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The Undercroft was unusually quiet. There were no echoes of spellfire crackled against the stone walls, no muttered incantations tangled with laughter or frustration. For once, Sebastian and Ominis were not practicing half-illicit hexes, or bickering over homework, and or losing themselves in heated kisses on a poorly transfigured couch. Instead, Sebastian pressed something small and delicate into Ominis’ hand.

A vial.

“Are you sure?” Sebastian’s voice was lower than usual, stripped of its usual irreverence.

Ominis tightened his fingers around the glass. The potion sloshed faintly inside, heavy with possibility.

Was he sure?

No.

When Sebastian had first mentioned his project — a half-crazed experiment with Garreth Weasley involving a draught that could restore vision — Ominis had dismissed it as one of Sebastian’s more reckless flights of fancy. Vision was not something he lacked for want of a potion. His family, with their wealth of dark tomes and desperate reputation to maintain, had already subjected him to every manner of healer, spell, and elixir. His blindness was the shameful flaw they had sought to erase at any cost. None of it had worked.

So when Sebastian returned weeks later with news of progress, Ominis had laughed. And when he’d returned a few days after that, insisting they were polishing and finishing a potion that would grant him sight for a 24-hour period, Ominis had still not believed him.

But now the vial was in his hand, warm from Sebastian’s pocket, real and waiting.

He could hardly pretend it wasn’t possible anymore.

The idea of sight was at once obvious and unbearable. Who wouldn’t want to know what it was like to see? The temptation lay inescapably within the vial. But what if he swallowed it, and it worked? What then? To glimpse a world forever closed to him, only to have it snatched away within hours … would that not be worse than never knowing? To taste colour, shape, light itself, and then return to darkness, carrying the memory like a wound?

His fingers trembled.

“Ominis?” Sebastian asked softly.

Ominis tilted his head. Sebastian had always been attuned to the small shifts in him. When his breath caught, when his hand faltered. Of course he’d noticed.

“I don’t know,” Ominis admitted. His throat felt dry, though the vial was cool in his hand. “What if it doesn’t work at all? What if it does, and it’s nothing like I imagined? What if it does, and when it fades, I—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “What if losing it is unbearable?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Sebastian let out a breath, long and deliberate, as though he’d been holding it.

“It’s your choice,” he said firmly. “Entirely yours. We don’t have to do this now, or ever. Garreth swears the potion will keep. If you want more time, you’ll have it.”

Ominis almost laughed at the mention of Garreth Weasley, whose reputation for near-catastrophic potioneering preceded him. But the sincerity in Sebastian’s tone anchored him.

Sebastian shifted closer, enough that Ominis could sense the warmth of him, the brush of his sleeve against Ominis’ arm. “I can’t pretend to know what this would mean for you,” Sebastian went on. “But I don’t want you to feel pressured. I don’t care how many hours I’ve spent in the library, or how many cauldrons Garreth nearly exploded. None of that matters if you’re not ready.”

The words carried an uncharacteristic tenderness, stripped of Sebastian’s usual bravado. 

Ominis tightened his grip on the vial. He could walk away. He could leave the potion corked, shove it back into Sebastian’s hands, and retreat into the certainty of his darkness. It was safer, in some ways, to remain untouched by the temptation of sight.

But Sebastian had worked himself ragged to offer him this chance. And more than that — Ominis realized, with a sharp twist in his chest — he wanted to see Sebastian. To put an image to the warmth of his hand, the tilt of his voice, the smile that crept into his words when he teased.

If this was to be the only chance he’d ever have, then perhaps it was enough.

Before he could think further, he uncorked it with a twist of his fingers and swallowed the draught in one decisive motion.

Sebastian let out a startled sound.

“Oh, Merlin, I didn’t think you’d just—”

The taste was sharp, metallic, with a bitter undertone that caught at his tongue. He grimaced, lowering the empty vial. 

Nothing happened.

The draught slid down his throat and settled heavy in his stomach, and Ominis sat there waiting, uncertain whether he should brace for brilliance or disappointment. The darkness around him felt the same as it always did: thick, familiar and absolute. For a moment, he thought he might have imagined a faint brightness at the edges of his perception, but it was so subtle he wondered if it was only wishful thinking.

Sebastian’s voice broke through the silence. “Are you okay?”

Ominis frowned. His grip tightened on the now-empty vial. “I’m not sure it’s working…”

And then the world exploded before his eyes.

A crack of brilliance tore through the darkness, so sudden and violent that Ominis barely had time to gasp before everything surged at him at once. Light, motion, something so alien and vast that it split his mind in two. His chest seized. The flames of the lanterns screamed at him, stabbing through his skull. Shapes, forms, colours he had no names for collided together in unbearable chaos.

His knees buckled, and he fell.

When awareness returned, it was soft and comfortable. A solid warmth cradled the back of his head, and for a moment Ominis thought he had dreamt it all. His body was heavy, cocooned in the poorly transformed couch. His head rested on Sebastian’s lap. He let himself sink into it, lulled by the rhythm of Sebastian’s breathing above him. It was easy, like countless other stolen hours in the Undercroft.

Then instinct betrayed him, and his eyes flickered open.

And the world greeted him back.

At first, it was unbearable. The Undercroft swam before him in dim light, but the lanterns that dotted the walls were blinding, stabbing at his vision no matter how dark the chamber had seemed in memory. Yellow fire bled into everything, its edges so sharp and alive it hurt to look at. He flinched, tearing his gaze away, only to be confronted with something worse: the room itself.

Columns, barrels, crates — all of them stood where he knew them to be, exactly where his hands and wand had told him a hundred times before. Yet now, confronted with them by sight, he found he had no idea what they were. A crate was not a square of rough wood beneath his fingers but a confusion of straight lines, shadowed angles, and strange, flat surfaces. The map he had built of this place through touch and careful pacing did not match the violent, disjointed picture now flooding his mind.

It was all too much.

His breath came quick, ragged.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian’s voice again, close above him.

Ominis turned his head. And saw him.

Or — he thought it must be Sebastian.

He had no idea humans were so… colourful.

He had heard people describe colours his entire life: the red of a rose, the green of leaves, the blue of sky. And he’d heard more detailed descriptions: the faded yellow of a wilted sunflower, the dark red of dried blood. He had constructed them as concepts, neat ideas tucked away in thought, easy to imagine and easier to dismiss. But now, colours were not tidy. They screamed, they burned, they clashed. And Sebastian was alive with them.

The curls that spilled over his forehead must have been hair. Brown, they always called it, as if that explained anything. Brown had meant nothing to Ominis until now. But this — this deep, warm shade alive with strands of gold where the light caught — this was brown. And the only reason Ominis could even identify it as hair was because he had traced Sebastian’s head enough times to know where it should be. Seeing it was something else entirely.

And then there was his face.

Ominis had mapped it a hundred times with his fingertips, memorized the lines of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. He had thought that knowing was enough. But sight revealed it as something completely different. His skin was not one smooth plane but alive with uneven tones, speckled with — Merlin, was that what freckles looked like? — scattered across his cheeks and nose like tiny marks of another colour entirely.

Most disorienting of all was movement. Sebastian’s face never stayed still. His eyebrows, dark against his skin, shifted constantly; arching, furrowing, drawing together. His eyes, startlingly large and amber-brown, darted and flickered with restless energy. Even his mouth would not remain still, corners pulling, lips parting, shaping sound.

Of course, Ominis knew about facial expressions. He had learned to hear them in voices, to detect them in pauses and breaths. But seeing them, seeing the rapid play of change etched across a face, was something he had no framework for. It was dizzying, and impossible to keep up with.

