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Ominis had learnt from a very young age that the world wasn’t adapted to him.
When he was really, really small, he hadn’t quite understood it. For a long time, he had thought everyone’s life revolved around the same things his did: the vibrations that hummed in their ears, the scents carried on the air, the textures traced beneath their fingertips. It took him years to realise that not everyone measured a room by the echo of their steps, or memorised the distance between doors and furniture. Others seemed to move through life with an ease he could never imitate, their world stitched together by sight, while his was pieced together from fragments of sound and touch. It wasn’t until he was nearly three that he understood that his way of perceiving the world differed, and another two years before he realised his condition set him apart from the majority. That people looked down on him, patronised him, excluded him.
Now, he was used to it. Used to the way people called “look here!” only to falter when they remembered who they were addressing. Used to being underestimated in class, as though his blindness dulled his mind along with his eyes. He had grown accustomed to the invitations that never reached him, not because he couldn’t go, but because others assumed he wouldn’t manage, or worse, wouldn’t belong. He was used to the slower tones, the over-explanations, the well-meaning but clumsy attempts at patience that slid so easily into condescension. It was not cruelty, not always, but it stung all the same.
He was used to it, and had come to accept it. The world was full of idiots.
And then there was Sebastian.
The first day they had met was still etched into Ominis’ brain. It had been in the Slytherin common room. Ominis had been absorbed in a Braille book, wand tucked away, when someone dropped unceremoniously onto the seat beside him. The sudden weight made him jump. He tensed at once, every muscle wound tight, until Sebastian’s voice broke in, teasing and curious, asking why he looked as though he’d seen a poltergeist.
“Well,” Ominis replied once he’d realised the boy was seemingly harmless, “I think I would have been more shocked if I had actually seen one.”
The silence that followed was tinged with confusion, and Ominis turned his head, deadpan. “I’m blind.”
He had braced himself then, waiting for that little gasp of ohmygodI’msosorryIdidn’tknow, followed by a poorly made excuse before scampering off to find someone else to befriend. Someone who wasn’t blind.
Sebastian had gone quiet for all of two seconds before exclaiming, with more fascination than pity: “You’re really blind? Brilliant! And you’re already reading a book?”
The half hour that followed had been both bewildering and unexpectedly moving. Sebastian had launched question after question; not the condescending sort, no “how many fingers am I holding up?” or “do you just see black all the time?” Instead, he wanted to know if Braille felt like a secret code, whether Ominis’ other senses had sharpened, if he remembered names more easily than most, and whether he closed his eyes when he grew tired. (Yes, maybe, no, yes).
Now, Ominis couldn’t imagine a day where his world wasn’t centered around Sebastian.
Ominis had realised early on that most people weren’t careful at all about where they put things. They tossed keys onto tables, threw jumpers across beds, shoved books haphazardly onto shelves. The trunks beside their beds were, judging by the countless groans of “where did I put my wand?” and “I could’ve sworn my scarf was right here,” absolute war zones.
For Ominis, that kind of chaos wasn’t a luxury he could afford. He couldn’t simply fling his wand onto the bed, kick off his shoes, or upend his school bag in search of a quill.
To him, the world was mapped not just by sound, but by memory; a mental blueprint drawn in touch and habit. His wand always rested in the exact same place on his bedside table, aligned along the edge, its handle beside the lamp (which, for Ominis, served more as decoration than function). His trunk was sorted and organised to perfection, and whenever something was moved, it was returned in precisely the same spot, at precisely the same angle. He knew that if he ran his hand across his desk, the ink bottle would be three handspans to the right, and his quill would be lying just beside it.
Unfortunately, in a sighted world, few people understood how important routine was for Ominis. He had once lent someone his self-dictating quill, and the person, with the best of intentions, had placed it inside his bedside drawer. It had taken Ominis ages to find it again. Someone else had once offered to pour him a cup of tea, and when he’d reached out for it, he’d nearly burned himself on the cup.
That never happened with Sebastian.
When Sebastian handed him a teacup, he always turned it so that the handle was pointed in Ominis’ direction already. When Sebastian borrowed Ominis’ scarf or gloves, he either returned them directly into Ominis’ hands or placed them in Ominis’ preferred spot inside his trunk. Such small gestures, and Sebastian did them without seemingly thinking twice about it, yet they meant the world to Ominis. They made him feel seen, made him feel included. Thought of.
Sebastian had a way of folding the world open for him without ever making it obvious.
Other people described things in stiff, halting tones, as if reading from a list for his benefit alone. Sebastian, on the other hand, let the details slip into conversation as though they belonged there all along. The moment they entered a new classroom or corridor, he might breathe out, half to himself, “Merlin, look at that enormous window: straight over the lake, you can see the reflection of the towers.” Or, “Professor Sharp looks like someone just informed him that Garreth will take Advanced Potions with him for his elective. Paired with his black, high collar and moustache, he looks like he’s ready to attend a funeral for his own sanity.” From that, Ominis could stitch together a picture in his mind, could feel included when the student body rippled with awed ooh:s and Sebastian leant in and whispered, “Flock of Hippogriffs flew past above us. Mesmerising sight.”
He did it in smaller ways too, with a subtlety that sometimes startled Ominis. If laughter erupted around them and his wand could not find the cause, Ominis would only have to wait a second before he heard a quick murmur in his ear: “Burke’s just upended his whole goblet in his lap”. It was so casual, so unstudied, that Ominis often wondered if Sebastian realised what he was doing. To Ominis, these moments mattered more than he could say. They kept him tethered, part of the shared joke, the shared awe, instead of stranded outside it.
