.
And yet, against his better judgment, the thought returned. The ball. Poppy’s voice urging him to imagine music, dancing, strangers who might see him as more than his family’s cruel joke. For one night, could he be someone else?
But the risks loomed just as large. His parents would discover the deception. Marvolo would mock him endlessly. And even if he managed to go… what then? Would he stand in a corner, pitied and ignored?
He shook his head sharply, trying to banish the thought. Dangerous. Foolish. Impossible.
And yet, in the hollow silence, the possibility whispered back: What if?
The days before the ball were filled with frantic preparation. Tailors came and went, fitting Marvolo for not one but two new suits: one of midnight blue velvet, another of dove-grey silk, each tailored so perfectly that Lady Gaunt nearly wept at the sight.
Ominis stayed out of the way as much as possible, retreating to corners and corridors where no one would trip over him. But that night, when he was alone in his small room, he opened the wardrobe and ran his fingers over the fabric of his own meager suits.
There were only three worth mentioning: one plain and threadbare, one way too small, and one — his best — that he’d worn only twice, both for funerals. It was black, of course, but the cut was still flattering, and though the cuffs had frayed slightly, it was at least dignified. Perhaps not enough for a royal masquerade ball, but it was the best he had.
He imagined himself in it. Standing in a ballroom filled with music, his cane clicking against marble floors, his head held high.
For once, not Marvolo’s shadow. Not the blind boy, the defect son, the disappointment.
For once, just Ominis.
Yes. He would go.
On the evening of the ball, the Gaunt household boiled with excitement. Servants darted through the corridors with armfuls of fabrics and trays of jewels; valets bent over gleaming shoes until their own reflections shone back; Lady Gaunt herself swept about in a rustle of silks, her sharp voice rising in constant reprimands. Every inch of the manor seemed alive with clamor and vanity.
In the midst of it, Ominis sat quietly in his small room at the far end of the servants’ wing. He had hurried through his chores earlier, polishing sconces and scrubbing floors with a fervor born of desperation. For once, no one had stopped him or loaded him with extra work. His mother and brother were far too absorbed in their own preparations to notice him at all. The neglect was a rare gift.
He buttoned the jacket of his black suit, smoothed the fabric with careful hands, and tied his cravat by touch, fingers trembling only slightly. His cane leaned against the bedpost, polished clean.
Poppy had offered to go with him, but he’d refused. His parents would never allow a maid to accompany them to a royal ball. And besides, if they saw him dressed properly — if he proved himself presentable, even worthy — they might permit him to join. What harm could it do? The carriage had four seats; letting him fill one cost them nothing. Once inside the ballroom, he could manage on his own. He would find a quiet corner, perhaps an empty chair, and simply sit. Listen to the orchestra, taste the food, soak in the atmosphere. His parents and Marvolo could throw themselves at the prince and princess to their hearts’ content, without sparing him a second thought.
When at last he descended to the front hall, his family was already gathered there, waiting for the carriage. He stood a little straighter, summoning all his courage.
“Ah, look,” Marvolo drawled. “The defect has dressed himself.”
Their mother’s laughter chimed in, cruel and sweet. “Ominis, darling, whatever are you doing? Surely you don’t believe you’re accompanying us?”
“I received the same invitation you did,” Ominis said quietly, forcing his voice not to tremble. “And I intend to go.”
The silence that followed was brief but sharp. Then his father barked a laugh.
“You? At a royal ball? What nonsense. Do you imagine the prince wants to trip over a blind boy? You’d humiliate us all.”
Ominis drew in a steady breath but did not waver. “I am going. You needn’t concern yourselves with me. I’ll find a seat and keep out of the way. You won’t even notice I’m there.”
Marvolo sauntered forward, voice drawling and mocking. “If you insist on making a fool of yourself, at least allow me to help you along.”
Before Ominis could react, something cold and wet splashed down the front of his suit. He gasped, stumbling back a step as liquid seeped into the fabric, heavy and clinging. The sharp tang of wine rose immediately to his nose. His fingers flew instinctively to the front of his jacket, pressing against the soaked cloth; when he pulled them away, they came back sticky.
The laughter that followed was deafening.
“Oh, Marvolo,” Lady Gaunt gasped between giggles, “you’re dreadful.”
“Now he looks almost presentable,” Lord Gaunt sneered.
Ominis stood frozen where he was, shoulders rigid, wine dripping down the ruined lines of his jacket. Heat burned behind his eyes, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter. His parents’ laughter blended with Marvolo’s smug chuckle, the sound needling into his ears.
Lady Gaunt moved to fuss over Marvolo’s cravat, tutting over a crease as if nothing at all had happened. A moment later, the door closed behind them with a decisive thud, and Ominis could hear their footsteps crunch across the gravel as they swept toward the waiting carriage. Their voices carried, still amused, until even that faded.