He moved slowly, pushing himself upright in increments, careful not to invite another dizzying blackout. His body felt unsteady, as though even the smallest motion might tip him back into oblivion. The dim glow of the Undercroft lurked around him, too loud, too demanding.

Sebastian’s voice came tentatively: “Did it… did it work?”

The words startled him. Not because the sound was unfamiliar; if there was one thing in the world that was home, it was Sebastian’s voice. He could have picked it out in a crowd, recognized it across the length of the castle. But seeing the sound come out of his mouth, seeing lips move, shaping the syllables, was unbearable. The two sensations collided inside Ominis’ skull, sound and sight clashing like two halves of a world that had never belonged together.

On instinct, he threw his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until darkness swept him back under.

Sebastian’s voice dipped, pained. “It… it didn’t work?”

Ominis nearly laughed. Didn’t work? By Merlin, it worked too well. He could still see, even now. Behind his closed eyes, pressed hard beneath his palms, the blackness swirled with wild, darting sparks of colour, dots of light that danced and popped like tiny fireworks. Sight clung to him, refusing to leave.

He swallowed, breath catching, and whispered, “I just… I need some time to adjust, I think.”

Sebastian’s inhaled sharply.

“You … Merlin’s beard — did you… did you see me?”

Ominis nodded slowly, wincing when the motion made the flecks dancing before his eyes explode again.

The silence that followed quivered with excitement.

Ominis forced himself to part his fingers, cautiously, until one eye peeked through the narrow gap. He squinted hard, trying to keep the storm of sight contained. And there he was again: Sebastian, leaning forward, big amber eyes fixed on him with anticipation.

The rush of it nearly drove him back into hiding. Merlin, was this how the world greeted sighted people every time they woke, every time they blinked? A chaos of colour and light rushing in all at once, no matter how ready or unready they felt? How were they not overwhelmed at every moment of every day?

He kept his gaze narrow, controlled by his fingers. Sebastian’s expression shifted, and Ominis caught a sudden flicker: the lower lip disappearing. It took him a second to understand. Biting one’s lip. He had done it himself, of course, countless times. But to see it meant watching the mouth physically change, one lip swallowed away, and the realization startled him. So much of human behavior was suddenly new.

“How are you?” Sebastian asked, tentative but buzzing with eagerness. “Is it… too much?”

“It’s… a lot,” Ominis admitted, still peeking through the tiny slit between his fingers. “How do you sighted people live with this? There’s so much going on. I don’t know how I could possibly keep up.”

Sebastian gave a breathy, nervous laugh. “Well, I could say the same for you. I have no idea how you navigate without vision, and yet you do. And probably better than half the sighted people I know.”

Ominis let his fingers fall a fraction wider, testing himself, and turned his head away from Sebastian to face the Undercroft. It didn’t help. Even controlled, the sight of it made his stomach pitch. The room felt endless. The ceiling arched high above him, too high, impossibly vast. He had always known it was lofty — the echoes of his footsteps told him so — but seeing it stretch on and on, as if it might never stop, was dizzying. His mind rebelled, trying to reconcile what he knew with what he now saw.

“The ceiling…” His voice was hushed, as if speaking too loudly might make it fall. “It’s so big. So far away.”

Sebastian laughed softly, though there was an edge of nerves in it. “Then I’m not sure you’ll be able to handle the sky.”

Ominis twisted back toward him slowly, still peering through narrowed eyes. “…The sky is bigger than this?”

Sebastian’s mouth curved, and then suddenly, his whole face came closer. It swam forward, overwhelming Ominis’ sight until nothing else existed but Sebastian. His cheeks, freckles, those endlessly moving brows … it was too much, all at once, and Ominis startled hard, instinctively shying back.

Sebastian froze, confusion flashing across his features before dawning realization settled in. He leaned back sharply, running a hand through his curls. “Oh, lord. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You’re just …. Merlin, you’re adorable right now. I was going to kiss you.”

Heat flared at the back of Ominis’ neck. Embarrassment prickled through him, sharp as pins. Of course. He had reacted as though Sebastian were lunging at him, when all he had done was lean in. He wasn’t used to seeing movement like that, wasn’t used to a face suddenly consuming his vision, blocking out everything else. He pressed his palms together tightly in his lap, trying to steady himself.

“I’m not…” He hesitated, lips twitching into a rueful line. “I’m not quite used to the idea of your face moving toward me.”

Sebastian chuckled softly, though there was a guilty edge to it. “Fair enough.” His amber eyes softened, still alight with wonder. “You don’t have to rush anything. We’ve got time.”

For a while, Ominis kept his eyes closed.

It wasn’t the same as blindness. Not at all. Sight pressed against his lids no matter how firmly he shut them. Blackness was not silent anymore; it shimmered with faint sparks and drifting motes of colour, restless even in the dark. But it was bearable. Less of an inflood.

Sebastian’s hand stroked slow lines across his back, steady and grounding. Ominis focused on the warmth, on the rhythm, and let himself breathe. When at last he felt some semblance of control return, he let Sebastian coax him upright.

“Easy,” Sebastian murmured, looping an arm around him.

Ominis nodded faintly. His knees wobbled as he found his feet. And then — Merlin help him — he made the mistake of glancing down.

His hands.

For as long as he could remember, they had been his most essential tools. His fingers read Braille, traced carvings in ancient stone, mapped the contours of Sebastian’s cheekbones, curled firm around his wand. He knew their strength, their precision, their memory.

And now he saw them.

Two pale, clumsy shapes dangling at the end of his arms, with odd, branching lengths jutting out like grotesque little antennae. He flexed them experimentally, startled when the antennae twitched with the motion. His chest lurched. Those were fingers.

Sebastian slipped his own hand into Ominis’, interlacing the antennae — fingers — together. “See? Yours fit with mine.”

Ominis let out a shaky exhale. “So this is what fingers look like.”

Sebastian’s answering laugh was breathless with wonder.

He tugged Ominis gently across the chamber, his voice spilling over with eagerness. “Look there, in the corner. That’s a canvas. It’s painted blue. Blue is that colour.”

Blue. The word had always been an idea, a description, a collection of metaphors. Now it stabbed at his eyes, sharp and cool and utterly unplaceable.

“And that is green. The tree in the painting, I mean, is green. Sorry, I should’ve said that first.”

Ominis squinted. He had no idea what neither green nor a tree looked like, and didn’t know what Sebastian was referring to. His mind tried to pair the word with the strange jumble of colours and lines before him and failed completely. He said nothing. For now, it was enough to try to keep upright.

Because walking, he discovered, was suddenly treacherous.

The problem wasn’t moving his legs; his body knew how to walk. The problem was that the world lurched and shifted with every step. Each slight turn of his head sent the entire chamber swimming across his vision. Depth, distance, size, all of it warped before his eyes. He tried to piece together what he knew from memory with what he now saw, but the two maps clashed until his head spun.

He could see a crate looming ahead of him. He recognized its placement from memory. And yet, when he stumbled forward, he crashed into it anyway. The impact jarred through his shin.

Sebastian’s laughter rang, bright and quick. “Are you okay? Did it hurt?”

If it did, Ominis hardly noticed. He was too busy raking his eyes over the room, trying desperately to reconcile it all. His mind shouted labels: barrel, birdcage, column. But the images in front of him were still wild, incomprehensible puzzles.

And then something caught his eye.

A glimmer in the far corner. It pulled at his gaze until he was staring straight into it.

