Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were alone in an orphanage before your lungs had properly even learned how to cry.

An infant only three days old when your mother carried you there, pale and shivering as though death had already taken her by the wrist. She had not been thrown out, nor brought in shame. No, she walked through the door herself, gaunt and trembling, her steps weak but purposeful. Her skin had lost all memory of warmth or sunlight, and her eyes were hollow.

But she gazed only at you.

Though her lips were dry and her breath faint, she spoke your name clearly, as if she'd rehearsed it her entire life. With the last of her strength, she handed the matron a folded note, pressed tightly in her palm. It listed your name, the date you arrived upon this earth, and a single request: if your name should ever be forgotten, the necklace around your neck would remember it for you.

A cameo, far too large for a newborn, hung from a silver chain worn at the clasp. The shape was oval, carved with the faces of three women in the likeness of Greco-Roman reliefs. Though the silver was tarnished, it gleamed with a strange vitality. The matron later admitted she considered selling it, as it might have paid for bread and medicine for a month. But something about it compelled her to keep it locked away. She said it felt sacred. She'd return it to you when you were older.

You would never see your mother again. She died shortly after placing you in the matron's arms. But you have always known she loved you. You felt it as surely as you felt your own name, even when no one else dared speak it aloud.

You were not like the other children.

Not because of the necklace, which you now kept hidden beneath your blouse, or the circumstances of your arrival. No, it was something else. Unspoken. Something other. The first incident came when you were only four years old.

It was winter. Frost had crept through every wall of the orphanage. One of the older boys had pushed you hard into the dirt outside the dining hall. Your hands stung. Your lip bled. Your tears froze on your cheeks. But when you looked up at him, something changed. The air thickened. The world stilled.

A sudden light flickered behind your eyes.

Then every mirror in the orphanage shattered at once.

The adults called it a phenomenon. The matron crossed herself and whispered scripture. The other children simply stared. You did not yet have the words for what you had felt only the certainty that it had come from within. Something ancient and powerful had stirred.

After that, they called you strange. The odd one. The girl that was best avoided. You learned to sit alone, to keep your hands folded, to speak only when spoken to. The whispers continued, sometimes even among the nuns. One called you the devil's child beneath her breath. Another claimed your birth had been cursed.

The next strange occurrence came when you were eight.

Lice had spread through the dormitories like wildfire. One by one, every child was shaved bald, regardless of pride or vanity. You sobbed for hours. Your hair had been your only beauty, the one thing you could claim as your own. You cried yourself to sleep that night, clutching your pillow with silent rage.

But by morning, it had returned.

Twice as long. Healthier than before. Untouched.

The matron called it a miracle. The others called it witchcraft.

No one dared question it. The incident was forgotten. Repressed. Just like the mirrors. Just like the time the cups exploded without warning. Or the candles that flared when your temper rose. By the time you turned twelve, the strange events ceased entirely. Not another flicker. Not another tremble.

But one thing remained: your knowing.

It was more than instinct. You knew things. You sensed them before they occurred. Sometimes they came as whispers. Other times as vivid visions, even scents or colours on the air. You could tell when someone was lying. You could feel the pull of danger before it arrived. It wasn't magic in the traditional sense. It was something deeper. Something more primal. More sacred.

And you lived that way, half-seeing, half-blind, until you turned sixteen.

The orphanage did not keep girls much longer once they reached that age. You were not cast out, but the signs were clear. It was only a matter of time. You were expected to find work, a place to stay, perhaps a husband if you were lucky enough. And so, you took a job kneading dough and sweeping at a bakery in Newcastle. Your hands became raw from the heat. Your skirts were dusted in flour. You ate well enough, thanks to the kindness of the owners, who let you take home whatever was left at closing time.

Still, you often thought of marriage. Not out of romance but survival.

There was one man in particular. More than twice your age. Twice your width, with thinning hair and a crooked smile. He spoke kindly to you, promised a warm bed and food on the table. You did not love him, but you very nearly said yes.

And then the knock came.

It was late March. Rain poured against the windows and the grey skies had darkened the entire corridor. A stern matron called you downstairs with a blank yet curious expression on her face, her tone unreadable.

You expected to see the man with the crooked smile.

Instead, a stranger stood in the foyer. He was older. His hair silvering. His coat damp from the rain. His expression was one of calm dignity. His presence filled the room — not in the way of men who sought to command it, but in a quieter, gentler way.

"May I speak with her?" he asked softly.

You were led into the drawing room. The man sat carefully, placing his walking stick beside the chair, his fingers tapping it absently as he studied you. He looked at you not with suspicion, nor pity, nor desire — but with something else.

Recognition.

"My name is Eleazar Fig," he said with a nod. "And I am a professor."

You blinked. "A professor of what, sir?"

"Magic Theory."

You stared at him, your brow knitting in confusion. "Magic?"

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with a kind sort of amusement. "I assure you, I am quite sane. I am here because I believe you are not only a witch — but a rather exceptional one."

You laughed softly, though it felt hollow. "Surely you are joking."

He said nothing. Instead, he lifted a slender wand from within his cane, pointed it at the candelabra resting on the dresser, and with a flick, the flame burst to life.

You could not speak.

He handed you a letter,a formal invitation to a school called Hogwarts. A school of witchcraft and wizardry.

Professor Fig then explained everything — about spells, about wands and the history of magic, about ancient bloodlines and awakenings. The world you knew unraveled, and in its place, something vast and extraordinary took root.

You listened silently, breathlessly.

Then, when he paused, you found yourself speaking.

"I must ask you something, Professor Fig," you said at last.

"By all means," he replied, a soft smile warming his face.

"I... know things. I don't know how or why, but... I just do. Sometimes it's a voice. A flicker. Sometimes I feel it in my chest, like something terrible is coming. I see people before I meet them. I know when someone lies. Always."

Fig tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "That is peculiar. But not unheard of."

"Is it normal? For a witch?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Sometimes. But always trust it. Always trust your knowing."

You lowered your gaze, fingers toying with the chain around your neck. "There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

He did not answer at once. Instead, his gaze drifted to the necklace.

"That is a curious piece. My wife wears a cameo of a similar style. As do many women, I've noticed," he said gently. "May I?"

You unclasped the necklace and handed it to him without hesitation.

He turned it over in his palm, brows furrowed in quiet concentration. "There's an enchantment on this... how odd," he murmured. "It appears to be transfigured. The silver is not entirely of this world. There is magic woven into the very metal."

You shivered slightly. "I always felt there was something strange about it. I've dreamed of it, even."

He looked up sharply. "Dreams?"

You nodded.

"We shall speak of that soon," he said gently. "But not tonight. When we return to my home, may I show this to my wife? She is a magical historian, and I believe she might recognise something I do not."

You offered him a small, cautious smile. "Yes, of course. It was my mother's."

"I shall treat it as if it were hers still," he promised, returning it with reverence.

You fastened it once more around your neck, the silver charm warm against your skin.

Professor Fig stood and extended a hand to you.

"I would like to offer you temporary guardianship. A place to stay. Guidance in your studies. You have much to learn — and time is short. Just five months until the start of term."

You looked at the man who felt more like a sign than a stranger.

And you said yes, without hesitation.

A life of magic and mysteries or a future as someone's miserable little wife? The choice was clear.

That night, you left behind the walls that had both sheltered and stifled you. You stepped out into the storm and followed Professor Fig to a home filled with ticking clocks, floating candles, and the kind smile of Miriam Fig, who welcomed you as though she had known you your whole life.

And thus began the life that had been waiting for you all along.

⸻

You awoke the next morning to a sunlit room and the distant sound of birdsong. The scent of parchment and lavender clung to the air. When you came downstairs, Miriam greeted you warmly and placed before you a breakfast so perfect it seemed like something from a dream — eggs, toast with real butter, and tea that didn't taste like burnt leaves.

