Chapter Text
Summer had arrived in the Highlands, bringing with it long days, bright skies, and the scent of wildflowers carried on every breeze. The hills surrounding Hogsmeade were painted in rich shades of green, and sunlight spilled across the countryside from dawn until well into the evening. On the outskirts of the village, far enough to enjoy peace and quiet, close enough to hear the distant sounds of daily life, stood a large stone house nestled among blooming gardens and old trees heavy with leaves. Its windows stood open, letting laughter, conversation, and the warmth of the season drift freely through the rooms.
Smoke curled from its chimney, rising in delicate wisps that disappeared into the pale afternoon sky. In the fading light, the home looked like something conjured out of an old children’s tale, the kind whispered to young witches and wizards about summer spirits, hearth-bound guardians, and the magic of warmth against the cold.
Inside, the world was alive.
The entrance hall, warmly lit by floating lanterns, gave way to a generously sized living room where the fire crackled with a steady, comforting rhythm. The scent of pinewood drifted from the logs, blending with the distant perfume of spices; rosemary, thyme, and something sharper that hinted at dried juniper. A garland of holly and enchanted mistletoe hung from the banister of the stairs, their berries glowing a deep ruby red. The walls, painted a soft cream, reflected the amber firelight in gentle waves.
But the true heart of the home that evening was the kitchen.
It lay at the back of the house, spacious and pleasantly warm, lit by low-hanging lamps enchanted to mimic the glow of candle flame. Copper pots, polished to a shine, hovered at the ready along one wall, while bowls of fresh vegetables and herbs cluttered the wide counter. Everything breathed festivity, the kind that comes not from opulence, but from effort, laughter, and shared hands.
Antha moved between the counter and the stove with practised ease. Her hair, still kept at a medium length that framed her softened features, was tied back with a piece of silver ribbon she claimed was “purely practical,” though Aurora insisted it suited her. She stirred a simmering cauldron filled with a thick broth whose aroma instantly warmed the bones. Steam rose in soft clouds, fogging her spectacles and making her huff in mild frustration.
Aurora, however, found this endlessly amusing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, hold still,” Aurora chided playfully as she lifted a clean cloth from a drawer. Her hair, dark, wavy, effortlessly rebellious, was pinned back behind one ear with a tiny enchanted butterfly that flickered like a real one. She stepped closer to Antha, reaching with the cloth, only for Antha to dodge her with an indignant squeak.
Aurora laughed. “Stop moving, you impossible thing.”
“You always say that,” Antha shot back, though her lips trembled with the beginnings of a smile. “Perhaps consider that I wouldn’t need wiping down every five minutes if you weren’t over there chopping onions with the enthusiasm of a lunatic.”
Aurora placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated offence. “I am not enthusiastic. I am efficient. And you,” she reached again, this time successfully dabbing the fog from Antha’s lenses, “are distractible.”
Antha fixed her with the driest look she could muster, though the colour in her cheeks betrayed her. “If I’m distractible, it’s only because someone insists on singing carols off-key.”
Aurora gasped. “You wound me.”
“I am only telling the truth.”
“The truth,” Aurora said, flicking her wand so the pile of onions levitated into a neat bowl, “is that you adore my singing.”
“The truth,” Antha returned promptly, “is that I adore you. Your singing is… negotiable.”
Aurora leaned in, brushing a fleeting kiss against her cheek. “Good thing I’ve prepared negotiations for later.”
A pot on the stove hissed loudly in protest of being ignored, and Antha spun back to it with a yelp. “Merlin’s beard, Aurora, stop distracting me or the roast will burn!”
“That was hardly my fault,” Aurora said, though she was smiling as she rolled up her sleeves and moved to assist, wand already at the ready.
The kitchen dissolved into a comfortable flurry of motion. Antha carefully inspected the roast, an enormous cut decorated with rosemary sprigs, waiting to be enchanted into slow rotation within the magically heated oven, while Aurora began mixing a bowl of mashed roots, adding butter with a flourish and pepper with an amount of confidence that suggested she believed seasonings were more art than science.
“Too much,” Antha warned without looking.
“Not enough,” Aurora argued.
“You always say that.”
“And I’m always right.”
“Oh, please.”
But their bickering was so light, so familiar, that the house itself seemed to glow with it. Their laughter would circle the room, bounce off the polished counters, and return to them warmer than before. Every so often, Aurora would catch Antha staring at her with soft eyes, eyes that said we are alive, we are safe, we are here, and Antha would look away, embarrassed by her own tenderness.