Sebastian noticed and followed his line of sight. “Oh. Right.” He tugged Ominis gently toward it, his voice hushed now, reverent. “That’s you.”

Ominis blinked. The surface shimmered, throwing light back at him. He stared, and a boy stared back.

The shock of it rooted him still.

He had built himself in his mind over the years. Not in pictures, of course, but in impressions. The brush of hair at his ears, the slope of his nose under his own touch, the line of his jaw traced by Sebastian’s fingers. He had cobbled together an identity from other people’s words: pale, sharp-featured, handsome, intimidating. He had thought he understood.

But the figure in the mirror—

Was that him?

The boy’s skin was pale, yes, compared to Sebastian’s vibrant colours. His hair fell backwards, like he usually styled it. One strand had escaped and curled faintly across his forehead. His features were sharper than he’d imagined, his mouth tense, his chin pointed. His eyes — Merlin, his eyes — were pale grey, framed by thin lashes and accentuated by his darker eyebrows.

“This is…” His voice broke. He reached a trembling hand toward the glass. The boy mimicked him perfectly, fingers splayed. For a disorienting second, he thought the reflection might reach back.

“This is me?”

Sebastian’s hand pressed warmly to his shoulder. “Yes. That’s you, Ominis.”

The boy in the glass didn’t look like him at all. He looked thinner, paler, sharper than the image of himself that he had built in his mind. But apparently, this was him. For the first time in his life, Ominis could see himself.

His throat worked. He almost wished he hadn’t.

“I always thought…” He swallowed. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Sebastian’s voice gentled. “You don’t have to understand it all now.”

Ominis let his hand drop from the mirror, shaking. His reflection followed, pale eyes wide, lips pressed tight. The sight of it left him hollow.

So this was what the world saw when it looked at him.

Ominis kept staring at the boy in the mirror until the weight of it became unbearable. He almost flinched when Sebastian’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder, anchoring him.

“Hey,” Sebastian said softly. “I can see that look. You don’t like what you’re seeing, do you?”

Ominis’s throat bobbed. “It’s… strange. I thought I knew myself. But that—” He gestured vaguely toward the glass. “That doesn’t feel like me.”

Sebastian was quiet for a moment. Then, he said firmly, “Ominis. I know mine and yours are the first faces you’ve ever seen. But I’ve seen thousands. Thousands, since the day I was born. And I can promise you this—” His hand slid up, cradling Ominis’s jaw with warm steadiness. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat bloomed hot under Ominis’s skin. His lips parted, but no words came out. Beautiful. He didn’t know if he believed it, but the way Sebastian said it, with no hesitation, made him want to.

Sebastian swallowed, his thumb brushing Ominis’s cheek. “If it’s not too much…may I try kissing you again?”

Ominis managed a nod. The motion startled him, because even that small dip of his chin sent the entire world rocking with it, his field of vision tilting like a boat on water. He tightened his grip on Sebastian’s sleeve, bracing.

This time, Sebastian was careful. His face didn’t lunge suddenly into Ominis’s sight. It drifted closer, slowly, giving him time to adjust. A hand cupped his cheek, steadying him. The shift of freckles came into view first, then the nervous quirk of Sebastian’s mouth, then those wide, hopeful eyes, until all else in the room slipped away.

And then, finally, his lips touched Ominis’s.

The instinct to close his eyes was immediate. Darkness fell. Not the same as his blindness, but close enough. Close enough to be grounding. The taste, the warmth, the pressure — that he knew. He had been kissing Sebastian for weeks now, had mapped his lips and the shape of his cupid’s bow in detail. The familiarity washed over him like relief.

When they parted, Ominis opened his eyes again. This time, the sight of Sebastian didn’t bowl him over. He let himself look.

The freckles … Merlin, there were so many more than he’d imagined! They were scattered across his nose and cheeks like little flecks of sand. His lashes, which Ominis had brushed damp with his thumb more than once, were impossibly long, dark against his skin. His lips, flushed pink, curved in that familiar bow shape, soft and tempting.

Ominis realized belatedly he was staring.

Sebastian’s brows waggled with theatrical suggestiveness. The motion was ridiculous, and endearing. “See anything you like?”

Ominis groaned, swatting his arm with more embarrassment than force. “Shut up.”

Sebastian only grinned, rubbing the spot with mock offense. Then his tone gentled. “Would you … would you want to see more? The castle, I mean.”

A flicker of unease jolted through Ominis.

Sebastian must have felt it, because he hurried to add, “I don’t want to pressure you. Truly. We can spend the whole day in here if you’d rather. But the potion will wear off eventually, and I just…” He hesitated. “I don’t want you to regret missing something.”

The thought of leaving the Undercroft made Ominis’s stomach twist. If this chamber alone was overwhelming, how would he withstand the castle? The endless halls, the sky Sebastian had warned was bigger than the ceiling? And students: hundreds of faces, not just one.

Still…there was a tug of curiosity. A tug of longing, even.

“Perhaps in a while,” Ominis said carefully. “For now, I think I need more time.”

Sebastian squeezed his hand, smiling. “Then later it is.”

Sebastian rummaged through one of the storage boxes and pulled out a battered old Charms textbook. He hesitated, flipping it open and running his finger down the margin. “You’ve… you’ve never seen words, have you?”

Ominis raised his head, blinking warily at the book. “I know words. I read more than you do, I’ll wager.” His voice was defensive, but his hands were already twitching as though he wanted to trace the page.

“No, I mean visually.” Sebastian scooted closer, balancing the book on his knees. “You’ve always had braille. But ink on parchment, it looks completely different. Here, have a look.”

Ominis leaned in, slowly. The parchment was a strange pale colour, and the lines of ink scratched across it in jagged marks. They weren’t raised, nothing to feel. Just shapes, curling and twisting like little black ants. His brow furrowed.

“What… what is this meant to be?”

“It’s the alphabet. Letters. You know, A, B, C.” Sebastian tapped a cluster of them. “Here, this word says charms. And this is class. Can you see the way the marks repeat? That’s an s, twice at the end.”

Ominis squinted at it, tracing the air with his fingertip. The letters were cramped, absurdly small, nothing like the neat dots under his fingers. “It looks like someone spilled ink and then tried to tidy it into patterns.”

Sebastian laughed softly. “That’s exactly what writing is, actually. But look, here’s your name.” He flipped the page and scribbled hastily with his wand: Ominis.

The letters sprawled across the parchment, uneven and rushed. Ominis stared at them, heart thudding strangely. “That’s me?”

“That’s you. O-M-I-N-I-S.” Sebastian pointed to each letter in turn, whispering them out.

Ominis tried to follow, eyes darting across the word. The shapes blurred, swam together, slipped from his grasp. He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. I can’t — my mind won’t… it’s like trying to listen to too many voices at once.”

“That’s normal,” Sebastian said gently. “Reading takes years for sighted children. You’ve had an hour. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Still, Ominis felt frustration coil in his chest. For once, his hands were useless; braille was clarity, certainty, and this … this was nonsense squiggles. He slammed the book shut and muttered, “I prefer the dots.”

Sebastian’s grin softened into something fond. “I know you do. But still. Seeing your name in ink? That’s something, isn’t it?”

Ominis tilted his head, gaze lingering on the parchment even as it stayed closed. Something, yes. He wasn’t sure yet if it was good or not.

“Alright,” Sebastian said after a pause, springing up to his feet. “Enough books. Let me show you something better.”

He drew his wand, eyes gleaming with excitement, and Ominis instinctively straightened. He had heard thousands of spells, had felt the rush of displaced air, the shimmer of heat, the crackle of energy. But now… now there would be something else.