As you ate, Miriam sipped her own tea thoughtfully. Then she set her cup down with a soft clink.

"Eleazar told me about your necklace," she said. "He mentioned it may possess certain... magical properties. If you're comfortable, I'd very much like to examine it."

You nodded. "Of course. I'd like to know more about it too."

She stood, moving with a slight limp. "Come with me, dear. My study is just down the hall."

You followed her through the corridors. Halfway there, she paused, wincing slightly.

"Are you quite alright?" you asked, concerned.

She brushed it off. "Just a little sore this morning. I had an... unpleasant encounter with a goblin not long ago. Cleverer than I gave him credit for. I escaped, but not without a few reminders."

She gripped the doorframe and opened it into a study filled with glowing globes, shelves of ancient books, and softly humming artefacts.

She gestured to a chair near the hearth. You sat and unclasped the necklace, handing it to her.

Miriam held the cameo gently. "It's exquisite," she murmured. "The silver, though aged, is still vibrant. And the wax carving here..." She pointed to the faces of the three women. "Is it beeswax? Shellac? I can't place it."

You leaned forward. "What about the colours?"

"They shift," she said slowly. "As though it's remembering something... or someone."

Drawing her wand, she cast a detection spell. It shimmered across the air — and fizzled.

She frowned, tried another. Then another.

Nothing. Until one spell surged backward, repelling her with a soft jolt.

She stepped back with a quiet laugh. "Well. Stubborn little thing."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," she said with a smile, "whatever enchantment your mother placed on this... it's more than just magic. Likely sealed with intention. Perhaps protection. Perhaps blood."

"So you can't unlock it?"

"Not yet," she said. "But I believe it will open — for the right person, or the right moment."

She returned it to you carefully, and you fastened it around your neck once more.

It was warm again, as it always was.

And you sensed... it had been listening.

⸻

September first arrived like the rising tide.

The months of living with the Figs had been a gentle dream. You'd received your school supplies, new robes, spellbooks, parchment, and — most important of all — your wand. Crafted by Ollivander himself, it had shimmered when it chose you. Nine and a half inches, rosewood, swishy. With a kneazle whisker core. Unique.

You were in London now, beside Professor Fig, preparing to travel by carriage to Hogwarts. Your new satchel hung from your shoulder, still smelling faintly of Miriam's tea. In your hands were two carriers — one holding a fluffy, oversized black kitten named Hades, the other your elegant barn owl.

An enchanted carriage stood before you, elegant and waiting — but drawn by no visible horses.

Fig gave a small smile. "Everything ready?"

You nodded. "Positive."

"Your wand?"

You showed him the wand nestled safely in your cloak.

Miriam approached then, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"Remember what I told you about the necklace?" she said quietly.

You nodded, fingers brushing it instinctively. "Not to remove it. And to trust what it shows me."

"Indeed. Though it may remain silent for a while. Magic like that... wakes only when it chooses."

Before you could speak further, another man arrived.

He was tall, well-dressed, and carried the confidence of someone used to command. He introduced himself as George Osric, a friend of the Figs and an employee of Gringotts Bank. Your feeling of security and safety suddenly vanished, something terrible was going to happen to George. No... you mustn't let this ruin your trip so you pushed the negativity aside.

He climbed into the carriage beside you. Fig followed, settling on your other side.

The carriage jolted into motion.

Rain speckled the windows. Fog curled against the glass.

George leaned forward and opened a leather case. From it, he retrieved an artefact wrapped in silk, ancient, small, and pulsing with blue light.

"Miriam sent this with me," he said. "We're not sure what to make of it."

Fig took it carefully and then passed it to you.

The moment it touched your hand, light rippled across your skin.

You stared.

No one else reacted.

But you could see it,threads of light in the air, like veins of magic. A shimmering trail.

"I can see something," you whispered.

George leaned closer. "See what?"

"Traces. Threads... magic."

Fig's brow furrowed. "Traces of ancient magic?"

Before they could question further, a violent shudder rocked the carriage.

Your chest tightened. That sense again,that deep, dreadful knowing. It wasn't just fear. It was certainty.

Something terrible was coming.

You opened your mouth but it was too late.

The sky shattered with a roar. A dragon descended.

The sky cracked open.

A deafening roar split the air as talons tore through the roof of the carriage. The dragon descended like a storm, its obsidian scales gleaming red with firelight, eyes wide with rage. You screamed as the carriage jolted violently, spinning into chaos.

You felt it an instant before it happened the searing twist in your stomach, that haunting tug in your ribs like something inside you was pulling at fate itself. A premonition. A warning.

Too late.

Fire engulfed the air. The dragon's maw snapped open, teeth flashing. George lunged forward to protect the artefact, but the beast struck with blinding speed. Wood shattered. Canvas tore. George was gone in an instant — swallowed in flame, vanished into the wind.

The world tilted. Fig wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close.

Your owl screamed and vanished fleeing to safety.

Your kitten, Hades, flailed wildly in his carrier. The cage tumbled from the wreckage,falling, falling, plummeting through the air.

Without thinking, you shouted "Accio!" The spell tore from your wand instinctively. The cage froze in mid-air, then zoomed toward your arms. Hades cried out but landed safely against your chest.

Fig grasped the portkey the glowing artefact now reacting violently to the threat around you and you placed your hand on it just as the world was torn apart.

And then, nothing.

Stillness.

Silence.

You landed hard on ancient stone.

Moss crunched beneath your knees. Fig hit the ground beside you with a grunt. Your hand still clutched the portkey. Hades, miraculously unharmed, immediately darted from your arms and leapt onto your shoulder, burying his head into your neck.

The vault shimmered before you like something pulled from a dream. Damp air curled along the walls. Carvings glowed faintly.

"Are you alright?" Fig asked breathlessly.

You nodded, standing slowly.

Something hummed around you. Magic. Ancient. Living.

"It's here," you said softly. "I can feel it."

Fig's brow furrowed. "Lead the way."

You lit your wand with a whispered "Lumos" and pressed forward. The vault was a cavern of shifting rock and echoing footsteps. Runes glowed faintly beneath the stone. At your touch, ancient bridges restored themselves with a wave of your wand. Statues moved when they thought you weren't looking.

Together, you battled guardian sentinels forged of pure stone and arcane metal. Fig taught you spells as you fought: Protego, Stupefy, Revelio. Your hands trembled, your pulse thrummed, and yet something in you awakened. The magic inside you answered back. Fast, raw, responsive.

You made your way deeper.

There, resting on a platform suspended over nothingness, waited a Pensieve.

Fig approached it with reverence. A silvery memory swirled within, beckoning you both. A vision unfolded: ancient figures, known as Keepers, who once protected a hidden magic lost to time.

The vision warned of danger, a dark force stirring.

And then the air shifted.

A sneer echoed from behind you.

You turned sharply,a goblin stood there, flanked by robed men with cold, gleaming eyes.

He was not just a goblin.

He was something else.

"Ranrok," Fig muttered darkly.

The goblin's gaze snapped to the Pensieve, then to you.

"You've seen it," he snarled. "Touched it. Where is it?"

"This vault belongs to Gringotts," Fig said evenly. "You have no right—"

Ranrok's voice rose. "All of it belongs to me."

He raised a glowing weapon and aimed it toward the memory basin.

Fig grabbed your arm.

"Hold on."

You reached for the portkey once more.

The world fractured again.

Light. Wind. Falling.

And then—

Stone steps.

Marble floors.

Candles.

The echo of distant music.

You blinked in confusion.

You were standing just outside the grand double doors of the Great Hall.

Fig steadied himself beside you, breathless.

"We... we made it," you whispered, your voice shaking.

"Just in time," he replied.

The doors opened, revealing a sea of candlelight and students seated in neat rows beneath the enchanted ceiling. The Sorting Ceremony had already begun.