And it had been a long time since tenderness felt safe.
On one of the side tables, a stack of plates floated slowly in mid-air, obeying gentle charmwork from Antha. Beside the window, a small enchanted wreath rotated lazily, dusting faint silver sparkles across the sill.
Aurora conjured a faint breeze to cool the cauldron, only for it to blow flour into her face. Antha burst into laughter so sudden she nearly dropped her spoon. Startled, Aurora blinked through the white dusting and muttered something unrepeatable in polite company.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Antha said between giggles. “You’re the one who thought stirring air in a kitchen was a clever idea.”
Aurora wiped her face with both hands, smearing flour further across her cheeks. “I am a visionary, Antha Virell. Visionaries are misunderstood.”
“You,” Antha said, stepping in to try to clean her up, failing utterly, “are a mess.”
“And you’re still smiling,” Aurora countered softly.
Antha hesitated. A faint blush returned to her face. “Yes, well… someone has to.”
Aurora’s expression softened, mellowing like warm honey. She leaned her forehead gently against Antha’s. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“This peace.”
Antha closed her eyes. “Almost unreal.”
Aurora squeezed her hand. “Then we’ll keep it real.”
The kitchen fell still for a heartbeat, two women holding onto a moment that, for years, had felt impossible.
Then Aurora sniffed the air.
“…Antha, is something burning?”
Antha dashed across the kitchen with a cry of horror. “Not the bread!”
Thus resumed the small, chaotic symphony of domestic life, pots clattering, enchanted utensils swooping dutifully into action, laughter bursting anew as the two of them, half-arguing and half-dancing around each other, continued preparing what would inevitably become a feast worthy of their hosts.
The living room, though spacious, felt intimately warm, almost smaller than it truly was, thanks to the soft golden wash of firelight and the comforting clutter of a home recently filled with life. The faint hum of enchantments whispered through the room: charmed curtains rustled gently despite the open windows, and a string of celestial fairy-lights drifted between the shelves, mimicking tiny constellations.
On the central rug, the imprint of recent activity lay scattered, folded napkins set aside after the table had been set, a stray holly berry rolling idly before a charm nudged it back where it belonged, and faint traces of flour magically brushed off Ominis’s sleeve earlier when Aurora had walked past him after one of her culinary mishaps.
Now, with preparations nearly complete and the other guests not yet arrived, the house exhaled in quiet contentment.
So did its owners.
Eline and Ominis sat curled into one end of the largest sofa, a sturdy piece of dark green velvet with carved wooden legs, positioned just close enough to the fire that warmth kissed their shins. Ominis was angled slightly sideways, one arm stretched comfortably along the back of the sofa, while Eline leaned into him, her head nestled against his shoulder. Her knees were drawn up toward her chest, tucked beneath one of the blankets she’d conjured earlier, a deep maroon one embroidered with gold threads that shimmered in the shifting light.
Ominis, whose crisp black shirt and neatly pressed trousers would have made him appear almost formally dressed were it not for the fact that he’d abandoned his stiff posture entirely, had his feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. It was a rather rebellious act for someone known to correct students for slouching, and Eline found it endlessly charming.
His boots, polished earlier that morning, rested against the table’s surface as if this were the most natural position in the world. One hand absent-mindedly played with a section of Eline’s hair, letting the long strands run through his fingers in slow, rhythmic motions. The gesture was thoughtless, habitual. Intimate in a way that felt older than mere years.
Eline closed her eyes for a moment, simply listening, to the fire, to the distant clatter of Antha and Aurora’s kitchen chaos, to the soft tapping of snow against the windowpane. It was peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful.
“Mm,” she murmured, opening her eyes again. “You know… now that it reaches past my hips, I think I might cut it.”
Ominis’s fingers stilled mid-motion.
The sudden stop made her snort. “Don’t look so shocked.”
He huffed a quiet breath that passed for a laugh. “I’m not shocked,” he said, voice smooth as always but with a note of unsaid protest humming beneath it.
“You paused. That means you’re shocked.”
“It means,” he countered lightly, “that I was trying to imagine you with shorter hair and found myself… conflicted.”
“Conflicted?” she repeated, shifting just enough to tilt her head up at him. “Why? You don’t even see it, Ominis.”
He clicked his tongue softly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know your hair better than half my students know their textbooks.”
He resumed running his fingers through the strands, slower now, as if inspecting it. “It’s softer than people expect, you know. And, well, it’s very much you.”
