Chapter Text
The Great Hall’s discordant chaos grated against the senses of one Ominis Gaunt.
The cutlery scraped on plates, the chatter of a hundred voices thickened the air like the pungent humidity before rain, the smells of greasy meats, pastries, porridge, and pumpkin juice threatened to overwhelm him in a tidal wave of sensory overdrive. Compared to the commanding chill of his family manor, bumbling in here as a first year left him woefully unprepared for noise.
Ominis knew how to handle it by now.
He let the haze of conversation flow over him, settling over his body in a cloak – proof he could carry them upon his shoulders without being crushed. His focus narrowed down to the cool porcelain of his tea-cup, its contours and engravings shaping it under his careful ministration, while the robust flavor of oolong kept him in the present.
Of course, the far more engaging voices to his immediate right served as his main anchor in the storm. Silva Greensborrow, the mysterious new fifth-year with her high and clear voice, who trailed clouds of lavender and vanilla wherever she went. It masked the smells of oiled wood well enough from most, but he knew a purposeful disguise when he sensed one.
Sebastian sat across from her, smelling of parchment and dusty old tomes, voice lowered and posture hunched with the weight of dark new secrets.
“What use will I have for Transfiguration?” Sebastian complained. “Turning marbles into moths doesn’t fit into my day to day routine.”
“You might be surprised how useful it can be.”
“Judging by that tone,” Sebastian wore a tired smirk to his voice. “you’ve used it for mischief?”
“Well…”
Ominis released a long suffering sigh. “What did you get into this time.”
It wasn’t a question. He and Sebastian knew her activities outside the castle weren’t the safe adventures the Professors would approve of.
“Alright, I was in the Forbidden Forest—“
“Naturally.” Ominis muttered as he took another drink.
“—and I came upon these poachers cornering a herd of unicorns.” Silva continued as if Ominis had said nothing. “I was out-numbered and needed a distraction before I could rescue them safely.”
“Unicorns?” Sebastian leaned forward with an eager lilt. “Go on.”
“I bought a few bags of marbles from Zonko’s after our latest class, and threw them around the clearing. With a wave of my wand, a hoard of moths appeared and distracted them enough to take them down without accident. The herd is safe, as is a parliament of fwoopers they kept in their nearby camp.”
Ominis huffed in amusement.
“‘Parliament of fwoopers.’” Sebastian laughed, a rare sound these days, tapping his fist onto the table. “That’s what I’m calling the Wizengamot from now on.”
“Never thought dark wizards would be that startled over moths.” Silva chuckled. “Did they not take Transfiguration when they were in Hogwarts?”
“Considering their career choice, its a wonder if they ever finished school at all.” Sebastian cut himself off when Ominis’ boot found his shin. “Oi! It’s true!”
“True or not, you should be more careful, Silva.” Ominis warned, sightless eyes staring in the direction of lavender and vanilla. “Taking down these poachers is not something to take lightly, and I’d bet they’re very cross at you for keeping exceedingly rare creatures from their clutches.”
“It’s not their first operation I’ve disrupted.” Silva said softly. “They haven’t once changed their tactics yet, so for now it’s fine. Those poachers were so thrown off I practically fought them with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Since when do you fight with one hand tied behind your back!?”
Ominis kicked Sebastian’s other shin, much to his pleasant yelp. “Keep it down, Sebastian.”
“It’s a Muggle phrase! I don’t really… well, not technically — oh, forget about that!” Her sigh carried the briskness of winter. “What I’m saying is that you need to be more creative, Sebastian. Work smarter, not harder, with Transfiguration. There are a dozen ways I could find use for turning orchids into beetles. I'd turn a goblet into a rat if I was cross with a dinner guest, and I've found plenty of use for turning opera glasses into owls.”
“Don’t give Sebastian any ideas on how to cause trouble.”
“Too late for that, my friend.” Sebastian snorted. “Professor Weasley will be delighted at my new found enthusiasm for her class.”
“Fantastic.” Ominis stated dryly, finishing off his tea. “If I find that any of my cuff links have been turned to spiders, I’m immediately hexing you.”
Sebastian balked. “I wouldn’t—!”