A tall man with dark hair and deep-set eyes turned at the sound of your arrival.

"Eleazar"he said smoothly, "fashionably late as always. I do hope the new fifth year didn't get too lost."

His tone was aristocratic. Every word seemed dipped in condescension.

"Headmaster Black," Fig replied, inclining his head. "A delay, yes.. but we're here now."

The Headmaster's eyes shifted to you.

You bowed your head slightly. He looked vaguely amused.

"Well," he said, waving toward the Sorting Stool, "bring her forward. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

A woman with red hair and spectacles, Professor Weasley, you later learned called your name gently.

You stepped forward.

Whispers stirred all around you. A student arriving now? So late? And sorted as a fifth year?

The Sorting Hat sat on the stool like a relic from centuries past, mouth twitching into a crooked smile.

You sat.

It was lowered onto your head and the voice slithered into your thoughts at once.

"Oh... how very curious."

You stiffened.

"A Seer... and ancient magic in your veins. Well now, that is something I've not seen in many lifetimes."

You swallowed hard.

"...A what?"

"A Seer," The sentient hat spoke, almost amused. "Oh, you have much to learn. But we shall come to that. Hm. You're not quite what I expected."

The hat's voice shifted thoughtfully.

"Ambition... but not cruelty. Clever, yes... but no hunger for glory. A deep heart, I see. Loyalty. A yearning to belong. Well, well..."

The hall was silent.

Then, in a voice for all to hear, the Sorting Hat cried:

"Hufflepuff!"

The table in black and gold erupted into cheers and applause. You stood, cheeks flushed, and crossed the floor, your robes now adorned with the soft hues of yellow. Your new housemates welcomed you with grins and curious glances.

Professor Fig offered you a small nod of approval before disappearing with Headmaster Black.

You sat at the Hufflepuff table.

The candles flickered.

The ceiling shimmered with stars.

You had survived dragons and vaults, visions and danger.

And now, at last, you were here.

Home.

Chapter Text

You had awoken with sunlight pooling across your pillow, golden and warm as honey. The bed beneath you was softer than anything the orphanage had ever provided. Stuffed with down, layered with golden linens, and surrounded by curtains the colour heather. The scent in the room was of old wood and lavender, as if the castle itself had exhaled after holding its breath for centuries.

Your first morning at Hogwarts had arrived.

The dormitory was more than you could have ever hoped for. Your own bed, your own desk, your own window and everything had been placed with uncanny perfection. The stone walls, softened by charm-touched tapestries and glowing Tiffany-style lamps, reminded you faintly of the old storybooks you used to read by candlelight. Now you were living in one. And perhaps, you mused with a faint smile, you had only to find your prince. You were joking, of course... perhaps.

Floating candles swayed lazily above, casting flickers of light across the aged wooden floor. Dried sprigs of wildflowers and herbs hung neatly from a ribbon above your headboard, enchanted to remain fresh.

Your desk stood by the tall, arched window, cluttered with far too many supplies such as inks, quills, parchment, books (at least the ones that had survived the journey), a neatly folded timetable, and a small velvet pouch tucked between them all.

Some of your books, unfortunately, had been lost in the dragon attack. The memory still flashed unbidden through your mind: fire licking at the sky, your body flung through the air, the searing burn of magic too ancient to name.

A sudden scratching pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned quickly toward the sound.

There she was perched on the windowsill, her wings tucked neatly, eyes bright with familiarity.

"Athena," you smiled, rushing forward.

Your owl, the barn owl you had named with quiet reverence for wisdom—stood waiting. Pale-feathered, sharp-eyed, and ever elegant. She gave a soft, breathy trill, somewhere between a purr and a sigh, as you opened the window and extended your arm.

She swept in gracefully and landed upon your forearm, her talons felt like an itch was being scratch, her weight oddly comforting.

"Hello, sweet girl," you murmured, fingers brushing beneath her chin.

She leaned into your touch, dark-brown eyes fluttering shut in contentment. Her body was warm against your wrist, her feathers downy-soft. You hadn't realised how desperately you had hoped she was unharmed until this moment. You'd only known her a few weeks, but she was yours and in that fragile way, she was family.

Athena preened a little, then gave a soft click of affection and returned to her perch by the window, resuming her post like a silent guardian.

You lingered there a while longer, the hush of morning still wrapped around you.

Eventually, your gaze drifted to the desk.

Drawn by a quiet sort of pull, you approached.

Resting beside your ink and books was your tarot deck.

The cards were worn at the edges due to being secondhand, their backs faded with age. You picked them up with gentle hands, letting their presence settle in your palms. You could feel their energy faintly, a familiar resonance like the hum of magic just before a spell is cast.

You sat, grounding yourself with a breath. Three soft knocks upon the deck. You closed your eyes setting your intentions.

What lies ahead? What should I welcome? What threads are beginning to weave themselves through my life?

You shuffled slowly, carefully, until three cards slipped free of their own accord and fell, face-down, onto your lap.

You turned the first.

Three of Swords.

A heart pierced by three blades, grey skies heavy with rain. The pain in the card was not theatrical, it was still. Lingering. It reminded you of silence after screaming, of tear-stained pillows and unanswered letters. A quiet kind of heartbreak.

You stared for a moment. Rather than jumping to conclusions you thought about it more.

It was not just sorrow. It was old sorrow. Something that had already shaped you. And perhaps... something still to come.

But the heart on the card remained whole. Wounded, yes, but intact. You ran your finger along its edge and let the card remain.

The second card.

Two of Cups.

A pair, offering their chalices to one another beneath a blessed caduceus. Union. Balance. Something new.

A warmth bloomed in your chest.

Already, in so little time, bonds had begun to form. Poppy, with her gentle manner. Natty, commanding yet kind. Sebastian, fire and wit and charm. There was a promise in this card. Not merely friendship yet but trust. Perhaps even the beginnings of love.

You smiled softly and turned the third.

The High Priestess.

She sat poised between two pillars, one light, one dark. The moon curved at her feet, and she held the scroll of hidden truths upon her lap. Her expression was serene, untouched by time or doubt.

You stared at her long and hard.

She looked a little like your mother might have looked, had you been allowed to remember her face. She looked like answers you were not yet ready to receive.

This was a sign.

Not a warning. Not a comfort.

A summons.

The days passed swiftly after that, as though swept along by some unseen current. Hogwarts operated with both the precision of a timepiece and the chaos of a dream. Staircases turned without warning, hallways changed their lengths, and portraits held entire conversations about your posture or hairstyle as you passed. There was beauty in the madness, a kind of magical logic that unfolded slowly and you found yourself enchanted by every thread of it.

One evening, after supper in the Great Hall, Sebastian found you lingering near the cloisters, his expression carrying the telltale gleam of mischief.

"I want to show you something," he whispered, as if the words themselves might vanish in daylight. "Meet me tonight, near the Restricted Section. After curfew."

You tilted your head, uncertain.

"It's important," he continued, more serious now. "You'll want to see it."

And in truth, Professor Fig had said as much. There had been mention that was quiet and cautious of a particular book. One that may contain knowledge tied to your strange abilities. The connection between what had happened in the cave and the glow that lingered in your palm could not be ignored.

So, when the castle had quieted and the halls lay shrouded in torchlight, you left your dormitory with careful steps, cloaked in shadow. The sconces flickered gently as you passed beneath them. Not even the portraits stirred, their occupants long asleep in their painted worlds. You moved like a wisp of smoke, heart thudding within your chest, the thrill of it mingling with fear and fascination.

Peeves nearly caught you near the Trophy Room, a streak of chaos whirling overhead but a dash behind an ancient suit of armour saved you, and he spiraled away, humming his song to no one in particular.