Eline scoffed, more amused than offended. “That’s not an argument.”
“It’s not?” His mouth quirked. “I thought it was quite persuasive.”
“No,” she said with mock sternness. “It isn’t. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Maybe shoulder length. Or shorter.”
“Shorter?” He echoed it like she’d suggested shaving her head entirely.
Eline fought a smirk. “You sound traumatised.”
“I sound reasonable,” he corrected.
“Oh, do you?” She nudged him with her knee. “Because you’re gripping my hair like I’m threatening to chop off a limb.”
Ominis released the captured strand instantly. “I am not gripping...”
“You are literally clutching it.”
He exhaled sharply, which only made her grin. “You enjoy antagonising me.”
“It’s your own fault for being so easily antagonised.”
“I am not-”
“Yes, you are,” she cut in, patting his chest once before making an exaggerated motion to rise from the sofa. “You know what? Forget it. Clearly you’ve some sort of sentimental attachment to it, so maybe I will cut it. Very short. Perhaps I’ll charm it into curls. Tight, tight curls.”
She began to shift forward, moving her weight off him, but Ominis reacted instantly. His hand, steady, unhurried, but firm, caught her by the waist and eased her right back into his side, guiding her movement as though he’d anticipated every inch of it.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he murmured.
Eline let out a faux-offended gasp. “Are you detaining me in my own living room?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
“That’s illegal.”
“It’s dinner time,” he replied without missing a beat. “I’m allowed one criminal act.”
She tried to keep her face stern, failed, and resorted to lightly swatting his arm. “You’re impossible.”
“So you tell me,” he murmured, fingers gently settling on her waist. “Almost daily.”
She opened her mouth to retort, something about him being dramatic, but the words stopped when he tilted his head and spoke again, softer this time. The shift in tone was subtle yet unmistakable.
“You can cut it,” he said, voice so warm it melted her indignation instantly. “Or keep it. Or braid it into a rope long enough to lasso Hippogriffs if you wish. I’ll love you, regardless.”
Eline blinked, caught entirely unprepared.
There it wa that thing he did. That infuriating, heart-shattering ability to be calm, deadpan, steady… and then drop a sentence so profound it burned through her defences like sunlight through frost.
Her lips parted. “Ominis...”
He continued, thumb brushing a small arc at her waist. “Your hair doesn’t matter. Not truly. I only… I enjoy it because it’s familiar. Like your laugh. Or your temper. Or the way you rush headfirst into danger and then claim it was ‘well-calculated’ afterwards.”
She tried, truly tried, to glare at him.
It lasted less than three seconds.
He lowered his head slightly until his forehead nearly touched her temple. “Whatever you choose,” he whispered, “you’ll still be the same woman who terrified me, saved me, infuriated me, and made this house feel like a home.”
A small pause.
“So if you must cut it, just warn me first. I’d like to say my goodbyes.”
Eline burst into laughter, sharp, startled, helpless.
“You-” she wheezed, covering her face with one hand, “you are utterly insufferable.”
He smiled just a shade, just enough for her to hear it. “I know.”
She settled back into him without further complaint, her head returning to his shoulder as though it never should have left. His hand resumed its slow, gentle path through her hair, more reverent this time, and the room seemed to exhale with them, two people who had survived the unthinkable now arguing about hair like it was the most important thing in the world.
Outside, the cold summer night continued to pass, inside, the fire crackled. And between them, warmth thrived in the quiet way it only can when peace has finally taken root.
The warmth between them settled into a soft, glowing quiet, the kind that wrapped itself gently around their shoulders and refused to let go. Eline shifted slightly, turning more fully toward Ominis, and he instinctively mirrored the motion. His hand slid up from her waist to her cheek, fingertips tracing the faint heat in her skin.
For a brief heartbeat, the world shrank to a single point, the space between their mouths.
Ominis leaned in first, though only just. His movements were always deliberate, measured, carried by a sense of caution honed over years. But his lips brushed hers with a familiarity that still, somehow, managed to feel like discovery each time. Eline’s breath caught as she cupped the side of his face in return, her thumb grazing the line of his jaw, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepened slowly, unhurried, gentle, threaded with the kind of affection learned not through passion alone but through seasons spent building a life together. Ominis’s thumb stroked her cheekbone, guiding the angle of her mouth with surprising certainty, and Eline melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The fire cracked softly in the background, almost in rhythm with the quiet sighs shared between them.
He nudged her nose with his in an affectionate, near-playful brush.