The cry of an owl came from overhead. The whistle of feathers swooping down gave him enough time to lean back, teacup in hand, to avoid it landing right on top of him. The creature gave him a garbled hoot before hopping over to Silva.
“More letters?” Ominis asked, brows raising. “That’s the fourth time this week.”
“Another person who needs saving, oh valiant troll slayer?” Sebastian teased.
“More potion deliveries from J Pippins?” Ominis drawled. “Someone lose another mooncalf?”
“I bet it’s some adult who can’t wrangle their own shoe laces.” Sebastian playful scoffed. “At the rate they pile these chores on you, Silv, I’m not expecting anyone to be able to do anything by themselves in the long term.”
The crinkle of parchment sounded in their ears, the breaking of an official wax seal – tension tearing at the envelope. Silva’s silence made his stomach drop, her shaky intake of breath a twisting knife in his chest.
“Silva?” Sebastian’s concern doubled his own.
“I have to go.”
“Go?” Sebastian sputtered. “Classes start in half an hour!”
“I’m sorry.” She folded the letter and smoothed out any creases – the sound of gloved fingers gliding over parchment made a chill go down his spine. “This is news I’ve been waiting for. The Professors already gave me permission ahead of time, so…”
Sebastian’s weight shifted, looking towards the Professors’ table.
“Then we’ll see you tomorrow for our library study session. Poppy and Natty will be there, too.” Ominis rolled his shoulder to shake the unsettling itch in his bones that something wasn’t right. “Merlin knows the Professors are burying you in extra assignments, too.”
“I might not be back tomorrow.”
Sebastian barely silenced a strangled whine in time.
“Truly?” Ominis asked, eyebrows raising higher.
“Then we’ll see you Sunday?” Sebastian cleared his throat, rapping his fingers on the table cover his disappointment. “The three of us agreed to visit Anne.”
“I’m sorry, I won’t make it.” Fingers brushed Ominis’ shoulder as she rose from the bench, bound in thick leather gloves. “Tell Anne I said hi?”
She grabbed her bag and rushed out of the Great Hall.
Ominis tilted his head at her unique gait – a solid step followed by an ill-fitting thud. Tap. Thud. Tap. Thud. The cloud of vanilla, lavender, and oiled wood already began to dissipate. Her meal wasn’t half finished. The owl snatched a sausage from her plate before taking flight with its prize.
“I can’t believe she’d leave when we already had plans.” Sebastian muttered, the table creaked as he sulked over his breakfast, the screech of a fork across a plate signifying how he pushed his food around. “You’re staring after her again.”
“What?” Ominis turned back towards his friend’s voice, sweeping aside a stray owl feather to place his cup down. “I don’t stare after her.”
“Yes, you do.” Sebastian’s huff came out tired. “You do it every time she walks away, now. Do you fancy her or something?”
“I do not—!” Ominis took a deep breath before letting it all out, willing the heat in his face to die down. “In case it escaped your attention Sebastian, I can’t even see, let alone stare after anyone. Wipe that smirk off your face.”
Sebastian cleared his throat, his robes shuffling as he hastily fixed them. “I don’t have a smirk.”
“Sure.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. Why do you always look the way she goes, whenever she’s walking away? You don’t do that for anyone else, ever.”
Ominis rolled his eyes, more for dramatic effect than anything. “I don’t stare. I listen.”
“To…?”
“Does she happen to carry wood or metal on her?”
“I… what? No, I don’t think there’s anything like that in her school robes.” Sebastian groaned when Ominis pursed his lips. “Mate, tell me what this is really about. You’re confusing the hell out of me.”
“I hear metal on her at all times, and her perfume buries the scent of oiled wood.” Ominis sighed sharply through his noise, allowing a small slouch to show his frustration. “Hickory and willow wood, to be precise.”
Silence followed for a few long seconds, Sebastian’s wide stare burning against his face.
“Have I ever told you how terrifying you are when you want to be?” Sebastian said eventually. “I didn’t know you could smell differences between wood types, let alone under perfume.”
Ominis cast an icy glare over the table. “Sebastian—“
“I went with her on that day in Hogsmede, and I know her new wand is ebony with a Thunderbird tail feather core. Surprisingly swishy.”