When at last you reached the Library, Sebastian was waiting near the door, his cloak drawn about his shoulders and his voice low.

"It won't take long," he promised.

The library itself was otherworldly in the dark. The bookshelves stood tall like sentinels, casting shadows that stretched toward the ceiling. The scent of leather and ink lingered thick in the air. Together, you crept along the marble floor, weaving between shelves and locked cabinets, until you reached the corridor that led into the Restricted Section just beyond the gate.

And then chaos struck.

With a flourish and a shriek, Peeves exploded from the darkness, spinning in mid-air with manic delight.

"Naughty little fifthies in the Library at night!" he crowed. "Breaking the rules! Brewing mischief! What a sight!"

Your blood ran cold.

Sebastian turned quickly. "Go!" he hissed. "Get what you need, I'll handle him."

You wanted to protest, but there was no time. With a last glance backward, you dashed ahead, deeper into the corridor, breath catching in your throat. You went even further travelling much deeper then anticipated, it was some sort of strange ancient chamber...

There! in the half-light lay the book. Its pages glowed faintly, infused with that same ancient magic. The shimmer on the parchment pulsed gently, like a heartbeat.

It called to you.

You opened it with care. The contents were fragmented damaged, torn but they shimmered with the same deep, unsettling truth you had felt back in the cave. This was part of it. Whatever it was.

By the time you returned, Sebastian stood alon, eyes downcast, rubbing at a forming bruise on his arm. In the distance you saw the librarian storming off.

"I got a detention," he muttered. "But it's fine. Worth it."

You felt guilt pierce your chest.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

He looked at you, weariness pulling at his usually cocky smile. "Don't be. You needed to see it. And I can handle a bit of cleaning duty."

There was a pause. Then, without prompt, he said softly, "My sister. Anne. She's been cursed."

Your breath caught.

"We don't know what spell it is. It wasn't in any book. Not one I've found. She's in pain all the time. And no one can help her."

You said nothing at first. You merely stood there, the silence between you full of weight.

Then you said, "I'll help. Whatever it takes. I'll help you find a way."

He looked up then — really looked. And in that moment, something shifted in his eyes. A recognition. A quiet understanding.

"You would?" he asked.

You nodded once, firmly.

His smile was small, but sincere. "Thank you."

The moment stretched between you like a ribbon caught in the wind. Fragile, but unbroken.

And then it passed.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The next day, Sebastian brought you somewhere else; A place hidden deep beneath the school, its existence unknown to most.

The Undercroft.

It was carved from the old bones of the castle, far beneath the stone corridors and forgotten classrooms. You followed him down narrow steps and through a hidden wall in the scriptorium, ducking beneath low arches until the passage opened into a quiet chamber. Candles floated mid-air, casting gentle glows over ancient stonework. There were tapestries too, and a small area cleared for duelling practice.

"This is our place," Sebastian said softly. "Ominis and I. It's always been just us."

You marvelled at it, feeling its secrecy settle around your shoulders like a cloak.

You spent some time there, casting spells and speaking in hushed tones, but eventually, the afternoon waned. It was time to return to your dormitory. As you crossed through the clockwork gate and stepped into the corridor, a voice rang sharply from the shadows.

"Oh, hello, Sebasti—wait... You there! Stop right this second and explain yourself!"

Your blood ran cold.

From the shadows stepped a tall slim boy with pale skin and finely tailored robes. His dirty blonde hair was styled meticulously, each strand seemingly placed by hand. Dotted across parts of his face and neck were beauty marks. Not imperfections, but marks of distinction, like constellations drawn by the hand of some patient goddess.

But it was his eyes that held you fast.

His unmoving, hazy blue eyes. Sightless, yes... but so piercing that you felt as though he could see you, and saw straight through to your soul. They were like pools in a lake full of the most elegant swans. Cold, still, and endlessly deep. You wanted to look away but couldn't, it was like you were a sailor cast under a siren's song.

Ominis Gaunt.

"I—I'm sorry," you managed, your voice sounding far away. "Sebastian brought me here."

Ominis raised his wand slightly, its tip glowing red in warning. "How dare you. This is a private sanctuary. It is not meant for the mysterious new student who apparently enjoys showing off by defeating trolls in Hogsmeade."

Your cheeks flushed hot with shame. So word of that had reached him too.

Just days ago, you had travelled to Hogsmeade for new supplies, only to be caught in the midst of an attack. The troll had been enormous. Terrifying. You had fought not out of pride but necessity. Yet, the tale had clearly grown in its retelling.

"I wasn't trying to show off," you said, voice quieter now. "It was never about that."

"I don't care," he replied coldly. "And if you breathe a word of this place to anyone, not even your precious Professor Fig will be able to shield you from the consequences. My father is friends with the headmaster and I am not afraid to use that connection if needs be."

You swallowed.

"I promise. I won't tell a soul. And Sebastian, he's my friend. You shouldn't assume the worst of him."

That struck a nerve.

Ominis tilted his head sharply. "I do not require your opinion on Sebastian Sallow," he said icily. "He has been my friend longer than you've drawn breath in this castle."

"I didn't mean to insult you," you said softly.

"I know what you meant!" he snapped, and for a moment, the walls themselves seemed to still in his presence. He however took a breath and calmed himself. "Sebastian needs no more trouble..."

He turned without another word, vanishing into the Undercroft. His gait was so smooth, precise, elegant, and just a little haunting.

You were left standing alone in the corridor, heart thundering in your chest.

But before you could fully gather yourself, something strange occurred.

A sensation bloomed behind your eyes not a vision, but a memory. Not yours.

A scream. A spell. The wailing of an infant in pain.

You gasped, hand reaching for the wall to steady yourself. You could not see it, but you felt it. A shard of something terrible, something raw. A memory steeped in regret and torment.

It was Ominis. You had touched a thread of his past you feel and it had unraveled inside of you like smoke.

You stood very still.

Whatever was awakening inside you... it was more than ancient magic.

It was memory. Echo. Power. You need to talk about these visions with Professor Fig soon.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The following morning broke pale and rain-soft, mist clinging to the windows like breath against a mirror. You lay beneath the duvet of your bed, staring at the canopy above, the events of the night echoing through you like a bell still ringing. It was not just the thrill of sneaking into the Restricted Section, nor the quiet revelation from Sebastian about his sister's curse, you felt his pain. Yesterday's memories rooted themselves in your thoughts. No, what remained vividly was the boy with the unmoving eyes. The way he had spoken your name, not with familiarity but with something deeper. Something cold, yet intimate. You shook away the t

Ominis Gaunt.

You whispered the name beneath your breath, as though doing so might summon him again. But he did not appear, of course. Instead, your only company was the soft, half-asleep purr of Hades, fast asleep on the pillow next to you.

You petted him a moment, then slowly rose.

There was something to be done this morning. You felt it.

You moved to your desk, smoothing the folds in your nightgown absently. The light from the overcast sky poured silvery grey across your tarot pouch, still resting atop the velvet cloth where you'd left it. You reached for it again, drawn by the cards like a sailor to a song. You needed to understand what had happened or at least feel that the universe, in some veiled manner, did.

But this time, you did not draw a new reading. Instead, you turned once more to the three cards from the day before: the Three of Swords, the Two of Cups, and the High Priestess.

Each looked different now in the morning light.

The heart pierced by three blades... perhaps it was not yours alone. Perhaps it had belonged to him. You thought of the scream again the child, the spell, the silence. You could not begin to unravel it, but you could feel it had left a wound. Perhaps it still bled beneath the surface, hidden by proud shoulders and sharp words. You first thought that scream belonged to him but something in you said it belonged to another.

And the Two of Cups... it glowed gently now, as though warmed by something invisible. The bond between you and Sebastian had already deepened, yes, but what if this card foretold another partnership yet to be made? One less obvious. One forged not from light, but from shadow.