Sebastian flicked his wand with practiced ease. “Lumos.”

The tip of the wand burst into light.

Ominis reeled back with a gasp. It wasn’t like sound or heat. It was like colour had condensed, sharpened, burned into one unbearable point. A flare of white so bright it carved itself into the air. He shielded his eyes with a hand. “Merlin — Sebastian!”

“Sorry! Sorry. Too bright?” Sebastian quickly lowered the wand, dimming it by covering the glow with his palm. The light slipped between his fingers, softer now, shadows stretching across his knuckles.

Ominis lowered his hand cautiously. The light quivered, alive, spilling gold across the stone floor. It was… beautiful. Almost like fire, but without the heat. “That’s… that’s Lumos? That’s what you’ve all been looking at, every night?”

Sebastian’s grin grew wider. “Yeah. Handy little trick when you’ve got detention in dark classrooms, or try to cram some midnight readings under your blanket.”

Ominis couldn’t stop staring. The light shimmered, danced, moved, cast shadows on the floor, like a choreography or a battle of light and dark.

“Want another one?”

Before Ominis could answer, Sebastian twirled his wand. “Incendio.”

A jet of flame burst forth, licking the air with orange tongues before curling back into smoke. The firelight threw wild shadows across the walls, the smoke dissolving into nothing.

Ominis’ breath caught. He’d felt fire before, but seeing it? It was chaos made visible. Flickering and unpredictable, never still. He reached a hand toward it instinctively, then snatched it back when the heat hit his skin.

“Careful,” Sebastian chided. But he was grinning again, clearly thrilled by Ominis’ awe. “What do you think?”

Ominis exhaled slowly, eyes darting between the last traces of smoke and Sebastian’s eager face. “I think… magic is louder than I ever realised.”

Sebastian barked a laugh. “Louder?”

“Yes.” Ominis leaned back, still staring at the spot where fire had bloomed. “All my life, spells were sound, warmth, air moving around me. But you … you’ve been looking at colours, at… stars on your wand. No wonder you’re all so enamoured with it.”

Sebastian crouched in front of him, holding up the wand again, now unlit. “Then let me show you as much as I can, while you’ve got the chance.”

Ominis nodded faintly. He still didn’t know what to make of the jittering letters on parchment, but this — this light and flame — this he could understand. And he wanted more. His gaze fell on the thin, long shape resting on a nearby table. His wand.

He picked it up slowly, staring at it as though it were a stranger. “This?” he murmured. “This little stick of wood has been my lifeline? My… my eyes?”

Sebastian chuckled. “A rather handsome lifeline, if you ask me. Besides—” His grin turned sharp. “You look hot as hell striding about with it, so I’m not complaining.”

Ominis groaned again and punched him lightly in the ribs, though his ears burned at the comment.

When they at last emerged from the Undercroft, Ominis clung to Sebastian’s arm for balance.

The castle hit him like a tidal wave.

The chamber below had seemed vast. But this, the corridor, was beyond comprehension. Ceilings soared so high his neck ached just trying to look. Stone walls stretched forever, draped in elaborate hangings of colours too rich for words. Suits of armor loomed like silent giants. Paintings spilled with dizzying movement, whole worlds contained within their frames.

It was too much. His vision reeled. He swayed hard enough that Sebastian’s grip tightened around his waist, steadying him.

Ominis squeezed his eyes shut, dragging in breath after breath until the spinning slowed. “I thought…” He managed a weak laugh. “I thought the Undercroft was big.”

Sebastian’s voice was both amused and worried. “I suppose the sky will have to wait.”

When Ominis finally opened his eyes again, the sight was no kinder. Students crowded the hall, their faces a blur of difference. Tall, short, thin, broad, hair bright or dark, skin in shades he didn’t yet have words for. He knew anatomy by touch and description, but the sight of such difference was dizzying. Every flicker of motion tugged at his attention, every shift of expression made his pulse race.

If Sebastian’s face had been overwhelming, this was…utter chaos.

He clung tighter to Sebastian’s arm. “There are so many.”

“People?” Sebastian asked softly.

“Yes. Faces. All different. All moving.” His voice shook with something between awe and terror. “How do you keep track of them all?”

Sebastian squeezed his hand, drawing him close as if shielding him from the crowd.

“The same way you recognise voices, I suppose. But faces make it easier, since we can identify people by more than just sounds.”

The halls of Hogwarts were alive in a way Ominis had never imagined.

Everywhere, people were moving. Not just moving, but constantly changing. A boy turned to laugh, his face reshaping entirely. A girl passed by in a flurry of braids and books, her robes swishing like a tide. Ominis’s eyes darted after each shift, hopelessly behind. With sound alone, he’d always managed to track what was important: the angle of footsteps, the tone of voices, the distance in echoes. Now his vision assaulted him with too many details, too fast.

Ominis had walked these halls his whole life, yet for the first time he could see his own body moving through them. It was utterly strange. His legs carried him forward the same way they always had, yet watching them do it — knees bending, boots striking stone, one foot sliding past the other — made the act of walking feel foreign, clumsy. His arms, too, betrayed him; swinging slightly at his sides, flaring when he stumbled, they looked like someone else’s limbs entirely. He’d never realised how much of himself was in constant motion. The smallest adjustment — Sebastian’s hand tugging at his wrist, or his own fingers curling and uncurling nervously — pulled his eyes down again, fixating.

He kept catching sight of his robes shifting around his legs, his shadow stretching against the wall, and it was dizzying. He had lived inside this body for eighteen years and had mapped every inch of it by touch. Yet, seeing it act, seeing it exist before him, was disorienting in a way that made his chest tight. He felt unmoored in his own skin, like he’d borrowed a stranger’s body and was still learning how to wear it.

Beside him, Sebastian kept a firm hand on his elbow, steering him carefully through the chaos. His voice cut through the blur, grounding.

“That’s Hobhouse,” Sebastian murmured, nodding toward a dark-haired boy. “He’s the one who’s terrified of Puffskeins. Nearly fainted in Beasts last term.”

Ominis tried to fix his eyes on the boy. Saw him lift a hand, scratch his ear, keep walking. Gone again in a blink.

“And over there, see that fella arguing with the painting? That’s Prewett. Leander Prewett. A right prat if you ask me.”

Ominis tracked Sebastian’s finger until he landed on a lanky boy scowling at a canvas. The painting scowled right back, lips moving rapidly. Ominis’s brain scrambled to keep up. Two faces, both changing at once. He rubbed at his temples.

“Oh, and duck,” Sebastian added suddenly, tugging him down by the shoulder. “Peeves.”

A blur of mismatched colours and wild flailing zipped overhead, cackling. Ominis’s heart lurched as the thing swooped past, ribbons trailing.

“Bloody menace,” Sebastian muttered, straightening them both.

It was all too quick. Faces spinning by, robes flashing, hair glinting in the torchlight. He had thought people would look more alike. Like dolls, just variations on a theme. But no, every single one was startlingly different: tall, short, round, narrow, broad-shouldered, legs long or stubby, hair short or long or curly or no hair at all. He could hardly believe this was normal, that everyone else endured this maelstrom every day without collapsing.

Then, there was movement heading straight toward him. Ominis startled hard, bracing as a figure loomed closer, closer still. His eyes caught a shock of colour. Blazing and screaming, unlike anything he had seen yet.

“Gaunt! Sallow!” the familiar voice boomed, full of cheer. “I was wondering when I’d run into you next!”