Ominis raised his brows. “A Thunderbird tail feather? Not a Phoenix?”
“Yup, I was surprised, too. Didn’t think Ollivander worked with anything but the three ‘superior’ cores. In any case, not sure where you’re getting hickory or willow… or metal, apparently. She’s never worn any jewelry that I can see.”
“Then what’s with her footsteps? They’re different.”
“So? You always say that each person’s footsteps are unique to them. It’s why neither Anne or I can ever sneak up on you anymore. Your hearing is scary good, Ominis. And your sense of smell too, I suppose.”
“The weight in either step is different and her center of balance is off altogether, but she doesn’t have a limp from what I can tell.” Ominis picked up his empty cup again, simply to have something occupying his hands. “Her gait favors her left arm and right leg. There aren’t many witches or wizards who use their wand with their left hand, either.”
“You know, I never noticed.” Sebastian’s voice pitched up in curiosity. “She became the Crossed Wands champion without anyone else pointing it out, either. Are you sure you’re not just imagining things?”
“No. She hides it well. Which means she practiced extensively for it to be that way, for whatever reason.”
Sebastian kept his silence for almost a full minute, the gravity of this thoughts turned suffocating. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“When she told us she had the Professors’ permission, I looked over and Fig and Weasley got an owl at the same time as her. They followed after her in a rush. Ronen and Sharp exchanged a look, and Garlick actually seems concerned… but prepared. Headmaster Black looks like his pumpkin juice insulted his esteemed bloodline, more than the usual.”
“So the Professors are involved in whatever mess she found herself in.”
“They have to know something, but I doubt they’d ever tell us.” Sebastian stood, his posture stiff. “I’ll interrogate Garreth to see if he knows anything.”
“Be nice about it. Scare him and we’ll not have a peaceful Potions class for the rest of the term.”
“I’m always nice!” Sebastian’s heavy footsteps marched off, leaving Ominis alone.
He drank in another deep sigh as his cup landed on the table with a sharp clink. Ominis turned his head towards the vacant space smelling of lavender and vanilla, and the odd scent of oiled wood.
Ominis waited in the Slytherin common room, the lone fireplace spreading a pleasant blaze to battle the crisp midnight. Not another soul waited here, wand at the ready so he could sense whatever state Silva returned in.
She didn’t come back to the dorms Friday night. Not on Saturday, either.
Garreth knew nothing despite Sebastian’s interrogations. Her dorm mates haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since she left.
Their library study session accomplished nothing. Silva’s heavy absence drew attention to her empty chair, the vacant spot on the table that should house her mountain of books. Her laughter and remarks silenced. So tense were their nerves as to be targeted by Madam’s Scribner’s ire.
Sebastian went alone to visit Anne today, with Ominis staying in the castle to await news of Silva. Breakfast, dinner, and supper passed without answers. Their fellow Slytherins cared little for her disappearance, as the charming novelty of her odd schedule had long worn off. His own questioning owls sent to Professor Fig and Professor Weasley came up with nothing more than ‘Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.’ as if that in itself wasn’t worrying enough! He briefly considered writing to Headmaster Black, but discarded the idea. He couldn’t risk the Headmaster sending word to his father about any supposed interest in the new fifth year.
They’d had an unstable start, but he’d grown to treasure their friendship as the term progressed.
He’d hate to lose it if his father started breathing down his neck at school.
Sebastian returned under a pall of exhaustion late in the evening, another argument with his uncle explained in irritated grumbles. He was in no state to keep vigil for a second night in a row. Ominis promised to stay on watch, his concern gnawing fiercely upon his insides the longer the hours stretched.
He doesn’t sleep much, anyway.
Ominis didn’t know how long he sat in one of the armchairs before the blazing fireplace, fingers idly tracing the page of a book he couldn’t bother reading.
Finally, his ears perked up at the sound of the serpent revealing the door for someone, hissed whispers of welcome thrumming throughout the common room.
A single set of footprints entered – staggered, tired, audible despite the sheer number of stone stairs leading up into the castle dungeon.
Tap. Thud. Tap. Thud.
The thud sounded heavier. A difference of a few pounds may seem insubstantial, but to Ominis, it changed a fundamental force in his world.