And lastly, the High Priestess.

Her eyes seemed to gaze through the veil of the world itself. Her scroll of secrets remained unreadable, her expression serene. You touched the edge of the card with two fingers, as though she might speak if you were patient enough.

You exhaled slowly and returned the cards to their pouch, mind quieter now.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The remainder of the week unfolded with the strange rhythm of adjustment. Each day brought something new: spells to be learned, staircases to be navigated, Professors with expectations high and brows higher still.

But beneath all the ordinary magic was something else. Something older.

The traces of ancient magic lingered at the edge of your awareness like a forgotten scent. When you passed certain paintings, you swore the eyes followed you longer than necessary. Some spells fizzled oddly in your hands. Occasionally, your fingertips tingled with heat, especially near old stone and forgotten halls.

You said nothing of this. Not yet.

Sebastian remained your closest companion, and though he still grinned like a boy who had never once listened to the rules, there was something heavier behind his eyes now. Perhaps it was the burden he carried for Anne. Perhaps it was something else. But he trusted you more freely now, even with his silences. He was always getting into trouble and part of you sensed something dark was going to happen.

Poppy, ever gentle, invited you on small walks to the greenhouses and the paddocks beyond, always with some treat in her satchel for the creatures you met. Her kindness was so constant, so unwavering, it nearly made you weep one afternoon though you pretended it was the cold.

Natsai or natty as she liked to be called shone like a blade in sunlight. She studied fiercely and spoke passionately, and when she listened to you speak, she made you feel as though your every word was gold. Like Sebastian, she had a strong sense of justice.

You had even met another two boys in your year, Amit Thakkar, our astronomer and Garreth Weasley, our potions master in training.

And yet... it was Ominis you thought of most.

You saw him only in glances at the edges of corridors, during shared lessons in Theory, across the Great Hall when candles floated high above and plates clinked faintly. He rarely turned his face toward you, but even from a distance, he was impossible to ignore. You even saw him asleep in history of magic while Professor Binns talked about the rivalry of Morgan Le Fay and Merlin.

You wondered what he would see in you, if he ever truly looked.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

It was after dinner one night when you passed near the Undercroft again. You paused just a moment near the wall that hid it, fingertips brushing the stone. It was still warm.

You did not enter.

You were not ready, not yet.

But the cards had not lied. And you were beginning to believe that this life you had stepped into. This strange, beautiful, tragic life was not coincidencial.

Something had called you here.

You would find out what.

And, one day, you would meet Ominis Gaunt again.

Not by accident.

But by design.

You thought perhaps the two of you could be friends.

You hope…

Chapter Text

It has now been seven and a half weeks since your arrival at Hogwarts, and though time here tends to unravel itself in the oddest of ways, some days feel more ordinary than others, while some make you question everything. You often feel like the protagonist of a fantasy novel. Ironic.

In that short span, you have walked among crumbling ruins steeped in ancient magic and spoken with restless ghosts, unveiling their mysteries. You've even journeyed to Azkaban to investigate a murder, and peered into the memories of another ancient magic user. But enough of that. It's time to focus on something else, something more pressing than forgotten powers or Seer gifts... the teenage drama of Victorian Britain.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You wake at 6:48 in the morning, roused not by alarm or instinct but by the gentle, persistent press of something warm upon your stomach. Blinking into the pale golden light filtering through stained glass, you find Hades perched atop you, his large, black, fluffy paws kneading your ribs like dough. He looks quite pleased with himself, tail curled smugly around your hip.

"You've taken over my old job, boy?" you murmur, voice still hoarse with sleep.

He only purrs in reply, half-kneazle entitlement on full display. You chuckle, reaching to scratch beneath his chin before yawning and stretching beneath the covers. Your limbs feel light, your thoughts quiet. For once, you've slept deeply.

The room is still, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the distant sound of morning birdsong. Autumn has finally made herself known. There's a subtle chill in the air, one that kisses your skin when you rise and pad barefoot toward the window.

You unlatch it gently, letting in a breeze edged with woodsmoke and frost. The sun is just beginning to rise, casting soft amber across the beautiful Scottish Highlands. It feels like something from a storybook. But no, this isn't fantasy. This is your life.

You have time this morning. Rare, precious time. So you bathe.

You open the round door and leave your dormitory, walking quietly toward the bathroom. The water draws itself, steaming and lavender-scented, into the tub as you undress and slip off your nightgown, folding it neatly beside the laundry basket. The bath is self-warming, Just the right temperature to soothe. You let yourself sink into it slowly, shoulders rolling back as tension releases from your spine. You scrub each inch of your skin, from behind your ears to the curve of your calves, until you feel clean. New. Softened and human again.

When you step out, you feel like a different person. A quiet woman. A washed soul.

The layers come next.

You're grateful the wizarding world is not quite as strict in its layering as Muggle society. Your corset is charmed for movement, light but supportive, and nothing like the stiff, breath-snatching ones you wore during your time in the muggle world. Over your underlayers, you slide into your crisp white shirt with its rounded collar, followed by your long tartan skirt in soft sunshine yellow, and the matching waistcoat that fits you like a second skin.

Next, you pin on your brooch. You're not the only one who wears one like it; it's a common piece among your generation and even your seniors.

Your fingers linger on it for a moment longer than usual, brushing its carved edge. You don't yet know what it truly means, but one day, you will.

You tie your tie neatly beneath your collar, and finally reach for your long black cloak, lined with Hufflepuff yellow and embroidered with the familiar badger crest. You smooth the fabric across your shoulders and reach for the final touch: your perfume.

You spritz it delicately at your neck, wrists, and robes. It smells of comfort, something warm and familiar. You chose it at a shop in Hogsmeade during your first few days, the owner selecting it especially for you and claiming it would attract your soulmate. The thought makes you laugh softly. You hope.

You leave the Hufflepuff common room with your cloak wrapped tightly around you, the hem brushing against your boots as you ascend the gently winding staircase. Hades follows for a moment, yawning dramatically before slinking off toward the warmth of the common room fireplace. Smart creature.

The castle is quieter in the early morning. Sunlight spills through the tall arched windows, casting soft golden shapes across the stone floor. You trail your fingers along the stone as you pass, breath forming faint clouds in the chill air. Somewhere in the distance, a portrait sings an old tune.

The doors to the Great Hall creak open, and you step into warmth and light.

The hall hums gently with conversation, spoons clinking against porcelain, and the occasional burst of laughter. You make your way to the Hufflepuff table, already half-filled with early risers, and settle beside Poppy Sweeting, who's smiling at you between bites of warm croissant.

"Morning," she says, brushing a few flakes from her skirt. "You look like you slept well."

Before you can answer, the smell hits you.

The long trays on the table are piled high with baked goods still warm from the kitchens below. Golden croissants, fruit-filled pastries dusted in sugar, and perfectly swirled cinnamon buns with sticky icing melting over their tops. Steam curls from the lids of enchanted teapots scattered along the table, each one spelled to pour whatever flavour your heart desires.

You reach for the nearest one and tilt it gently into your cup.

Peppermint.

Of course. Sharp and soothing all at once.

There are platters of sausages, scrambled eggs, roasted tomatoes, and crispy potatoes arranged neatly beside the sweet offerings, the smell of herbs and butter mingling in the air. A basket of fresh bread sits between jars of jam and pumpkin preserve. It's the kind of breakfast that makes you want to linger.You smile faintly, the rim of your cup warm against your lips.

Then, from the corner of your vision, you see some familiar faces.

Sebastian Sallow, striding along the Slytherin table with his cloak half-buttoned and charm fully intact. His eyes scan the hall until they land on you, and then, without hesitation, he changes course.

Trailing behind him is Ominis Gaunt, his pace slower, more composed. One slim hand hovers lightly above his wand, which guides him with subtle movements. His expression, as always, is unreadable.