As his lips found hers again, firmer this time, fingers slipping beneath a curtain of her hair as if anchoring her to the moment, Eline’s hand trailed up to the nape of his neck, and he hummed, barely audible, but warm enough to make her heartbeat stumble.
It would have continued. It should have continued.
But the universe, in the form of one Sebastian Sallow, had other plans.
A sharp, impatient BANG! BANG! BANG! rattled the door violently enough to startle one of the enchanted fairy-lights into flickering indignantly. A muffled, “HELLO? Is anyone ALIVE in there?” followed, spoken in the tone of a man who had no respect for quiet or romance.
Eline jerked back an inch, blinking. “Merlin’s-”
Ominis let out a breath through his nose that was half-laugh, half-resigned sigh.
“That,” he said dryly, “would be Sebastian.”
Another set of knocks came, louder, if possible.
Eline muttered, “Is he trying to break the door down?”
“It’s his standard greeting,” Ominis replied with the tone of a man who had endured years of this. His hand, still cupping her cheek, slid reluctantly away. “I recognised it the moment he assaulted the woodwork.”
Eline snorted. “You recognise his knock?”
“Unfortunately.”
She made a move to rise, but Ominis shifted first, guiding her effortlessly. He placed a steadying hand against her back and then stood himself, keeping her hand in his as though refusing to sever the warmth they’d created. When she was upright, he stole one last moment, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against her forehead.
The kind that said everything he hadn’t voiced aloud.
Then he stepped back just enough to give her a look. One that they knew very well. The subtle tilt of his head, the faint curve of his mouth, the low hum of something unspoken behind his sightless eyes.
A promise disguised as an expression, a suggestion that their previous moment was merely postponed, not abandoned. Eline felt heat creep up her neck, and he seemed satisfied by her reaction. Ominis squeezed her hand once, quietly conspiratorial, before guiding her toward the hall with effortlessly sure steps, his wand held loosely in his free hand to sense their surroundings.
The knocking had grown more dramatic.
“Honestly,” Eline muttered, “he acts like the chill is going to devour him.”
“It’s Sebastian,” Ominis said. “His theatrics are evergreen.”
As they approached the door, a gust of wind swept past the window, rattling the wreath slightly. Ominis pulled them to a smooth stop, letting Eline’s hand slip from his fingers only when she reached for the handle.
She opened the door with a composed expression she absolutely did not feel.
Sebastian stood on the other side, bundled in a coat, and cheeks flushed red from the embarrasment. He looked both triumphant and miserable, as if he’d battled a storm itself to stand there.
Eline raised a brow, leaning casually against the frame.
“Well,” she said in a voice warm with mischief,
“I thought you’d arrive late. You know, your usual style.”
Sebastian answered with a lift of his brows and the sort of roguish pride he wore like a second coat. “I’ve arrived early, actually, to make a good impression…” He stepped aside just enough to reveal the young witch standing slightly behind him, cheeks tinged pink. He gestured toward her with the flourish of a man pretending not to be as pleased with himself as he was. “…and because I made her practise punctuality all month.”
Renata gave him a light nudge with her elbow, half a reprimand, half affectionate encouragement. Their hands were linked, not in a self-conscious display, but in the unconscious, easy way people hold on when they are still learning to stop searching for reassurance.
Eline’s grin sharpened knowingly, though her voice was warm as she stepped aside to let them in. “Come in, please. Honestly, Sebastian, you’re lucky we opened the door at all, it nearly flew off its hinges with those knocks.”
Ominis took their coats with a small bow of his head, fingers moving with calm precision as he brushed with his hand each garment. His expression was composed, but there was unmistakable amusement tugging the corner of his lips, he had recognised Sebastian’s frantic knocking the moment the pattern began. “You might reconsider that method,” he murmured dryly in Sebastian’s direction. “One day, a door will retaliate.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t start.”
But before he could launch into an elaborate defence, footsteps thundered toward the entryway, and a rush of warm air, carrying spices from the kitchen and the faint smell of freshly baked bread, announced the arrival of Antha.
She didn’t slow down.
“RENATA!” The name burst out of her with such joy it ricocheted around the foyer. In an instant she threw her arms around both newcomers at once, Sebastian got a decent share of the embrace, but Renata received the brunt of it, squeezed so tightly she squeaked.
Antha rocked them both side to side as though she had been waiting years—perhaps she had. “I am so happy you’re finally here! And you, oh, you’re even lovelier than last time! You don’t understand, I’ve dreamed of this moment, truly dreamed it.”