Ominis didn’t need sight to get his bearings on those around him.
They way people carried themselves became a vital tell of someone’s true character, such as Sebastian’s confident stride versus a stuttering one like Duncan Hobhouse. Did a lord’s entrance to a lavish ballroom cause everyone to freeze under his enormous self-importance, their breath lodged in their throat? Or did a servant slip in and blend into the background as a raindrop in a large lake? Peoples’ clothes had their own personalities. A silk robe sounded different to a cheaper fabric such as cotton, as silk flowed across its wearer’s body as opposed to stiff and wiry fibers chaffing skin. The quality of perfume or soap they’d used… or the sore lack thereof. Their tone of voice when they spoke to respected peers versus servants or complete strangers.
Last but not least, any accessories they wore.
The groan of a worn leather satchel thrown across a shoulder, the light grind of a metal chain sliding across a thin neck – the bite of one whose bone-crushing handshake was laden with too many pompous rings.
She made it to the bottom of the winding staircase in a breathless gasp, entering the cavernous common room. Gone was her underlying scent of oiled wood, replaced by such cold metal. He detected heavy disinfectant, Wiggenweld, and the dregs of dried blood clinging to her.
The gnarl of fear twisted deeper when Ominis tossed his book on the side table and rose from the armchair. If he had vision, he’d wonder how his silhouette against the fire looked at this hour.
“Ominis!” The unpracticed stride faltered, a shift of loose robes as she curled in on herself. “What are you doing up this late?”
“Waiting for you. Sebastian and I have been worried since you left on Friday.” Ominis drew out his wand and languidly spun his it between his fingers. “Did you not think we’d care after running off like that without an explanation?”
“Oh.” Her voice croaked. “It’s not that, I’m tired from being in St. Mungo’s, can we just—“
His heart stopped. “St. Mungo’s!? Were you injured?”
“No, it was a planned procedure. In the works for several weeks, we just finally got it approved—“
“Procedure?”
“Well, more like a surgery—“
“Surgery!?”
“Shh!” Her fast footsteps raced to him, one hand clamping on his shoulder. “Are you trying to wake half the bloody House?”
“Please, the boys side can’t hear anything with Sebastian’s snoring. The girls hardly pay attention to any supposed escapades since I’m the only one who comes out here at night.” Ominis spoke fast, his heart pounding. “Now, what is this about a surgery?”
Her left hand dropped from his shoulder while he heard the other go over her chest. She twinged, another sharp breath escaping her.
He tilted his head. “You’re in pain.”
“Not pain, I promise.” She inhaled a sharp breath. “At least… not as much as before.”
He flicked his wand to get a read on her. Now, color never held meaning for him. His entire scool life, everyone talked about the colors of their respective Houses: Green for Slytherin, red for Gryffindor, yellow for Hufflepuff, blue for Ravenclaw. He’d heard all about how students went on walks around the Hogwarts grounds during Autumn to admire colorful foliage, supposedly in shades of yellow, red, and orange. Whatever shades were. Winter followed with white snow. The night sky was apparently black with thousands of silver stars.
Colors were so intrinsically bound to some people they carried it with them in their names. Such as Silva Greensborrow.
So no, he did not know what color his sentient wand offered him as his magic echoed off people and objects, around tables and walls so he wouldn’t humiliate himself by face planting on them. Before today, Silva presented as any other person – making the mystery of strange wood and metal he’d sensed all the deeper.
Now…
He felt the blood drain from his face. Any magic he sent out swirled around her in an unstable surge, the echoes sloughing off and unable to form an entire person. Partially replaced by the same void he supposedly stared into when not using his wand.
“Silva,” She jumped at the urgency in his voice, a muffled clatter of metal reaching his ears. “What in Merlin’s name happened over this weekend? I know I’m not entitled to your secrets, but I want to make sure you’re alright.”
“Can we sit down for this?” Silva released a world weary sigh. “I’d be more comfortable.”
“...Of course.” Ominis lowered himself on the nearest sofa, set out behind the pair of armchairs by the fireplace. “How much pain has this surgery caused you?”
“A lot. It’s mostly discomfort and stiffness now, but every once in a while it’ll return in a bad ache. I have potions to help, too. It won’t last forever, I promise.”