Only then did Ominis let out the breath he had been holding. His fists clenched uselessly at his sides, sticky and damp. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, then turned abruptly on his heel, retreating to his room.
When he shut the door behind him, he finally let his shoulders collapse. His trembling fingers tugged frantically at the sodden jacket until the buttons gave way, and he tore it off, flinging the ruined garment onto the bed. His chest heaved. He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if he could block out the sound of their laughter still ringing in his ears.
He should have known better. He had known better. And yet, some stubborn, foolish corner of his heart had dared to hope, had let him imagine, if only for a moment, that he might stand beside them tonight rather than beneath their ridicule.
A soft knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
“Ominis?” Poppy’s voice was hesitant but gentle. “It’s me. May I come in?”
He swallowed hard. “It’s not a good time.”
The door creaked open anyway. Her footsteps padded across the room, and then her hand was on his arm, steady and warm.
“I saw what happened,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“They were right,” Ominis whispered, bitterness thick in his throat. “I’m a fool to think I could belong there.”
“No,” Poppy said firmly. “They’re wrong. They’ve always been wrong about you.”
He shook his head. “Even if I had a chance, look at me. My only suit is ruined.”
There was a pause. The wine had begun soaking into his skin and he pulled the sticky garment away from himself, cringing as he did so. He’d heard Mother complain about wine stains on tablecloths enough to know that his shirt was beyond salvaging. And he’d have to mop up the mess in the hall as well, where the wine had splashed onto the floor.
Then Poppy said, with quiet determination:
“It doesn’t have to be your only suit.”
He frowned, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me,” she urged, tugging lightly at his hand.
Reluctantly, Ominis let her guide him down the back stairs to the girls’ part of the servant quarters. She opened a trunk tucked beneath her narrow bed and pulled something out.
“I’ve been keeping this for years,” she explained, excitement creeping into her voice. “It belonged to my uncle. He was a footman in the palace before he passed, and he left me his best suit. Of course, I’ve never had a reason to use it, but you do.”
Ominis reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. It was fine wool, smooth and sturdy, far better than anything he owned. He traced the seams, the lapel, the buttons. His throat tightened.
“Poppy, I can’t—”
“You can,” she interrupted firmly. “You must. They don’t get to decide what you deserve.”
For the first time that evening, something fragile and fierce stirred inside him: hope.
Poppy brought him a damp rag so he could wipe the sticky remnants of wine from his chest and stomach. Then she helped him change, steadying his hands when they trembled, describing the suit as she laid it out — deep forest green with silver accents — and assuring him it fit as though it had been made for him. It was only the slightest bit loose in the waist, hanging delicately off Ominis’ slender frame.
“Just a second,” Poppy said. He heard her rummage through her trunk before she returned. “Alright, stand still.”
Ominis held his breath as Poppy began adjusting the suit, carefully pinching and stitching until the fabric hugged closer to his frame. She hummed under her breath, urging him to lift his arms when needed, guiding him gently with a hand at his elbow or shoulder. Each practiced movement reminded him of the countless times she had quietly patched his shirts when his parents weren’t looking. He made a mental note then and there: he would never, ever take Poppy for granted.
Eventually she smoothed the collar, fastened the last button, and stepped back with a little hum of satisfaction.
“There,” she said softly. “Now you look like yourself. Not what they tell you you are.”
Ominis straightened instinctively, feeling the weight of the fabric, the dignity in its cut, and the warmth of her belief settling into his bones.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She pressed his polished cane into his hand. “Alright, my lord. Give me just a few minutes to get ready myself.”
He sat on her bed while she bustled about, likely coaxing her plain maid’s attire into something finer. As she worked, Ominis ran his fingers along the lapels of the suit, tracing the stitching, the smooth buttons. His hand brushed over the mask she had procured for him: a thin, elegant piece with feline slits for the eyes, edged with delicate lace. The mask was more or less required if he wanted to avoid detection.
A dangerous feeling had begun to stir in his chest. Something fluttering, fragile, alarmingly like hope.
After what he guessed was nearly three-quarters of an hour, Poppy’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Ready when you are, my lord.”
He rose, gripping his cane as if to steady both his body and his thoughts. “Poppy, I can’t thank you enough—”
“Hush.” She cut him off at once, her tone playful but firm. “Don’t you even start. You’ve always been kind to me, and so I am kind to you. You’re nothing like your brother, or your cold-blooded parents. Think of this as a treat for me, too: I finally get to attend the ball, and meet up with my old friend.”
Ominis opened his mouth to argue, but the words stuck stubbornly in his throat. In the end, he simply nodded and allowed her to loop her arm through his.
“And see,” Poppy said with a grin in her voice, “we’re only about an hour late. Everyone knows fine people arrive fashionably late. Now let’s get going, my lord. The ball awaits.”
And for the first time in his life, Ominis Gaunt let himself believe that perhaps, the night ahead could belong to him.