Ominis blinked at the colour, realization dawning. Garreth Weasley. Of course. People had always described his hair as red, and now Ominis knew what they meant: vivid and loud, brighter than flame.

Garreth clapped a hand on his shoulder and Ominis nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Careful,” Sebastian said quickly, shifting closer in a half-protective lean. “It’s a bit overwhelming for him.”

Garreth’s grin softened into apology. “Right, sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to startle.” Then, predictably, his smirk returned. “So the potion worked then?”

“It did,” Sebastian confirmed. “I never thought I’d say this to you, but … good job regarding that potion.”

Garreth lifted his arms and waved it around, making Ominis startle.

“Ah, don’t mention it, it was entirely my pleasure. If there’s one thing better than brewing new potions and blowing up cauldrons, it’s brewing new potions and blowing up cauldrons for a good cause.”

Even Ominis couldn’t stop the sigh and smile that escaped him. Garreth’s face was so expressive, more so than Sebastian’s.

“So, Gaunt,” Garreth continued. “What do you think of your boyfriend now that you’ve seen him? Not much to brag about, is he?”

Sebastian groaned, shoving him hard in the arm. “Weasley—”

But Ominis couldn’t help himself. He struggled to hold back a smirk as he delivered, “Well. I was glad about regaining vision…until I saw you.”

Garreth reeled back, clutching his chest as though mortally wounded. “Ouch, Gaunt!! That’s the thanks I get?”

Sebastian whooped with laughter, throwing an arm around Ominis’s shoulders in victory. Ominis allowed himself to lean in for just a moment, the solid warmth a balm against the chaos of the corridor.

But then Sebastian tipped his head, voice gentler. “Ready to see something else? Something…bigger?”

Ominis frowned. “Bigger than this?”

Sebastian’s smile turned conspiratorial. “The sky.”

Ominis’s pulse stuttered. The sky. He had imagined it often, in the quiet of nights. He knew it was vast, and endless. But how could anyone truly comprehend that? The ceiling of the Undercroft had already felt impossibly high, dizzying in its stretch. And the castle’s halls had nearly knocked him flat.

The sky was more than both. Infinite.

Sebastian squeezed his arm. “Come on. I’ll be right with you.”

“Ready?” Sebastian’s voice was soft, coaxing.

No, Ominis thought. Not in the slightest. But his hand gripped Sebastian’s sleeve like an anchor, and he forced himself forward, through the doorway and into the flood of daylight.

The first breath of outside air nearly undid him.

It was sharper than the Undercroft’s stale dampness, filled with scents of grass and stone and autumn leaves. That much was familiar; he had smelt and felt it countless times. What was not familiar, what clawed straight into his chest, was the light. It pressed against his closed lids, brighter than anything he had endured indoors.

He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust as Sebastian guided him out into the center of the courtyard.

And the world dropped out from beneath him.

For a second, he thought he had fallen into some vast, empty chasm. Above him stretched — nothing. Endless, dizzying nothing, in a colour so expansive it crushed him. Blue, Sebastian had called it. But this was not the tidy patch of blue on a canvas corner, nor the muted tint in a potion vial. This was blue stretched forever, a vault that had no ceiling, no boundary. His knees buckled.

He nearly collapsed then and there, but Sebastian’s arm shot around his waist, steadying him.

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Breathe, I’ve got you.”

He sucked in a jagged breath, chest tight, his eyes still locked upwards. How could anyone look at this and not fall apart? His mind scrabbled for landmarks, edges, limits — but the sky had none. It just went on and on and on, mocking every attempt to contain it. He had thought the Undercroft’s ceiling was high, thought the Great Hall sounded cavernous. They were broom cupboards compared to this.

“It doesn’t end,” he whispered, voice shaking.

Sebastian’s hand rubbed slow circles into his back. “No. It doesn’t.”

Ominis craned his neck further, desperate to pin it down, to find where it stopped. His vision swam. A faint smear of white drifted lazily across the blue, morphing even as he stared. His stomach flipped.

“What — what is that?”

“A cloud,” Sebastian said gently. “Just vapor, floating.”

Ominis clutched tighter at his sleeve. “It’s moving.”

“They always do. The wind moves them. Sometimes there are dozens. Sometimes the whole sky’s packed with them. Today’s just quiet.”

Quiet? The very idea made him laugh shakily. Nothing about this was quiet. The sky roared its vastness into every inch of him. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, trying to keep himself steady.

Sebastian stayed close, his voice low and steady, as though guiding him through a storm. “It changes, too. When the sun sets, it shifts from blue to gold to red, sometimes purple. And at night, it goes black. Completely black. But then the stars come out. Thousands of them.”

Ominis turned sharply, eyes still wide. “It changes? All of this — this endless, impossible nothing, just switches colours?”

Sebastian’s lips quirked, though his tone stayed gentle. “Every single day.”

Ominis nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. As though the world weren’t overwhelming enough in a single form, it had the audacity to transform into something else entirely, over and over again. How did sighted people endure it? How could they live beneath something so fickle, so infinite, and not collapse under the weight of it?

His gaze fell back to the drifting cloud, only to realize another had joined it: shapes forming, dissolving, never still for a second. The motion made his head spin. He tore his eyes downward, desperate for something solid. The castle walls rose around him, mercifully finite, though even their sheer scale rattled him.

Sebastian’s arm squeezed his waist lightly. “Too much?”

“Yes,” Ominis admitted hoarsely. “And no. I can’t stop looking.”

Sebastian chuckled softly, pressing closer in reassurance. “You sound exactly like me when I first learned to read. Couldn’t keep my nose out of a book. Too much, and not nearly enough at the same time.”

Ominis let out a strangled half-laugh. His heart still pounded, but his legs steadied beneath him. Slowly, he dared tilt his face upward once more. The sky greeted him with the same merciless immensity. But now, with Sebastian’s arm bracing him, he managed to stand beneath it without crumpling.

“It never ends,” he whispered again, not as fear but as awe.

Sebastian’s smile was audible in his reply. “Exactly.”

Ominis exhaled, long and trembling, letting the endless blue flood his vision until his eyes watered.

Sebastian held him steady by the elbow as they made their way across the courtyard, Ominis walking like someone who had been spun in a circle too many times. It was almost laughable. He had sight, for the first time in his life, and yet he felt like a newborn foal. Stumbling, disoriented, clutching at Sebastian’s sleeve to stay upright.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Sebastian teased softly. “You’ve been blind your whole life, but now that you have sight, you need to be guided around.”

Ominis snorted, though the sound caught in his throat as the courtyard opened wide before him. His eyes darted everywhere, unable to settle. People moved across the space in swirls of colour and shape, too quick to track, their robes flaring, hair bouncing. 

Sebastian seemed to sense when Ominis’ knees wavered. “Alright, one thing at a time. Out here, you’ll want to see this.” He steered him down a slope toward the wide open grounds.

The first glimpse of the Quidditch pitch nearly made Ominis stumble to a halt.

“What in Merlin’s name—” His voice cracked.

The stands loomed impossibly tall, rings of wood and fabric that seemed to scrape the sky itself. Towers jutted upward like spears, each flying a different flag, colours so bold they almost burned. Red, yellow, green and blue. He recognized the names, but never had he known they could scream so loudly. He tried to remember what blue was. Sebastian had pointed out it earlier, on the canvas. But none of these flags matched the blue that he had seen there.

“That’s the Quidditch pitch,” Sebastian explained, clearly grinning at Ominis’ gaping stare. “We’ve had matches here. You should see it when the seats are full.”