Silva released another sigh as she sat to his right. Half an arm’s length away, back rigid. The same arrangement during their meals, or their History of Magic class together. Always, he realized, had she sat on this side of him, or anyone.
“Words won’t really do this justice. It might be better to show you.”
“You do realize I can’t see anything, right? I apparently had to remind Sebastian of that.”
She laughed, in a sad mimicry of bird song. “You won’t need any sight for this.”
“Then…?”
Thick leather gloves were taken off and thrown on the table before them. Then the sound of a robe being shed caught him off guard as the fabric pooled around her, followed by a woolen sleeve of a sweater being rolled up.
“What are you doing?”
“I was going to offer you my arm, to feel it.”
“You—“ His ears suddenly burned. “What?”
“I know it’s unconventional. It’s the best way for you to understand, but if this is uncomfortable for you…”
“No, it’s fine. Whatever you wish to show me must be important, so I trust you.”
“...Thank you.”
He put his wand to the side, both hands gently reaching to her extended arm. His fingers found her forearm, ignoring the warmth creeping up his neck and the rush of electricity at touching another person after so many years. Ominis’ touch traveled down to her small wrist. The callouses spread across the landscape of her palm and finger pads were recent, carved by repeating wand work for hours on end.
Ominis furrowed his brow as he released her. “I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”
She pulled up her other sleeve in a slow and concise motion, shifting to face him fully. “This is my other… arm.”
His frown deepened as he reached out once more, but instead of warm skin, he found metal. Only metal. The sheer temperature difference made him flinch, mouth agape as if he’d touched a sharpened knife. He continued slower than before. His fingers traced the smooth surface in wonder, meeting the complicated, interconnected plates of her wrist. She rolled her wrist to show him how smooth the joint worked in spins of uncountable, tiny gears. Her palm and the back of her hand were comprised of wrapped bands of metal eloquently molded to match her other hand size, the fingers almost skeletal.
Silva allowed him to explore without interruption.
His mind whirled at the new information slotting into place. Her center of balance being off to compensate for mismatched weight across the body. How she favored her left arm and right leg. Being the only left handed witch in their year with a wholly unique wand core… her joking of fighting poachers with a hand tied behind her back.
It hit him with the subtly of a thunderbolt.
“Prosthetics!” He whispered. “You’ve had prosthetics all this time?”
“You… you knew?”
“Not really, I only had basic clues but nothing to string them together.”
“When?” Her metal fingers tightened over his, the clockwork humming underneath it. The movement was as fluid as a real hand. “They were supposed to be charmed.”
“I never figured it out until now.” He assured. “But I suspected something was off when you approached me on your first day here, by the way your footsteps sounded.”
“My footsteps...? Of course it was sound.”
“Pardon?”
“They were charmed to not be found out by sight, but we didn’t think anyone would notice that way.”
“Yes, the weight was different between your footsteps… wait. It’s not just your arm, is it?”
“Right arm. Left leg.” Silva’s voice became a hushed breeze. Her soft hand grabbed one of his, placing his palm flat against her upper arm. “This joint is at the shoulder here, while the one on my leg is above my knee.
His chest tightened. “Were you born like this?”
“No.” She cleared her throat. “I was in a bad accident when I was little. By Muggle standards, I was lucky to even survive, but I lost both limbs.”
“What were you using before this?”
“Muggle prosthetics.” A stiff huff left her.
“You said something about charms.” He straightened, sightless eyes wide. “Is that how nobody else noticed? Not even Sebastian could tell anything was different.”
“The Ministry gave Professor Fig permission to charm them before I came to Hogwarts. Enough to make them seem real with managing basic movements, and others for making people pay little attention to how stiff they really were.”
“So what exactly did they do for this surgery?”
“They implanted these enchanted plates where the limbs connect to the nerves in my body.” Her metal fingers twitched against his wrist, but it was comforting in a strange way. A gentle, but significant, weight to ground him. “The reason we needed approval from the Ministry is that… both the connecting plates and these limbs are made of goblin silver.”
“Goblin silver?” Ominis whispered. Well, no wonder his magic reacted to it strangely, but there was a more pressing problem. “You are aware of how goblins view ownership?”