“Antha...” Sebastian began, already redder than the cold had made him.
“A sister in law, at last!” she continued, beaming at Renata with tearful delight. “Do you know how many times I’ve told Aurora that this day would come? I said, ‘Sebastian is hopeless, yes, but not hopeless forever.’ And look at you two! Holding hands! Oh, this is wonderful.”
“Antha, please,” Sebastian groaned, sounding twelve years old again. “You’re embarrassing me.”
Aurora appeared behind her, cheeks rosy from the kitchen’s warmth. She leaned one shoulder against the archway with the resigned fondness of someone who had watched this entire excitement build like a storm. “She’s been waiting near the stairs for the better part of ten minutes,” she said to Eline in a conspiratorial whisper. “I warned her not to sprint.”
Eline nearly doubled over with quiet laughter, pressing a hand against her lips. Ominis’s shoulders shook with silent amusement, his head lowered in a helpless sort of acceptance of Antha’s enthusiasm had always been impossible to redirect. Even Renata, caught in the crushing embrace, was laughing breathlessly, charmed rather than overwhelmed.
Sebastian attempted to peel his sister off them, failing dramatically. “Merlin’s sake, Antha, she needs to breathe.”
“Nonsense! She’s family now; she knows what she’s signed up for,” Antha declared proudly, finally releasing them only to clasp Renata’s hands between her own, eyes bright and earnest. “Come in, come in. Aurora and I have prepared so much food you might actually fear us.”
From behind them, Ominis lifted Sebastian’s now-free coat with a mild incline of his head, tone deceptively polite. “If you’re done being smothered, Sallow, I’ll store this somewhere safe before Antha hangs it on the chandelier by accident.”
“I never did that!” Antha protested.
Aurora coughed delicately. “You absolutely would.”
Eline’s laughter filled the foyer, warm and familiar, weaving through the gentle chaos like a ribbon tying it all together.
And just like that, through the smell of wildflowers and summer, the clatter of greetings, and the overwhelming press of affection, the house felt even fuller than it had moments before. Fuller, warmer, undeniably alive.
Antha, still vibrating with delight, seized Renata’s hand as though afraid she might vanish if she loosened her grip. With her other hand she caught Aurora’s sleeve and tugged her along, chattering excitedly. “Come, come, you must see the kitchen! We’ve charmed half the pans, and Aurora nearly set her fringe on fire with the caramel glaze, oh, and Sebastian never told me if you dislike anything, so I assumed you eat everything, which is perfect, because...”
Her voice trailed off as the trio disappeared past the threshold, swallowed by the warm, bright kitchen. A moment later, a burst of laughter echoed through the corridor, followed by clattering pots and Antha’s theatrical gasp of horror about “burning the snowflake pastries by accident if someone distracts her.”
The house felt suddenly quieter, though still full, the sort of quiet that settles around people who feel entirely at home with one another.
Ominis released a low breath, adjusting his hold on the coats draped over his arm. “Before Antha returns and insists on giving us a second tour of the foyer,” he murmured dryly, “perhaps we should occupy the living room. It has fewer breakable objects.”
Eline snorted softly and nudged him with her shoulder. “You make it sound as though she’d trip and take down a wall.”
He angled his head toward her with a small, knowing smirk. “I’ve seen her try.”
With a faintly amused shake of his head, he guided Eline into the living room. The sofas were deep, inviting, perfectly arranged so the heat from the fireplace brushed against one’s legs without overwhelming. Ominis gestured toward the larger of the two, and Eline sat first, curling instinctively into the space he always created for her. He slid in beside her, an arm settling around her shoulders with a familiarity that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Sebastian strolled in a moment later, rolling his eyes toward the kitchen with a smile he tried, and failed to suppress. “I think she’s already feeding Renata biscuits,” he muttered, dropping lazily into the sofa across from them. He sprawled in the effortlessly confident, mildly arrogant way only Sebastian ever had: one arm stretched along the backrest, one leg crossed over the other, boot bouncing slightly. The warmth of the fire turned the tips of his hair almost copper.
He glanced between them, eyes bright with a teasing glint. “So,” he drawled, “how does it feel to be homeowners?”
Eline opened her mouth to answer, but Ominis beat her to it which instantly made Sebastian smirk wider.
“Well,” Ominis said with exaggerated contemplation, “our neighbours have been unbearable.”
Sebastian straightened slightly. “Already? Who?”