And perhaps that was the heart of it. Sebastian did not narrate to fill a silence or prove his kindness. He did it because he wanted Ominis there beside him, laughing at the same ridiculous spectacle, gasping at the same marvel. Included,not as an afterthought, but as if it had never crossed Sebastian’s mind that Ominis should be anywhere else.
Though it was fairly obvious to most what blindness meant, people still seemed to struggle to grasp it. An endless number of times, someone had offered Ominis something and simply held it out in front of him, never considering that he couldn’t see to reach for it. It was never ill-intentioned, and when they realised their mistake — often prompted by Ominis pointedly holding out his open palm to signal that they should place the object in it — came the inevitable, embarrassed gasps and apologies.
It wasn’t malicious, and it wasn’t a great tragedy, but it mattered. Each time was just another quiet reminder that the world was not built with him in mind.
Sebastian never made that mistake. If he meant Ominis to have something, he put it directly into his palm, guiding his hand with a light touch. A quill, his wand, or a stolen treacle tart. Ominis never had to reach and miss, never had to endure that awkward pause before someone realised he could not see what they were offering. With Sebastian, the object was simply there, placed with a care so casual it seemed thoughtless.
And when it wasn’t handed over directly, it was placed close enough that Ominis could find it without effort. A book left so its edge brushed against his knuckles. A butterbeer set down so the handle nudged against his fingers curled on the tabletop. Sebastian never said anything, didn’t make a big deal of it, he just did it.
Many times, Sebastian had gently taken Ominis’ hand and guided it toward something he could touch. A grand statue that had appeared in a corridor, a magical artefact the surrounding students were oohing and aahing over, or a new jumper he was excitedly describing — “it’s dark green, sort of like Slytherin’s colours, with thick cuffs and a really cosy hoodie ”— before placing it in Ominis’ hands so he could feel the fabric, trace his fingers over the print.
When Sebastian got a haircut, he always took Ominis’ hand and set it on his head, inviting him to feel it for himself. Ominis always mourned the soft curls he used to bury his fingers in. Luckily, Sebastian’s hair grew back quickly, within a few weeks, but still. Ominis liked to tangle his fingers in the thick hair, play with the strand that seemed to grow in the opposite direction than the rest of the hair.
His wand was enough, most of the time. Drawn before him, it sang the shape of the corridors, warned of walls and stairwells, of bags forgotten in the middle of a passage. It told him when the floor dipped, when a doorway narrowed, when something loomed just ahead. He relied on it, and it rarely failed him.
But Sebastian was there too.
Ominis often only realised it after the fact: the faint scrape of a chair leg dragged aside before he reached it, the thump of a broom shifted back against the wall. Once, crossing the courtyard, he caught the sound of a heap of branches being kicked aside in a hurry, just as his wand had warned of a shape at his feet. By the time he passed, the obstacle was gone. Sebastian’s voice carried on easily beside him, still mid-story, as though nothing at all had happened.
When crowds became loud or rowdy, Sebastian’s hand always seemed to find its way to the small of Ominis’ back. He didn’t press, he just sort of hovered there, in an anchoring and grounding way. A quiet “I’m here”, as he gently herded Ominis through the throng of students. If someone bumped into Ominis, he knew that Sebastian was glaring daggers at the back of their head. If someone unexpectedly came barreling toward them, Sebastian shifted Ominis away with a light grip on his shoulder or a gentle tap on his waist.
It wasn’t that Ominis needed it. He was perfectly capable of navigating on his own. But there was something warming in knowing that Sebastian kept an eye out for him. Not out of pity, never with announcement, but simply because it had become as natural to him as breathing. Where others blundered past and left hazards in his way, Sebastian’s awareness stretched to meet his.
Ominis always knew where Sebastian was. He could hear the familiar cadence of his steps, could feel the brush of his magic in the air, as distinct to him as a voice. But still, Sebastian never left it to chance. He always greeted him with a light touch: fingers brushing his sleeve, a warm hand on his shoulder, the light press of his wrist. A quiet I’m here, spoken not in words but in presence.
It had been like that from the beginning, long before they were anything more than friends. Sebastian always announced his presence, not in that obscene “by the way, just so you know, I’m currently three steps behind you”, but in a natural way.
And later, when things shifted between them, those greetings had softened, grown warmer. A swift kiss to the cheek, a brief hug from behind, the squeeze of a hand paired with a murmured, “Hey, love,” or the occasional teasing, “How you doin’, baby?” The touch was always intentional, and carried more meaning than any words could.
He didn’t always need his wand to recognise people. He could tell them apart by their footsteps, their breathing, their sniffles, and their scent. Sebastian most of all: Ominis was fairly certain he could have sensed Sebastian’s presence even if he stood completely still, holding his breath, wearing someone else’s clothes.
But the fact that Sebastian never left it to Ominis to figure out who was in the room, that he made sure never to startle him, warmed Ominis from the inside. Sebastian never crept up to surprise him with a hug from behind; instead, he always approached with a deliberate step, he always made a point of quietly announcing himself whenever Ominis entered the room.
Yes, the world was still full of idiots. It was still not built for him, and likely never would be. But Sebastian made sure that Ominis’ little corner of the world, his life, was as perfectly adapted as it could be.