“Of course. I had Professor Fig and Professor Weasley, as well as the Healers at St. Mungo’s, be witnesses to the promise that these prosthetics will return to the goblin craftsman once I pass on.” She finally released his hand, as if realizing how long she’d held it. Silva primly cleared her throat, setting her hands in her lap. “And of course, he wasn’t in league with Ranrok or anything. The goblins from Gringotts assured us of that. They sent a representative there to make sure everything went smoothly.”
“I… understand.” He didn’t. He really didn’t. His hands rested on his pants, fingers clawing into his knees. “There was no other option than to involve goblins? They and wizardkind aren’t exactly on friendly terms these days.”
“Not unless I wanted to stay with debilitating Muggle prosthetics.” Another laugh lightened the atmosphere. “This was the only option to assure a better quality of life, believe it or not. It just took a while for everything to come together, between the goblins, the Healers at St. Mungo’s, and the Ministry. The Professors have all been supportive, and they somehow convinced Black to go along with all this.”
“Don’t tell Imelda or she’ll have another meltdown about Quidditch.” He scoffed. “What of the ones you used before?”
“I personally transfigured them into matches or needles. They were dreadful things, anyway. I’m glad to be rid of them.” She held up her metal arm, the clockwork ticking as she opened and closed her hand several times, metal clicking against metal in a pleasing tune. “I cannot feel anything, but the movement is so natural. I no longer have to worry about the charms failing and people seeing through them anymore.”
“The Hogwarts rumor mill never catching wind of this is an impressive feat.”
Silva snorted.
“I don’t mean to pry, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but why hide this from Sebastian and I? Did anyone other than the Professors know about this? We… would not have judged you for it.” He stared to where he hoped her face was. “I would not have judged.”
“I didn’t mean to hide this from either of you, but I was already ‘that new fifth-year’ for the first couple of days. Then the troll attack in Hogsmeade happened and, as a certain someone said it,” She nudged him again, her tone tiredly playful, “that ‘I was trying too hard.’. Then the Ashwinders, the poachers, the hostile goblins came along… So much happened too quickly, one event after the next. I want to share it openly when I’m ready, but I just didn’t want to be seen as a…”
Her voice trailed off, and Ominis’ shoulders sank.
He sighed as he leaned forward, elbows resting over his knees. “A freak.”
“A liability. Suddenly incapable of the most basic tasks despite helping so many other students and those all across the valley.”
“You don’t want to have a weakness to be pitied.”
“...To be the biggest outcast in Hogwarts with only half her limbs." The weariness wove heavy through her voice. “Do you remember the first thing I said to you, over there by that window?”
He pulled his lips into a thin smile. “That ‘just because you have what some people think of as a disability, doesn’t make you any less of a capable person’?”
“Yeah. That.”
“I admit, I thought it was you taking pity for my blindness.” His vacant eyes gazed towards the sound of clockwork as Silva moved her metal fingers, the joints of the wrist and elbow. “But you were saying it as someone who understands. I see that now.”
“Did you really just make a jest over your own blindness?”
“If I don’t have some manner of fun with it, then it allows others to take it from me.” He shrugged. “I’ll not hand over any of my power to pathetic classmates like Hobhouse, thank you very much.”
Silva laughed. “I suppose I never thought of it that way. It’s a good way of looking at things.”
Ominis snorted, his smile growing and causing her to laugh harder.
The air shifted as their laughter died away. An understanding ran into the core of who they were. A mutual connection had formed in the span of a heartbeat, a connection not even Sebastian would understand.
“I’ve lived more years without all my limbs than with, so maybe it’s time I finally shared that perspective.”
“I’m sure it was a big change for you.”
“It was. After the accident, I had to reteach myself to do everything left-handed… you don’t realize how hard it is to do normal things with just one hand – your non-dominant hand at that. Let alone having only one leg.” The clockwork in her hand ticked beautifully as she shifted. A true pinnacle of goblin engineering. “Do you know what happens to Muggle women in their society?”
An odd turn to take this conversation, but his curiosity got the better of him.
“Can’t say I do.” He said tightly. “You know my memories with Muggles aren’t the greatest.”