“A family of foxes,” Ominis replied in his perfectly neutral tone, “who seem convinced that the garden is exclusively theirs between midnight and dawn. Quite territorial for such small creatures, really. They’ve taken to knocking over my herb pots.”
Sebastian blinked. “…Foxes.”
“Yes,” Ominis affirmed, deadpan. “Fearsome adversaries. I’ll be requesting Ministry intervention soon.”
Eline elbowed him lightly, laughing. “Stop it. You love them, and you know it.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “I tolerate their existence. On good days.”
Sebastian’s grin sharpened. “Merlin, you sound like you’ve aged fifty years.”
“He has,” Eline said, looking up at him with faux solemnity. “Inside, he’s an elderly wizard who drinks far too much tea and complains about wildlife.”
Ominis angled his chin down toward her, pretending to be offended. “I do not complain. I observe. Critically.”
That earned a snort from Sebastian.
But then Ominis’s posture softened, almost imperceptibly at first, a shift in the angle of his shoulders, a gentling of the line of his mouth. His fingers brushed Eline’s arm with a kind of unconscious affection before resting once more around her.
“In all seriousness,” he said quietly, sincerity warming his tone, “there is something extraordinary about it. Waking up somewhere that is ours. Walls that actually echo with laughter instead of just… existing. A hearth that feels lived in. The impossible suddenly feels like something we simply stepped into one morning.”
He paused, head turning slightly as though listening to the snow outside the windows. “It’s strange. I never imagined having a place that felt like… this.”
Sebastian’s smile shifted, still amused, but touched around the edges in that way he only ever showed with them.
Eline’s voice joined the warmth of the fire. “I wasn’t completely sure, at first,” she admitted, looking around the room, the soft lights that glowed like captured starlight. “It felt too big, too much, too soon. But now… with all of you here, and the house actually feeling alive.” She leaned a little more into Ominis, her cheek brushing his shoulder. “It feels right. Completely, impossibly right.”
Ominis turned his head just slightly, enough for his temple to brush her hair. The movement was small, subtle, but unmistakably fond.
Sebastian relaxed back into the cushions, exhaling a breath that fogged briefly in front of him before the fire warmed it away. “Good,” he said simply, though the smile that hooked at the corner of his mouth told the rest. “You both deserve that.”
For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of the fire, a soft, steady crackle that seemed to mirror the comfort settling over the three of them. Snow outside. Warmth inside. A house that finally felt lived in.
And from the distant kitchen, Antha’s voice carried cheerfully:
“SEBASTIAN! Do you like beetroot pie or not?! Because I may have added extra!”
Sebastian closed his eyes. “I’m moving in,” he sighed.
Ominis smirked. “The foxes will be thrilled.”
Eline laughed so hard she nearly slid sideways into the cushions.
Sebastian stretched like a cat, shaking off the shout about beetroot pie as though it were nothing more than wind rattling a windowpane.
“Well,” he said at last, folding his hands behind his head in a painfully relaxed pose, “speaking of domestic bliss…” His grin sharpened with unmistakable wickedness, eyes flicking between the pair on the opposite sofa. “Tell me, Ominis, when do you plan on getting down on one knee?”
Eline sputtered into a laugh before she could stop herself, her hand flying to her mouth. Ominis, for his part, went very still primarily, Sebastian suspected, to hide the widening smirk tugging at his lips.
Sebastian continued, tone light and impossibly cheeky. “Because truly, the level of indecency in two lovers living together without a formal union, shocking, scandalous, utterly improper; why, the Ministry could show up at any moment.”
Eline snorted. “Oh, do shut up.”
But Sebastian only put on an exaggerated expression of moral outrage, hand pressed to his chest. “No, no, it’s my duty as a responsible member of society to demand answers. And to point out your moral failings with great enthusiasm.”
Ominis turned his head slightly, the firelight brushing across the fine lines of his face, the shadow of amusement unmistakable. “Is that so?” he murmured.
“Absolutely,” Sebastian declared, sitting forward as if ready to take notes. “Date, time, location. I expect a full proposal strategy. Charts, if possible.”
Eline shook her head, laughing quietly, until she caught the subtle shift in Ominis’s posture.
He wasn’t flustered, he was plotting. And that was significantly worse.
“Well,” Ominis began calmly, “Merlin only knows…” He paused deliberately. Then, as Sebastian leaned in with exaggerated anticipation, Ominis tipped his chin toward him and gave a small, conspiratorial wink. Sebastian burst into silent laughter, shoulders shaking.