Sebastian slides easily into the empty space across from you, helping himself to a cinnamon bun with no invitation at all.

"Thought I'd find you here," he says, tearing off a piece with one hand and reaching for a teapot with the other. "Didn't take you for an early riser."

"She is today," Poppy replies brightly. "Probably because she knew breakfast would be this good."

Sebastian gives her a crooked smile before turning his gaze back to you.

You're about to speak when Ominis reaches the bench beside him, his hands brushing the edge of the table before carefully sitting down. He doesn't speak, but there's something in the tilt of his head that suggests he's listening very closely.

Sebastian glances at him briefly, then looks back to you with raised brows, as if to say, your move.

You raise your brows in return, taking another sip of peppermint tea before setting your cup gently down.

"What class have you got next?" Sebastian asks, casually tossing a torn piece of cinnamon bun into his mouth.

"Divination," you reply, brushing crumbs from your sleeve. "Up in the North Tower."

"Ah, tragic," he sighs. "Poppy and I have Ancient Runes. Which, let me tell you, sounds fascinating until you're translating the same cursed tablet for an hour."

Poppy gives him a look. "Only because you don't actually read the set texts."

He ignores her with a grin and glances toward Ominis, who is delicately slicing into a roasted tomato with the precision of someone who has no intention of joining the conversation.

"And you?" Sebastian asks, nudging his friend's arm. "What's next on your scholarly agenda, Ominis?"

"Muggle Studies," He answers simply, his voice calm and clipped. "With Professor Potter."

Sebastian leans forward slightly, lowering his voice to a more conspiratorial tone.

"Have you heard the talk about him lately? About why the sacred 29 is now the sacred 28?"

You glance at him. "I haven't. What happened?"

"Old wizarding family," Sebastian says, swirling his tea for dramatic effect. "Used to be among the sacred pureblood lines. Highly respected till he started preaching about Muggle rights. Married a Muggle woman, no less. Caused quite the scandal. The family name was stripped from the list not long after."

You frown slightly, looking across the table at Ominis, who has stopped cutting into his food.

"Ridiculous," he says quietly. "The fact there's even a list to begin with is absurd. A catalogue of bloodlines, as if breeding matters more than decency."

His tone isn't sharp, but it is firm, with something cold underneath it. Something long-held.

"There are still families who live by it," he adds, setting his fork down. "Mine among them as you all are already aware."

Sebastian shifts in his seat, not uncomfortably, but with a touch more awareness.

"Well," he says, "I think Professor Potter's brilliant. Mad yes, but open minded. He's not afraid to live the way he believes."Ominis murmurs.

The words hang there for a moment, caught in the hush between conversations.

You glance at Poppy, who is suddenly quite focused on her croissant. Then back at Ominis, whose expression remains unreadable.

You clear your throat lightly. "Well. I'd better be on my way to Divination."

Sebastian stands with exaggerated weariness. "Say hello to the tea leaves for me. If they tell you anything scandalous, I expect a full report."

Poppy gathers her things as well. "We'll walk part of the way with you."

Ominis doesn't rise immediately, but he nods once in your direction.

"Enjoy your class," he says, voice lower now. Quieter. He said that directly to you alone.

"Thank you, Ominis." You smile before heading off to your lesson.

You leave the Great Hall with the scent of cinnamon and peppermint still clinging to your cloak, the low murmur of breakfast fading behind you. Poppy and Sebastian walk beside you for a while, their conversation turning to Ancient Runes, translations, and the overuse of the word "binding." Before long, they split off toward the staircase leading to the east wing, and you continue alone, your footsteps echoing through the corridor.

The North Tower waits.

As you pass the long windows near the Charms classroom, you hear a shout,not angry, but distressed and glance up to see Peeves, tumbling through the air in a flurry of bells and rhyme. He's juggling a stack of schoolbooks, none of which belong to him.

"No more books for silly snots! They'll learn much more from polka dots!"

Below him, a group of second-years stand frozen, mouths open, arms held out helplessly. You mutter a quiet depulso, and one of the stolen books now fall to the ground. Peeves is forcefully pushed back and screeches something rude and vanishes through the ceiling, laughing madly.

You resume walking, your pace slower now, eyes drifting upward as the staircases shift into place.

The North Tower has always felt slightly apart from the rest of the castle. Quieter. More dreamlike. You reach the base of the spiralling ladder that leads to the Divination classroom and pause, looking up. Soft light filters through the tower's high windows, casting spirals across the stone like the hands of a clock. The ladder creaks as you climb, each step groaning faintly beneath your boots.

At the top, the trapdoor opens with a soft push, and you enter into a room filled with cushions, gauzy curtains, and the warm scent of incense and something floral. Rose, perhaps, or dried orange peel. The ceiling is low and round, like the inside of a snow globe. Velvet armchairs are arranged in small circles, each with a little table set with mismatched teacups, delicate saucers, and silver spoons. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the ruby-red rug.

Professor Onai stands near the centre of the room, robes trailing like mist behind her. She greets you with a smile and gestures to an empty seat. You settle in, smoothing your skirt and resting your satchel by your feet. A teapot sits in the middle of your group's table, already steaming.

"Today," Professor Onai says, voice gentle but clear, "we continue our study of tasseomancy; the art of reading tea leaves."

She paces slowly as she speaks, her hands clasped behind her back.

"The leaves speak not only of what may come, but of what lingers within in the heart, the mind, the soul. Symbols may appear, disappear, or shift as you turn the cup. But first, you must drink."

She pauses beside your table, and her eyes rest briefly on you.

"With intention. Tea reveals nothing to the distracted mind."

She smiles softly and steps back.

"Pour your tea. Breathe deeply. Focus your thoughts on a question or feeling. Then drink slowly and leave just a little behind in the cup."

You lift the pot and pour, the peppermint aroma swirling upward once more. The steam curls into shapes that vanish too quickly to understand. You press the warm porcelain between your palms, close your eyes for a moment, and breathe.

What are you meant to see? Is the question to ask subconsciously

You sip.

Around the room, soft sounds: the clink of spoons, the rustle of parchment, the quiet hush of students lost in thought. When your cup is nearly empty, you stop. Just a small pool of tea remains at the bottom.

You hold it in your hands and turn it three times, as instructed.

Clockwise. Slowly. Letting the leaves settle into whatever patterns the universe deems worthy.

Professor Onai's voice drifts again through the room.

"Look into your cup. Observe shapes, symbols, clusters. The placement matters, what sits near the handle speaks to you. What rests opposite may reflect others. The past clings to the base. The future rises to the rim."

You peer into the dark leaves. Something has taken shape.

You lean closer, tilting the cup.

It looks like...

Well. That couldn't be right.

You tilt the cup gently in your hands, careful not to disturb the shape the leaves have taken.

At first, it's only vague outlines and clusters, wisps, shadows but then they begin to shift into form.

A swan, elegant and unmistakable, its neck arched gracefully against the porcelain. You feel your breath catch. Its wings are open as if mid-flight, but there's something still about it. Watchful. Waiting.

Beside it, curling close to the rim, a snake. Coiled tightly, its tongue flicked out as if it's whispering to the swan or protecting it. The contrast of the two strikes you immediately grace and danger. Stillness and motion. Light and shadow.

But it's the last image that unsettles you.

Not a shape. A number.

Clearly, in the centre of the cup, formed by the dregs and shadows of the tea, is the shape of a seven.

It wasn't there a moment ago. And yet, you can't deny it.

A swan.
A snake.
And a seven.

For a long moment, you don't move. The cup feels heavier than it should in your hands.

For once, you're unsure of a reading.

You trace the rim of the cup with your thumb, the scent still lingering faintly in the air. Professor Onai moves softly around the room, stopping occasionally to comment or guide, but she hasn't reached you yet.

