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Any witch worth their conjuring ink knew Olruggio of the Torch.
Well, they didn’t know him, but they would certainly know of him. A child prodigy from some crummy little village up in the North, risen through the ranks as an inspiration to all young witches; incredibly skilled, with hundreds of creations both big and small under his belt; loyal to a fault, to that strange witch with the white hair and cold disposition.
If you’d spoken to him, you’d know he wasn’t anywhere near as kind and warm as his inventions or how they made him seem. He was just as cold as his partner, withering glares easily given and sentences snippy and short in such a way that one was inclined to cut their conversations as limited as could be.
Which is why, upon walking into the Great Hall’s library one cold Thursday afternoon, many witches were surprised to be met with the sight of Olruggio… knitting?
Yes, knitting — yarn on the couch beside him and needles in hand, working at a frankly terrifying speed on a pile of garments beside him. Tiny ones, ones that must barely be big enough to fit a babe, in pastel pinks and blues and purples and greens and the cream his needles currently clacked their way through.
If he’d heard the whispers, or felt the stares burning into him from every direction, he’d chosen to ignore it. The whispers that Olruggio didn’t have kids, didn’t have family, as far as most witches were aware — neither did his apprentices, the girls far too young for children, so who on Earth could these miniature clothes be for?
Only one witch had been brave enough to approach. A young woman, just passed her tests by the looks of things, walking up as her senior friends hissed at her you must not talk to him, Nova, do NOT—
She’d been promptly met with a bitter glare and a very curt ‘fuck off’ before she returned to join her friends.
It was peculiar. Olruggio went through skeins upon skeins of yarn, all for these tiny hats and gloves and scarves and cardigans that seemed to appear even faster the longer the days wore on — save for the teensy brushbuddies he’d made out of fluffy white, a project during which he’d smiled at that same young witch who’d been stupid enough to approach him again, much to the shock of all in the library.
Nova had been invited to sit beside him; he’d had tea brought for them, checked over her spells with enthusiasm he didn’t hold for many people, smiled and laughed along with her.
The Great Hall and its whispers would get its answer a few days later.
Olruggio would walk into the library at the tenth clockmark, just on schedule; but this time a limping Qifrey leaned heavily on his shoulder, an infant secured in a fabric sling on each of their chests. One sound asleep, the other awake but cooing only softly, shushed sufficiently by her guardians(?) so as to not disturb the others working in the Hall.
”Mind the step — that’s it, love, there you go. Careful with the tiles, don’t trip.”
Olruggio had led his best friend by the hand — a hand that glinted in the lamplight with a diamond ring, no less — through the rows and rows of tables and chairs to the couch he’d occupied for the last week, giving everyone a good glance at the children. Dark hair a shade like Olruggio’s, an unruly mess of waves like Qifrey’s, tucked safely beneath hats in baby pink and tranquileaf green, shades matching the mittens on tiny hands and booties on tiny feet. Qifrey tucked himself under Olruggio’s arm as they sat, a kiss pressed carefully to the forehead of each little one before he would lean up and catch the lips of the other witch as well.
…’Best friend’ was becoming a far less certain assessment of the two witches with every passing second.
Nova, that sweet young woman, had appeared again, offered a hand with the tangled yarn Olruggio began to pull out of the bag or holding one of the little ones just while they got themselves situated — she’d been told no, thank you, with a tight-lipped and clearly irritated smile by the atelier’s guardian, but Qifrey’s eyes, tired as they seemed, lit up as he beamed at the girl.
Their conversation was quiet. Not that it mattered how quiet you were when the attention of every witch in the room was zeroed in on the man they’d been so sure was just a friend cuddling into your side, the babe cradled so delicately in your arms, the private little smile between the two of you or what you choose to answer to the innocent young witch who’d asked what everyone else was too afraid to — so, who are the little ones?
Olruggio cleared his throat but was unable to keep the grin off his face as he told Nova, “Our children.”