Eline blinked. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” both men said at once.
Which, of course, meant something, and she narrowed her eyes at them, suspicious.
Ominis continued smooth, controlled, yet with that unmistakable thread of mischief he unleashed only around his oldest friends. “But I have been thinking,” he said, brushing a thumb over Eline’s shoulder as though making an absentminded observation. “The name Winchester does have a… certain elegance to it.”
Sebastian barked a laugh. “Elegance? Please. It tastes of trouble.”
Eline tossed a cushion at him; he dodged it, triumphant.
Ominis hummed, acknowledging the jab with a tilt of his head. Then, in a tone so casual it was criminal, he added, “Hmm… Ominis Winchester. What do you think, darling?”
Eline’s jaw dropped a fraction. He was smirking. Smirking. At her.
She recovered quickly, years of dealing with him had trained her responses well, and jabbed her elbow into his ribs. Not hard, but enough to make him huff under his breath.
“Oh, keep dreaming,” she retorted, eyes narrowed but glittering with delight. “You don’t get to say things like that unless I’ve got an actual ring on my finger.”
Sebastian let out a scandalised gasp. “Listen to her! Setting standards! Finally someone with sense.”
Ominis raised a brow. “Standards,” he echoed thoughtfully, as though filing the word away for later use. His hand squeezed Eline’s shoulder in a quiet acknowledgment, not teasing now, but gently promising.
But then he straightened a little, expression smoothing back into that maddening calm. “Well then,” he said simply, “I suppose I shall have to rise to the occasion.”
Eline’s heart gave a small, traitorous leap, so tiny she prayed it didn’t show in her face. Sebastian watched the whole exchange with the smug satisfaction of someone who had thrown a snowball into a quiet street only to watch it trigger an avalanche.
“Oh, brilliant,” he said, leaning back again. “If the two of you get formally engaged because of me, I’m taking credit for the rest of my life.”
Eline rolled her eyes.
Ominis smirked again, directing the expression toward Sebastian this time. “If that ever happens,” he said, “you’ll be the very last to know.”
Sebastian placed a hand over his heart in mock betrayal. “How cruel.”
“Necessary precautions,” Ominis deadpanned.
Eline laughed again, warm, bright, and full, and leaned into Ominis’s side, her earlier mock annoyance dissolving into fondness. His hand resumed its calm, familiar rest on her arm, and the fire crackled on, utterly content.
Renata emerged from the kitchen like someone stepping out of a warm bath into a cooler room, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the ovens, hair threaded with a faint pearlescent dust from the glazing, and carrying herself with the tentative composure of someone unused to being the centre of an affectionate maelstrom. Antha and Aurora watched her go with maternal smiles and triumphant nods; Antha mouthed, "She’s perfect", while Aurora merely gave a short, satisfied exhale as if all had been right with the world since the moment Renata accepted a second helping of pastry.
Sebastian, quick to reclaim his place in the living room, made a show of scooting along on the sofa to make room. He patted the cushion beside him with the theatrical flourish of a man deliberately staging a tableau. Renata hesitated at the edge of the sofa, hands folded demurely in her lap, and then, encouraged by the easy warmth radiating from the room, she accepted his silent invitation. Their fingers brushed as she slid in, and neither seemed to notice at first; when they did, a small, mutual smile passed between them, unforced, careful, and utterly unguarded.
Eline watched the exchange with that slow, ridiculous smile that takes over her face when something inside her warms. It spread from the corners of her mouth, through her cheeks, and reached her eyes until she almost looked like a child who had been given permission to play after a long day of strict lessons. Sebastian, who read her expression as well as anyone did after years of sparring and saving one another, lobbed a cushion in her direction with exaggerated malice.
The cushion flew in a lazy arc, aimed clearly at Eline’s head, and it would have been a neat, comical thwack, had it not caught the edge of Ominis’s foot as he shifted his position. Ominis, who had been watching with that habitual restrained humour, let out a short, startled laugh as the cushion brushed past his knee and landed harmlessly at his side. For a moment everyone’s attention snagged on the small, domestic chaos: a cushion displaced, a laugh released, the house breathing around them.
“Right,” Eline declared, wiping a laugh from her face and composing herself in the way she did when she moved from private giddiness to social hostess. Her tone smoothed into something curious and kindly-assertive. “So, Renata. Tell me everything about yourself.”
Renata’s shoulders lifted in the tiniest of lifts, betraying how much the request both startled and pleased her. There was a hush for a heartbeat; even the fire seemed to lean closer, as though curious for the particulars of this new life. Renata drew in a small breath and, with a voice edged in shyness but steady, began.