Part of you wants to pour the tea out. Another part wants to ask what it means but you already know no one can answer that. Not yet.

The leaves don't move. The number stays.

You're still studying the symbols when you hear her soft footsteps approach.

"Now," comes Professor Onai's voice, warm and silken like tea itself. "What have you got?"

You hesitate a moment, then turn the cup toward her, careful not to spill. She bends just slightly to glance inside.

"I see a swan," you say slowly. "A snake. And... the number seven."

She makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment, neither approval nor surprise.

You continue, your voice low but thoughtful.

"Seven is the number of intuition... of truth-seeking. It's tied to spiritual awareness in numerology. A symbol of searching, of peeling back layers. It often means personal growth, a deeper understanding of oneself."

Professor Onai remains quiet, listening. You glance back into the cup, your fingers gently curling around the handle.

"The swan... is grace, purity, transformation. But also loyalty. Devotion. Swans choose their mate for life."

You pause, brushing your thumb along the rim of the saucer.

"And the snake... renewal, perhaps. Hidden wisdom. It's not just danger...it's evolution. Shedding skins. Secrets, yes, but not always sinister. Sometimes necessary."

You look up at her. "Put together... it feels like change. Growth. Maybe even harmony between two opposing parts of myself."

Professor Onai smiles gently, but there's something sharper behind her eyes. A glint of knowing.

"A lovely reading," she says, her voice as smooth as ever. "And quite insightful."

She reaches out, taps the edge of the cup lightly with one finger.

"But you're missing one thing."

Your brow furrows. "I am?"

She straightens, and her eyes meet yours. dark, clear, and knowing.

"A lover."

The word lands like a pebble in still water. Not loud, but rippling outward.

She gestures to the swan.

"They do not glide alone. The swan speaks not only of transformation, but of romantic fate. Emotional depth. A bond that endures."

Then, the snake.

"And the snake beside it... perhaps a contrast. Perhaps a warning. Or perhaps, a reflection."

Her eyes soften, and her voice lowers slightly.

"You may be drawn to someone who does not move the way you do. Who speaks in silence, or sees with other senses. Who sheds their skin not once, but over and over."

The tea grows cooler in your hands.

Professor Onai's smile lingers, but she says no more. Just turns with the sway of her robes and moves on to the next student, leaving you with your cup, your thoughts, and the quiet hum of fate stirring in the leaves.

The rest of the lesson passes in a haze of steam and whispers. Cups are turned, leaves examined, futures guessed. Some students giggle at imagined romance; others frown at indecipherable patterns. The scent of tea clings to the air like silk.

When Professor Onai finally dismisses the class, chairs scrape gently across the floor, and the ladder creaks as your classmates climb down one by one.

You rise, but her voice stops you.

Professor Onai calls out your name."Please stay behind a moment, if you would. I'd like a word."

Her tone is gentle, measured and warm. You hesitate only briefly before sinking back down into your seat.

The tower is quiet now. Only the faint crackle of the hearth and the hush of wind against the round windows remain. Professor Onai crosses the room and sits across from you, folding her hands with a soft rustle of fabric.

She studies you, not unkindly, but with a kind of knowing.

"You are like myself," she says at last. "You possess the Sight."

You blink, mouth parting slightly. You knew, somewhere deep, that this moment might come. But hearing it aloud settles in your bones like weight and breath.

"I don't know," you murmur. "Maybe. I... see things sometimes, but it's hard to tell whether I'm imagining them."

She smiles faintly, eyes kind.

"No. It is not imagination. You are not simply perceptive, you are touched by the gift. I have seen it before, but not often. You listen differently. You carry silence like it's speaking to you."

You glance down at your hands.

"It's not always clear," you admit. "And it's not always... easy."

She leans in slightly.

"Tell me."

You hesitate again. But something about the way she looks at you with no pressure, no judgment makes you speak.

"I met someone, not long ago. Someone new. And after we spoke,"
You pause. Breathe.
"It was as if I saw his entire life. Not just flashes. But feelings. His upbringing. His pain. Like it reached out and wrapped around me. I didn't try to see it. I just... felt it."

Professor Onai's eyes soften. She nods slowly, knowingly.

"Yes. That can happen. When our clairvoyance is strong, it moves through touch... feeling... sound. You thread yourself into the lives of others. It can be beautiful. And it can be deeply unpleasant."

Her voice lowers just slightly.

"We do not only see joy. We are often pulled to sorrow. To the buried. To the things others hide. And sometimes what we feel is not our own."

You swallow. Something heavy twists in your stomach. Not fear. Just... recognition.

"So it's normal? To feel like it's too much sometimes?"

"It is common," she says, "but not easy. There will be moments where you question whether the visions help or harm. That is part of the path. But remember what you see does not define you. You are the vessel, not the prophecy."

You sit with that.

Professor Onai rises from her chair with quiet grace and places her hand lightly on your shoulder.

"You may come to me when the Sight overwhelms you. Or when it leaves you questioning. You are not alone in this, my young student."

You nod slowly, the silence between you full of understanding.

"Thank you, Professor."

She smiles at you. Soft and certain. She turns back to her desk, leaving you in the golden stillness of the tower.

Your empty teacup still rests beside you, the leaves within forming strange patterns now lost to the steam.

You pick it up. You look again.

Just in case.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Later that evening, you find yourself once again in Professor Fig's office, the fire crackling low behind him as he pores over scattered parchment and aged tomes. The glow of lamplight paints soft shadows across the room, and the air hums with quiet anticipation.

You recount everything that's happened since your last visit. The glowing traces only you can see, the vaults hidden deep beneath Gringotts again, the enchanted map chamber, and the ancient magic that pulses through your fingertips like a second heartbeat. He listens intently, nodding now and again, eyes narrowed in thought.

"It confirms what we suspected," he murmurs. "This magic—it's not merely old, it's... foundational. Prehistoric. You've been chosen by it in a way I've not seen before."

You glance down, fingers brushing the carved brooch pinned at your collar. "There's something else," you add softly. "After Divination class today, Professor Onai asked to speak with me. She said I possess the Sight. That I'm a Seer."

Professor Fig straightens a little in his chair. There's no surprise in his face, only the faintest glimmer of understanding, and something like pride.

"Thought so," he says, voice quiet but certain. "A rare gift indeed. Highly respected in the old ways, though often dismissed by those who fear what they cannot measure."

He leans forward slightly, the firelight catching the lenses of his spectacles.

"Trust what you see. Even when others do not. Your instincts, your visions...may prove just as vital as any spell or ancient text."

You nod, the truth of it settling somewhere deep in your chest. Between the forgotten magic that flows through your veins, and the dreams that feel more like memories, something is awakening within you. Something vast, and unshaped, and waiting to be understood.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel ready.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

It's been a few more days since your last moment of quiet introspection, and though time at Hogwarts never seems to unfold in a straight line, these days have passed with a curious rhythm. You've attended your lessons, answered questions when asked, lingered with friends in study halls and over shared plates in the Great Hall. You've tried to keep your thoughts grounded, in soil, in books, in things you can hold but they still drift back to the reading in Divination, the symbols etched in its dregs. Ominis Gaunt, in particular has lingered in your thoughts more than you care to admit. You haven't spoken to him since that morning, not properly. But once, between classes, you'd recalled something Natty had told you weeks ago a quiet warning offered in passing, meant with care rather than cruelty: "If I were you, I'd stay clear of Ominis Gaunt. Heard he's interested in Dark magic." You'd questioned her about it then, gently, and she'd apologised almost at once. "I shouldn't judge a book by its cover," she had said. "It's only what I've heard from others, not what I know." And even now, you're not sure what to make of it. You don't feel afraid of him just intrigued. Perhaps too intrigued. But there's no time to dwell on that now.