Ominis tilted his head back so far his neck ached. “I knew it was high up, but I can’t fathom how people sit up there and look at … all of this, and not faint.”

“It is pretty daunting, even for us who are born with sight.” Sebastian’s voice brimmed with excitement. “And these are the banners. Ours is green, obviously. That’s the one over there. Gryffindor’s red, to the left of ours. Ravenclaw’s blue, and Hufflepuff’s yellow.”

Green. Ominis fixed his gaze on the nearest swath of fabric, a deep, vibrating shade that tugged at his chest. Green was Sebastian’s scarf. Green was Slytherin. Green, he decided, might become important.

They moved on. The greenhouses came next, all sharp angles of glass and iron. Ominis blinked at the way sunlight refracted through them, scattering patches of brightness onto the grass. Inside, the plants formed a riot of shapes: spindly, broad, curling. He flinched when a leaf brushed the glass too suddenly, its shadow ballooning into something monstrous.

“Plants are that big?” Ominis asked, incredulous.

“Some are bigger. Wait until you see the Venomous Tentacula.”

He wasn’t sure if Sebastian was joking.

The Black Lake left him silent altogether. They stood on its shore, and Ominis swayed at the sheer expanse of water. It went on and on, smooth as glass until ripples disturbed it. The surface caught the light, glittering so brightly he had to squint.

“It’s alive,” Ominis whispered. “It looks alive.”

Sebastian’s hand brushed his, reassuring. “It is. Full of creatures. Giant squid, grindylows … though usually they keep to themselves.”

“And mermaids, of course,” Ominis added, a weak smile pulling at his lips. Sebastian laughed then.

“And mermaids,” he agreed, squeezing Ominis’ fingers gently.

Ominis could barely process it. He crouched, dipping his fingers into the water, just to remind himself it was real. The glittering, endless sheet was the same lake he’d heard lapping for years. 

“Come on,” Sebastian coaxed gently, helping him back up. “There’s more.”

Inside the castle, the Great Hall nearly knocked the wind from his chest. He’d eaten there countless times, but never realized the space could be so vast. The ceiling soared overhead, a mirror of the sky itself — today a crisp blue with drifting clouds. Candles floated in midair, flames dancing merrily.

“It’s…” Ominis trailed off, utterly speechless. His eyes filled, though he blinked furiously against it. “It’s beautiful.”

Sebastian said nothing, just nudged him closer until they stood together beneath the floating candles.

The library was next, and here Ominis gasped outright. He had held books all his life, traced embossed letters, relied on enchanted editions that whispered in his ear. But this — rows upon rows of shelves soaring higher than his reach, each crammed with volumes bound in colours and textures beyond imagining. The sight alone carried a weight, as though the room itself sagged with knowledge.

“Books are… they’re beautiful,” Ominis whispered, running his hand reverently along a spine before jerking it back, almost shy.

Sebastian chuckled. “Wait until you see the Restricted Section. Some of those bindings will give you nightmares.”

Ominis only shook his head in disbelief.

Finally, Sebastian led him back to the dormitory. It felt almost laughably small after the expanses outside, but Ominis exhaled a breath of relief. The stone walls had edges, the ceiling stopped at a mercifully finite height, and the beds stood in neat, comprehensible rows.

Ominis’ feet carried him over to his own bed by memory, and he stroked a hand over his neatly made duvet and carefully arranged pillows, before he gingerly sat down.

Sebastian sat beside him, watching his expression with something close to fond amusement. “I think you’ve done brilliantly. Most people would’ve fainted at the sky alone.”

“I nearly did,” Ominis admitted, managing a tired smile. He let his gaze wander again, softer this time. The flicker of the fire in the grate. The folds of his blanket. Sebastian’s hair, brown with warm glints he hadn’t noticed before.

“So …” Sebastian said after a while. His eyebrows climbed upwards in what Ominis had come to recognise as raising or arching one’s eyebrows. “Want to make some memories of what it looks like to make out?”

Ominis snorted. Then laughed, then reached out to pull him closer, marvelling at the way Sebastian was not only a warm touch under his fingertips, but a colourful, vibrant being before his eyes.

Dinner was a blur.

The clatter of plates, the bright smear of roasted meats, puddings, and vegetables piled onto platters, was confusing. Ominis mostly picked, trying to reconcile the tastes he knew with the kaleidoscope of textures on his plate. Mashed potatoes looked nothing like they felt. Treacle tart glittered like glass, sticky and golden. A pumpkin fizzing with steam made him flinch before Sebastian calmly cut it open and explained what it was.

He let Sebastian chatter, grateful for the anchor of his voice, and resolved not to think too hard about food for now. One marvel at a time.

By the time they retreated back into the Slytherin dormitory, Ominis’ head throbbed with exhaustion. He collapsed onto his bed, boots still on, and pressed his palms over his eyes. “Don’t fall asleep on me yet,” Sebastian murmured, dragging his own trunk closer. “I’ve got a lesson planned.”

Ominis cracked an eye open. Then both, because Sebastian had sat down beside him, holding something up with all the solemnity of a professor.

“This,” Sebastian announced, dangling the object between them, “is what black looks like.” He held out one of his jumpers, a thick, knitted one Ominis had worn many times when he felt cold, and placed it in Ominis’ knee.

Ominis rubbed the wool between his fingers out of habit, then forced himself to look at it instead. “That’s … black?”

“That’s black.” Sebastian nodded firmly. “At least, one shade of it. There are lighter ones, but that is usually called grey.”

Ominis tilted his head, staring. The colour tugged at him in the same way the Quidditch banners had. Deep, heavy and rooted.

Before Ominis could linger too long, Sebastian swapped it out for something else.

“Do you know what shape this is?” He held it out, and Ominis took a moment to realise he wasn’t going to press it into his hands, like he usually did. Instead, it was up to Ominis to reach out and take it from him. He did so, and when his fingers closed around the box, he instantly recognised the corners, the surfaces. 

“It’s a cube,” he said. Sebastian nodded. He waited as Ominis twisted the box in his hands, trying to connect his concept of a cube by touch to a cube by vision, then swapped again. This time it was a small golden ball. “This is a sphere. And gold. You’re lucky, most people don’t get to hold a Snitch unless they’re playing.”

The Snitch’s surface gleamed in the lamplight, almost alive with movement. Ominis turned it in his hands, mesmerized by the way light skittered across the curve. He could understand now why people described gold as precious. It demanded attention.

He looked up, and found Sebastian watching him with a strange intensity.

Ominis startled slightly. Sebastian looked the same as before: freckles, brown hair, that irrepressible grin tugging at his mouth, but something about seeing him, really seeing him, jarred. For years, Sebastian had been a collection of sensations: warmth pressed against his side, the rasp of laughter, the way his hand always found Ominis’ shoulder. That was Sebastian.

But this person, in front of him, with shifting expressions and restless hands and eyes that seemed to glitter with mischief … that was Sebastian too. And the two didn’t quite line up in his mind.

Sebastian noticed his stare. He flushed, of all things, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Merlin, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re studying me.” His grin faltered a little, though his tone stayed light. “I’m also not used to you having vision. You always look a little past my shoulder, or you just tilt your head in my direction. Now, every time you turn those eyes on me I feel like I’m under a bloody microscope.”

Ominis blinked at him, frowning. “You’re nervous?”

“Course I am,” Sebastian admitted with a huff. “I don’t want to get this wrong for you. You’ve got, what, less than a day? I want to make sure you don’t miss a thing. But then you go and look at me, and I—” He broke off, laughing at himself. “I don’t know. It’s different.”