“Well… I’m an herborist,” she said, fingers tightening around the fold of her skirt, “and I specialise in curative potions for magical creatures.” The words were simple, practical, she described what she did as if she were reciting a job title, but the precision in her tone suggested deep knowledge and a tenderness toward the things she healed. “I travel sometimes to places where the creatures are kept, or to the wild when they’ve been found injured. I make salves, tonics, binding draughts… whatever helps them recover. I...” She paused, cheeks warming at the attention. “, I work with Poppy Sweeting. She put Sebastian in touch with me once when he had a case.”
At the name of Poppy Sweeting, the room changed colour for Eline. The faint luminescence that had been at her eyes brightened until she was practically aglow. She almost rose out of the sofa before thinking better of it, and her voice took on the fan-like, bright note of someone who has just heard a beloved name.
“Poppy?” Eline repeated, breathless with delight. “Poppy put you in touch with Sebastian? Oh, that’s wonderful, Poppy’s brilliant with creatures. What was it? A niffler? A kneazle?” She groped at the air, animated as anyone when a beloved friend appears in conversation.
Renata smiled, this time with a little more ease. “Not exactly,” she said. “It was a wounded… well, it was something of a rare sort. A case of a small creature with crystalline scales, I think Poppy called it a moon-something, the scales reflected the moonlight oddly. Sebastian found it near the western bogs, and Poppy said she knew someone who could… help.” She glanced sideways at Sebastian, who was pretending not to be the proud centre of the story. “So she gave him my name. I went out with him to tend it.”
Eline’s hands were clasped between her knees. “Poppy is a treasure,” she whispered, far more reverent than the context strictly required. “She’s always had a way of finding the right person for the right problem.”
Sebastian, blushing just a touch when attention returned to him, added a line with his habitual self-deprecating flair. “I found it because I thought I’d impress Renata with my tracking skills,” he said. “Which, in hindsight, is not the sort of thing a man should say when he’s actually trying to help. Poppy rolls her eyes at me now for being dramatic.”
Renata laughed, and something relaxed visibly in her shoulders. “You were dramatic,” she agreed. “But you were kind too. You brought the creature to the little clearing, and we patched it up until it could move again.”
Antha’s muffled, enthusiastic approval came from the kitchen, someone had supplied a sound effect for the domestic scene, and Aurora’s mild, pleased clapping echoed behind it. Ominis, who had been hearing quietly, tipped his head toward Sebastian with that subtly smug expression he reserved for moments of vindication.
Eline exhaled, a soft, satisfied sound. She looked at Renata, really looked, and then at Sebastian, who, despite himself, was watching her with a careful, almost proprietary gaze. The house hummed with the uncomplicated thrill of people finding the right fits for their lives: a healer, a rescuer, friends bound by old loyalties like Poppy, and a kitchen filled with pies and the scent of rosemary.
The living room seemed to expand around them, accommodating not only bodies but histories and promises. Renata’s words had done more than introduce her profession; they had stitched her into the narrative the others were telling for themselves: that of survival, mending, and the gentle reclaiming of joy.
Renata had barely finished speaking before Antha reappeared in the doorway.
"Right," she announced, hands on her hips. "Dinner is ready, and if nobody comes now, Aurora has threatened to start serving portions according to who helped cook."
Aurora's voice drifted from the kitchen.
"Which means Sebastian gets half a potato."
"I brought wine!"
"You nearly dropped the wine."
"I caught it."
"After dropping it."
Laughter rippled through the room as Sebastian groaned dramatically while rising from the sofa, while Renata hid a smile behind her hand. Ominis stood as well, offering Eline his arm with quiet familiarity, she accepted without hesitation.
Together, they followed the scent of rosemary, fresh bread, and roasted vegetables toward the dining room. The table waiting for them was far larger than necessary for six people. Perhaps that was why Eline loved it, there was room for everyone.
For the family they had somehow built from friendship, loyalty, forgiveness, and a thousand impossible choices.
As everyone settled into their seats, voices overlapping, plates passing from hand to hand, Eline paused for only a moment.
Just long enough to look around the table.
Across from her, Sebastian was already arguing about beetroot pie. Aurora was laughing. Antha was threatening to serve him a double portion out of spite. Renata looked delighted by the chaos.
Beside her, Ominis reached beneath the table and quietly took her hand, Eline squeezed back.
Home.