“Women can’t own property, or have jobs. Or own bank accounts. Our lives, our livelihoods, everything we are is wholly dependent on whatever husband we can wrangle, how many children we can produce afterwards. Merlin, we weren’t even allowed to wear pants.” She scoffed, and Ominis tilted his head to show he listened fully. “But my parents were commoners barely scraping by. They couldn’t take care of me properly after the accident, so I…”
Ominis inched closer, sensing her distress. “What is it?”
“When I first returned home from hospital, I couldn’t do anything properly. My mother had to take significant effort to care for me, but I have three younger siblings who needed her a lot more.” Fear and shame crawled into the timbre of her voice. “She could not do it alone. My father took time out of work to help take care of me and my younger siblings… but with less work, came less money. We could barely afford rent, let alone put food on the table.”
“So what happened?”
“They had no choice but to put me in an asylum before they got evicted. An institution that hid people like me from the general public.”
Ominis recoiled. “They left you there?”
“It was one less mouth to feed, and allowed my father to return to work full time. No man would ever want to marry a broken cripple down the line, so they’d never be rid of me.”
“But how did you feel about this? Surely, you didn’t want to be separated from your family?”
She didn’t answer, and he’d feared he’d overstepped.
“Silv?”
“I don’t hate them for it, but it’s… complicated. I was secluded to a bed in the corner of the ward. They fed me when they remembered to, they didn’t bathe us— me and the other female inmates, that is— all that often. There were only a handfull of caretakers for dozens of patients.”
“You were confined to a bed?” Ominis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “You couldn’t move?”
“No.” She turned face face down, her fingers, both metallic and flesh, intertwined tightly together. “They didn’t allow me any prosthetics, for fear that the more unstable inmates would steal them and hurt either themselves or others. I tried to keep myself busy with reading the books I kept hidden under my mattress late into the nights, sleeping away most of the days. That place held me for nearly eight years… I wish you could’ve seen the heartbreak on Professor Fig’s face when he saw me curled up in that filthy, forgotten corner. He brought me to his home early in the summer, and it took weeks just to remember how to be a person again.”
Ominis’ shock silenced his throat, his tongue turning to lead. He'd once overheard Imelda complaining to Grace of how obsessive Silva's hygiene habits were, how they'd found small stores of extra food hidden around their dormatory since the term started.
If Silva had been starved and neglected for years, then it puts a heartbreaking perspective on the scents of her perfume and the strong soap she uses. The small pouches of food he'd heard her stuff into her robes when she thought nobody was paying attention.
“I haven’t written to my parents at all since Professor Fig got me out of there." She said, drawing him out of his thoughts. "I’m not sure they’re aware that I was taken from that place, since they never visited or written to me themselves.”
“Silv...”
“If I didn’t gain my magic when I did, I would be trapped there for the rest of my life. No will of my own. No exploring the highlands on a flying broom. No magic, no Hogwarts, no friends or freedom…” Her voice simmered lower than the smoldering flames keeping them warm, something so small and broken. “I would’ve rather died than stay any longer in that prison.”
Ominis’ hands twitched, and he had to force down the constricting ball in his throat. Slowly, he placed his hands over hers, dual warmth and cold balled into a shaking fist.
“I’m glad you’re here too, Silva.” He stated. Calm. Even. His voice didn’t waver in his conviction of the truth. “That you had the strength to keep living until Fig could rescue you from that place.”
“Thank you.” She whispered, her voice full but soft around the edges. “For what it’s worth, I never thought you were a freak.”
“Really?” His throat was still dry, but his smile shed its weight. “You don’t think the possibly inbred, blind descendant of Salazar Slytherin isn’t an abomination to Wizardkind? I’ve been told how horrid my eyes are by my family for years, among all my other failures to their favored form of magic.”
“No.” Moving gears slipped from his grasp and traveled to his face, and his breath caught as a reassuring cold in the shape of a masterfully sculpted hand lay on his cheek. The fingers fully pressed against his skin after another few moments, careful in their adjustment. “You’re not a freak, Ominis, or a failure. You’ve become one of my dearest friends, and your eyes are beautiful.”
His entire body stilled, and he could barely get his tongue to function. “...What?”