Ominis’ lips curled into a faint smile. “Well. I’m happy to know we’re both equally unnerved by this.”

Sebastian groaned, throwing himself back onto the bed dramatically, one arm over his eyes.

“Torture.”

Ominis leaned against the headboard, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair flopped into his face. Torture, perhaps, but not for the reasons Sebastian claimed.

For a while, they let the quiet sit between them. Sebastian fiddled with the Snitch, wings buzzing faintly. Ominis simply watched, imprinting every line of his friend — his boyfriend — into memory.

Eventually Sebastian rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “It’ll be sunset soon. We’ll have to sneak up to the Astronomy Tower if we want the best view. You’ll like it, I promise. The whole sky changes colour, little by little. Pinks, purples, reds… and then, when the sun’s gone, it’ll all go black again.”

Ominis frowned, trying to picture it. “I still can’t comprehend it. The entire sky. Changing colour. Like flipping a page?”

“More like… painting over one colour with another, stroke by stroke. Only you can’t see the brush.”

The thought made Ominis’ stomach flip.

”That sounds… impossible.”

Sebastian smirked, reaching to squeeze his hand. “Then it’s a good thing we’re going to prove you wrong.”

The climb was agony.

Ominis had climbed the stairs up to the Astronomy a hundreds of time, both for Astronomy class, and for … Sebastian-related studying. The steps themselves were familiar. Or they should have been. Now, every line, every shadow, every uneven step flashed before him as his foot rose and fell, and his mind scrambled to keep pace with what his eyes were screaming. He clung to Sebastian’s hand so tightly his knuckles ached, and Sebastian, somehow juggling two blankets and a picnic bag with his free arm, murmured encouragement the entire way.

“You’re doing brilliantly. Nearly there. Just a few more turns. You’ve got this.”

Ominis tried to distract himself by thinking about the view that awaited him. He and Sebastian had sat up here dozen of times, and Sebastian had described the view to him every time. The Forbidden Forest, looming green and dark in the distance. The flickering lights of Hogsmeade, and the shimmering reflection from the lake.

Soon, it wasn’t going to be just words. Soon, he would see it.

By the time they pushed open the final door and stepped into the crisp evening air, Ominis’ chest was heaving. He stood still, swallowing against the wave of dizziness that hit as the world opened before him.

The Astronomy Tower stretched out, wide and cold, its stone ledge circling the great expanse of open sky. Sebastian spread the blankets on the ground, but Ominis hardly noticed. He’d turned toward the ledge and—

Oh.

It was like seeing the sky for the first time all over again, but worse. Or better. He couldn’t tell.

The whole world was laid out before him, endless and terrifying, the land rolling away into forever. The lake was a vast, glittering pool in the dying light. Beyond that sprawled an ocean of green; trees so thick and dark they looked alive. On the horizon, tiny dots were gathered closely together, flecks of light among them. And above it all, the sky, meeting the world in a seamless edge, like two infinities pressing together.

He gripped the stone ledge until his palms hurt, trying not to sway. His throat worked soundlessly.

Sebastian came to stand beside him. “There’s the lake.” He pointed, guiding Ominis’ gaze. “See how it catches the light? And that cluster of lights over there, that’s Hogsmeade. To the right, the Quidditch pitch. It looks small from up here, doesn’t it?”

Ominis blinked, bewildered. “How is it suddenly smaller?”

Sebastian chuckled, thoughtful. “It isn’t. It only looks that way because we’re far away. Our eyes can’t see every detail at this distance, so things shrink the further they are. Like… squeezing the whole thing into your view.”

Ominis frowned, not fully grasping it, but nodded anyway. “Strange.”

“Strange,” Sebastian agreed, squeezing his hand.

They stood together a while longer, Ominis’ breath still uneven as he tried to take it all in. Eventually Sebastian tugged him down onto the blankets, rummaging through the picnic bag with triumphant flair.

“Snacks. Everything’s better with a full stomach.” He produced a heap of colourful shapes, setting them between them like a feast.

Ominis reached for a thin, blazing and slightly curved thing. His fingers met something blank and soft, and turning it over in his hands, he recognised a banana. He began peeling it clumsily, and blinked at its brightness. “So vivid.”

“That’s yellow. Like Hufflepuff’s colour,” Sebastian explained, grinning.

Ominis took a small bite, and felt a strange satisfaction at linking flavor to sight.

The grapes were next. “Green,” Sebastian said, pointing. “Not perfect spheres, but close enough.”

Then an apple. “Gryffindor red. As bold as the lions who wear it.” Sebastian picked up his wand and flicked it, slicing the apple into neat slices. Ominis’ eyes widened when the slices fell to the side and revealed the inside to be a completely different colour. Almost the same as the inside of the banana, just a bit paler.

Then,  orange. Well, an orange. Ominis laughed aloud at that one. How absurd, to name a colour after a fruit. Or was the fruit named after the colour?

And then the chocolate frog, melting faintly in the warmth of his hand. “Brown,” Sebastian said, eyes glinting. “Nearly the same shade as my hair.”

Ominis smirked faintly. “Convenient.”

They ate slowly, leaning shoulder to shoulder, and Ominis felt his heartbeat settle at last.

Eventually, gradually, the sky began to change.

At first it was only a subtle difference at the horizon. The piercing blue dulled, softening into pale streaks. Then, like ink spilled on parchment, new colours bled across the canvas. Oranges bloomed, rich and burning. Purples deepened at the edges. The lake caught the shifting light, rippling with fire and shadow.

Ominis’ mouth fell open. “It’s… it’s moving.”

“Not moving,” Sebastian corrected gently. “Changing. The sun is setting, sliding lower, past where we can see. That’s what makes the colours.”

Ominis craned his neck back, searching the endless ceiling above him, trying to comprehend how something so vast could change. “And it does this every day?”

“Every day.”

“And then it goes black?”

“Completely,” Sebastian confirmed, squeezing his hand again. “Stars will come out. You’ll like those. Tiny lights scattered across the darkness.”

Ominis shook his head slowly, wonder and disbelief written on his face. “It’s too much. Too… impossible.”

Sebastian leaned close, voice a soft murmur against the rush of wind. “Then it’s lucky you’ve got me to explain it. One impossible thing at a time.”

At some point — Ominis didn’t even notice when — the world had changed.

One moment, the horizon was aflame with streaks of orange and purple, and the next, darkness stretched over everything. Not the darkness he had always known, not the velvet-black of blindness, but something vast, infinite. It reminded him of Undercroft's dim ceiling, but in a size that enveloped the entire world.

And scattered across it, were stars.

Ominis drew a sharp breath, clutching at Sebastian’s sleeve. The sky looked as though someone had upended a basket of glitter over black velvet. Tiny sparks, hundreds, thousands, each one shimmering faintly, flickering in and out of brightness.

His heart pounded; he understood now why poets wasted ink and paper waxing about the heavens. He understood why people compared lovers’ eyes to stars. To see them was to be struck dumb, helpless, small in the face of impossible beauty.

“Merlin…” he whispered, so soft the word nearly dissolved into the wind.

Sebastian’s voice came warm at his ear, steady as always. “That’s Orion’s Belt there, those three in a row. And the one over there? Cassiopeia. You’ve traced them in your books, haven’t you?”

Ominis’ throat tightened. He remembered those pages, the raised bumps under his fingertips, the way he had followed the lines over and over, memorising the shapes in theory. He had never once imagined that those dots were actually there, burning light-years away.

“They’re so far…”

“Farther than you can imagine,” Sebastian admitted. His hand brushed Ominis’ shoulder, grounding him against the enormity of it. “It’s kind of disorienting to think about, even for those of us who have seen them our whole lives. But they’ve been there forever, and they’ll still be there long after us. That’s the comfort of stars, I suppose.”

Ominis kept staring, as though looking away would break the spell. “They look alive.”

Sebastian chuckled softly. “They are. Burning suns, just impossibly far.”

It was too much to take in, yet Ominis couldn’t stop drinking it in, star after star. And then, as though his heart had taken control before his mind, he turned to Sebastian, voice quiet but certain. “Let me map your face. With my eyes this time.”

Sebastian froze, caught off guard. Even in the dim light, Ominis could see the rush of color blooming in his cheeks. “You — are you sure? I mean, yes, of course — if you want to.”

They shuffled closer until their knees touched, and Ominis raised his hands. The gesture was achingly familiar; he had done this dozens of times in darkness. But now, as his fingers framed Sebastian’s face, he had vision to pair with it. His thumb brushed over the curve of his lips, and he nearly gasped. How could pink be so vivid? He tried to hold it in memory, the exact shade, the delicate curve of his cupid’s bow.

He traced along Sebastian’s jaw, strong under his hand, shadowed in the starlight. His fingertips brushed over the scatter of freckles, those tiny dark specks that looked like someone had dusted his skin with more of the same glitter that filled the sky. “They look like stars,” Ominis whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. “You’re carrying constellations on your skin.”

Sebastian laughed, but the sound wavered with something raw. “You’ll make me blush if you keep saying things like that.”

Ominis ignored him, too intent on memorising. He stroked along the length of his nose, felt the flare of his nostrils, saw the way his skin flushed faintly beneath his touch. His thumb brushed over the thick fringe of his lashes, darker than he expected, framing those golden-brown eyes that shifted and darted like restless flame.

And then, finally, he looked at Sebastian as a whole. The pink of his lips, the glitter of freckles, the strength of his jaw, the wild curls spilling onto his forehead. This was Sebastian. His Sebastian. And it was still overwhelming to reconcile the boy he had known through sound and touch with the boy staring back at him now.

But he knew one thing for certain: seeing him didn’t lessen anything. It only made everything sharper, deeper, more impossibly beautiful.

“You’re even worse than the stars,” Ominis said finally, almost accusingly.

Sebastian blinked, startled. “Worse?”

“Because I can’t stop looking.”

Sebastian’s breath caught, and then he laughed, pulling him closer until their foreheads touched, the stars burning overhead and Ominis’ hands still cradling his face like something too precious to let go.

They sat in silence for a while, quietly finishing the remainder of the fruits and chocolate frogs.

Then, Ominis said, quietly:

“Twenty-four hours from now, this will all be gone. I’ll be back in darkness.”

Sebastian stilled, his hand tightening gently over Ominis’ wrist. “Do you…” He hesitated, nerves fraying his usually smooth voice.

“Do you think it was worth it? I mean … has it been what you hoped? Or…” He swallowed hard. “Are you disappointed? Do you wish you hadn’t drunk the potion at all?”

The question sat between them, heavy as stone.

Ominis didn’t answer at once. He let go of Sebastian’s jaw and turned forward again. His gaze drifted upward, to the scattering of stars, glittering impossibly far away. For a long while he said nothing, thinking hard and long about his answer. Then, he said:

“Yes and no.”

Sebastian blinked, brows drawing together.

“It’s disorienting,” Ominis continued. “More than I can explain. I can’t imagine living like this forever. It’s been less than ten hours and I already feel… saturated. Overrun. I don’t understand how you sighted people manage, drowning in this flood of colour and light every single day.” He paused, chewing over the words. “Part of me almost longs for my own darkness again. Where I knew every corner, every surface. Where the world belonged to me because I had mapped it myself. I was born blind. It’s not just a condition, it’s me. Taking it away … it feels a bit like tearing out an essential piece of who I am.”

Sebastian’s throat bobbed, but he stayed silent, letting him continue.

“But of course,” Ominis’ lips curved faintly, his eyes never leaving the night sky. “There are perks. Being spared the everyday dismissals and forgotten accommodations. Walking without hesitation … well, once I’ve gotten accustomed to orient myself using sight, I suppose. And … reading or writing without needing to dictate it out loud for the entire bloody common room to hear. And—” his voice softened— “being able to see you. That alone makes this worth more than I can name.”

Sebastian’s breath hitched.

Ominis held out his hands before him, stretching out his fingers, flexing them. To think these, along with his wand, had been his eyes for his entire life.

“So do I regret it? No. Not yet, at least. I think I’m… satisfied. Happy, even.”

Sebastian surged in quickly, as though afraid that answer might change if he left the silence too long. “Then we’ll do it again. There’s nothing saying this has to be the only time. We’ll keep working on it. I mean, it might be dangerous, so I don’t want you drinking it too often, but…” His words tumbled over themselves, quick and desperate. “We can brew more. Maybe we’ll find a safer version. Something lasting. Or even just occasional doses, for special moments. Graduation. Birthdays.”

He faltered. The next words slipped out without permission. “Our wedding.”

His own voice seemed to echo back at him. His eyes went wide, and he slapped a hand over his mouth. “I  — I didn’t mean… that is, I wasn’t—”

Ominis turned to him then, and the sight of his mortified blush — cheeks crimson, eyes darting anywhere but Ominis — was too perfect to resist. He let out a soft laugh, warmth curling in his chest. “Marriage, hmm? You’re planning rather far ahead, aren’t you?”

Sebastian groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Merlin’s beard,, that just slipped out. Can we forgot the last three minutes maybe?”

“I quite like the look of you when you’re flustered,” Ominis teased gently. His eyes traced Sebastian’s reddened cheeks, the bashful tilt of his smile. “It might even be my favourite.”

Sebastian buried his face in his hands, muffling a laugh that came out shaky but genuine.

“You’re evil.”

Ominis’ grin softened, and he leaned against Sebastian’s shoulder again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For making this possible.”

Sebastian swallowed audibly next to him. Ominis made a mental note to see what that looked like, as well. Not now, but maybe tomorrow. Then, he’d map out and catalogue every flicker of emotion on Sebastian’s face.

“Of course,” Sebastian said, clearing his throat. “And like I said. I’m not done yet. I’m going to keep researching as soon as the potion wears off.”

Ominis smiled a little.

“You don’t need to stress,” he said, interlacing their fingers. “I’m in no hurry.”

Sebastian exhaled slowly, then leaned against Ominis as well, his cheek pressed against the top of Ominis’ head. Above them, the stars glimmered like they had been scattered by some careless giant’s hand; below, the Black Lake shimmered faintly in the starlight.

Ominis tilted his head back a bit further, the swell of bittersweetness tugging at him. He had sight now, and he would lose it soon. He was both grateful and weary of it.

Part of him ached already for the return to darkness: his darkness, familiar and known. And part of him dreaded it. There was so much he still wanted to see, colours he wanted to explore, shapes he wanted to identify. He wanted to see Sebastian laughing, see him sad, and angry, and sleeping. Wanted to see his hair in the morning, before he had had time to brush it, see him tie his tie and pull on his cloak and see him argue himself out of a detention.

But then he thought of Sebastian’s words — that this didn’t have to be the only time, maybe just the first — and decided to relax. To take it step by step. He would miss these past hours, for sure, but for now, he decided not to think too much about the future. Pressed against Sebastian, feeling his warmth, hearing his quiet laugh, Ominis found the strange comfort of holding both truths at once.

Sighted or blind, he thought, he was happy.