“They’re beautiful.” She repeated, the metal thumb rubbing soothingly below his eye. “They’re like moonstones glowing in the firelight. Your family is wrong, Ominis. Everyone who ever called you a freak is wrong. If I’m not a freak, then you aren’t either. If the rest of the world shuns people like us, we’ll still have each other to lean on, alright?”
Ominis could not see. Vision wasn’t gifted to him as it was to most others, but he could still feel.
The warmth over his eyes was something he hasn’t experienced in far too long. The metal fingers on his face pulled away.
“I’m so sorry Ominis, I didn’t mean to make you upset!”
“No, I’m not upset!” A chuckle bubbled out of his throat as he used the sleeves of his robe to absorb the foreign liquid. “That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Well, it’s true.” He could sense her firm nod. “And if anyone says otherwise once its all said and done, I’ll punch them for the both of us.”
“You—“ He huffed in fond amusement, wiping way the last of the tears. “Not spells?”
“Spells and wand work are expected in this world. A physical blow is not.” The gears and wires in her prosthetic hand clicked as she formed a fist. “Being unconventional in a duel can be a life saver, and a solid right hook with a goblin silver hand? I’m sure Leander would make a valuable test subject on how effective it’ll be.”
“I cannot believe I’m saying this, but please don’t punch Leander even if the prat deserves it.”
“Alright. I’ll disconnect my leg and throw it at him instead.”
Ominis burst out in an undignified laugh, unable to contain the absurdity of it. “You can’t do that, either!”
Silva joined in easily. “Oh, come on! I can Accio it right back!”
“You don’t—“ Ominis’ composed himself after a few more chuckles, an honest grin spreading on his face. “You don’t want to reveal your prosthetics yet, right?”
“I suppose.” Silva let out a pouting sigh. “Still, it’s a shame. His nose sorely needs some readjustment.”
“I’ll trust your word on it.”
Her next laugh made the warmth in his heart blaze. They spent a few moments in a comfortable silence before she spoke again. “Thank you for talking with me tonight. We both needed it, I think.”
He nodded towards her, smile set in stone.
“But it’s late, and we should get to bed before the sun rises.” She sputtered. “I mean, our beds— separate beds, in our separate dorms!”
“Right.” He pushed down another bout of laughter. “Are the Professors giving you more time off to recover from your surgery? Two days in St. Mungo’s hardly seems enough.”
She deflated at the change in subject. “A few days to adjust as my nerves settle, and I’m to go straight to Professor Weasley or Nurse Blainey if something feels wrong. But I have confidence in this goblin’s work and the Healers gave me potions to take. With any luck, I’ll be back in class by Wednesday.”
“I’ll try not to fall asleep in History of Magic for you. We’ll both need the notes.”
“You’re right on that.” Silva slipped on her robe and gloves, the metalwork going silent after a small readjustment of fabrics. She hesitantly stood, shifting the weight between her feet. “Can you not tell Sebastian about this yet? I’ll work my way up to it, but the way he feels about goblins, or anything to do with goblins… not all of them are evil.”
“I promise not to say a word, but he’ll have questions. We’re both aware of how stubborn he can be.”
“I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“Not alone, you won’t.” He stated vehemently. “He deserves some retribution after that Scriptorium nightmare. Let him squirm for a while.”
“Thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good night, Ominis.”
“Good night, Silva.”
He waited until her mismatched footsteps disappeared into the girl’s dorm. Ominis stood and wound his way to his own dorm in a fuzzy daze, confident when he heard Sebastian snoring through his curtains – none the wiser of both the heartbreak and laughter that transpired within the last hour. As he lay in bed, his hand rested on the spot where fond metal touched his cheek. Heat and cold. Metal and flesh. The duality of soft warmth and supportive chill suited her – yin and yang in harmony.
She didn’t harbor the type of frigidness that seeped down to your bones and hollowed out any semblance of humanity. Rather it was the weather-beaten rock supporting you at your lowest point, the firm ground from which you could get back up and fight whatever it is that knocked you down. The trusted weight that stood back to back with him.
He couldn’t help the odd smile blooming on his face, nor the warm embers nestling within his heart as they breathed with new life.
Silva’s was the only type of cold he wouldn’t mind feeling again.