Your first class of the day is Herbology, and the greenhouses are already calling.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. The usual hum of morning chatter drifts above the long tables, but the Hufflepuff bench feels emptier than usual. Poppy is nowhere to be seen, and Natty is talking with Garreth at the Gryffindor table and something inside you told you that you shouldn't disturb them. The only familiar face you catch among the crowd is Amit Thakkar, already halfway through a bowl of porridge and reading what looks to be The Practical Star-Gazer's Almanac, volume 7.

He perks up when he sees you and politely sets the book aside.

"Good morning," he says with a smile, wiping his spoon on a napkin. "You're early."

"Not really," you reply, settling across from him and pouring yourself a cup of steaming tea. "You're just always earlier."

The two of you chat idly over warm toast and marmalade, the conversation drifting from stargazing schedules to the slow approach of autumn. He mentions a recent article in The Daily Prophet about comet movements, and you nod along, though your mind drifts to the looming schedule of the day. When he eventually stands, dusting crumbs from his robes and tucking his book into his satchel, you follow.

As you step into the corridor together, the morning air is crisp, a fine mist clinging to the castle's tall windows.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" you murmur, half to yourself, adjusting the strap of your bag as the two of you walk toward the greenhouses.

Amit hums affirmatively beside you. "Which means Astronomy tonight. Midnight, as always."

You stifle a groan. The class itself isn't awful, but the timing leaves much to be desired especially after a full day of practical magic, clumsy classmates, and muddy boots. At least Herbology is first. Cool air, bright plants, and Professor Garlick's endless optimism. You can manage that.

Probably.
The greenhouses shimmer with dew in the morning sun, casting long, prismatic streaks of light through the fogged glass. As you push the door open, a wave of damp, earthy warmth washes over you along with the unmistakable scent of fertilizer and something vaguely... carnivorous.

Professor Garlick is already at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, wand in hand, and her usual cheerful smile in place. Today, however, there's a glint in her eye that suggests chaos is coming.

The long tables are set with thick dragon-hide gloves, pruning shears, and large wooden tubs that sit ominously still until you notice the faint tremble of movement inside each one.

"Good morning, my rose buds!" she chirps, clapping her hands together. "Today, we'll be working with Snargaluff pods. Now, these little devils are notorious for being... uncooperative, so please be careful. Wand use is encouraged if things happen to get out of hand but let's try not to duel them, shall we?"

Snargaluff pods. Of course. The aggressive, tentacled plant that lies dormant until disturbed, at which point it explodes into a tangle of thorny vines hellbent on slapping you in the face. You're certain Professor Garlick enjoys this part of the job a little too much.

"We'll be working in pairs today," she continues. "This will require quick reflexes and trust—two things every good Herbologist must cultivate."

You glance around, already wondering where Poppy is only to spot her across the greenhouse, being partnered with someone else you don't recognize. You barely have time to process it before Professor Garlick's voice rings out again, speaking your name:

"And you'll be with Mr. Gaunt!"

Your eyes dart to the far end of the table.

Ominis Gaunt is already standing beside one of the tubs, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else. His wand rests loosely in his hand, angled slightly downward, as if sensing the restless stirring of vines beneath the soil. His expression is calm blank and even but there's a faint pinch in his brow, a tension that doesn't quite reach his mouth.

You approach slowly.

"Good Morning," you say carefully, voice low so as not to provoke the Snargaluff. Or Ominis.

"Good morning to you as well," he replies, clipped and polite. His pale fingers tap once against the side of the pot. "They're awake already."

You peer into the tub. Sure enough, the soil is shifting. Something slithers just beneath the surface.

Professor Garlick leans in behind you both. "Remember, they tend to strike when they feel threatened. But the pods are perfectly safe to handle once you've subdued the vines. If you want top marks, you'll need to work in perfect unison!"

She gives you an encouraging smile... and then retreats.

You glance at Ominis.

"Any thoughts on how we want to do this?"

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Well," he murmurs, lifting his wand slightly, "try not to scream."

The tub explodes.

The moment the soil bursts open, thorny vines shoot out in all directions like angry green serpents, snapping blindly at the air. You duck on instinct as one lashes past your cheek, the thorns narrowly missing your skin.

Ominis doesn't flinch. His wand is already raised, murmuring a spell under his breath, and the nearest vine seizes mid-air before slumping back into the earth, stunned. You fumble for your dragon-hide gloves, fingers clumsy from adrenaline, but before you can slip the second one on, a vine lashes out and curls around your unprotected wrist.

You stagger slightly, caught off-balance.

Ominis' hand is suddenly there... cold, steady and grasping your elbow to keep you upright. His skin brushes yours as he tugs the vine away with a quick, practiced flick of his wand. The contact is brief, but unmistakable. His fingers are colder than expected, the touch feather-light yet strangely grounding.

"Easy there," he murmurs, voice even. "It'll go for your throat next."

You shoot him a glance. "Reassuring."

Another vine rises behind him, and this time you're the one to act. "Duck."

He tilts his head the slightest degree though not low enough—and you yank him down by the sleeve just in time. The vine sails over both your heads and strikes the edge of the workbench behind you with a loud crack.

"Impressive," he mutters, crouched beside you now. "You've excellent instincts."

You smile, reaching into the soil with your gloved hand. The pod is pulsing faintly, sickly green and slimy. You grip it, twist counter-clockwise as he instructed, and with a wet pop, it comes free. The vines retreat all at once, sluggish and defeated, curling back into the soil like angry worms.

Silence returns to the greenhouse, broken only by the distant sound of other students still mid-battle. You and Ominis rise together, brushing stray flecks of moss from your cloaks.

You glance down at your gloves, then over at him. "Thank you."

He shakes his head once, faintly. "You didn't need saving."

"Still," you murmur, "I'd rather not be strangled by a plant before lunch."

He hums, dry amusement in his voice. "Understandable."

You reach for your satchel to pack away your materials. As you do, your hand brushes his again, bare this time. Just a graze of knuckle to knuckle. His fingers twitch, then go still.

You pretend not to notice.

So does he.

You pretend not to notice.

So does he.

"Good work, you two!" comes Professor Garlick's cheerful voice. "Excellent coordination. That was one of the more unruly specimens this term."

You both nod politely as she floats past, her robes trailing pollen in her wake. Around you, the greenhouse begins to empty, students spilling out into the afternoon air with the usual clatter of boots, bags, and laughter. You take your time collecting your things, fingers brushing against the last scattered leaves. Your gloves are in your lap, forgotten.

Ominis rises slowly beside you. His movements are always deliberate and smooth. You watch him adjust the strap of his satchel, then reach for his wand with the same soft precision. You follow him out, the scent of damp earth and crushed roots lingering in your cloak.

As you pass beneath the arching vines at the greenhouse entrance, your bare hand slips from your satchel just for a moment and brushes his... again.

A whisper of contact. His skin is cold, startlingly so, and you feel him tense before pulling his hand away quickly. But not harshly. Just... startled.

He says nothing.

Neither do you.

The sunlight is golden now, stretching long across the courtyard and catching in the curls of your hair, the edge of his jaw. He slows his steps. You match the pace.

When you reach the edge of the garden path, where the courtyard meets the castle proper, he stops.

"I should say something," he murmurs, voice low but steady. "And I've delayed it long enough."

You look up at him, surprised. His face is turned slightly toward yours, but his eyes remain unfocused, glassy and unmoving as always. Still, there's something different in his posture now. Something open.

"I've not been... warm," he says slowly. "Nor fair to you."

You wait, letting the silence stretch. It doesn't feel awkward, just full. Like he's trying to find the right shape for his thoughts.

"I was... distant," he continues. "And not only at first. I've kept you at arm's length, assumed the worst when you gave me no reason to."

A pause. His fingers twitch at his side.

"I've had a lifetime of learning how to protect myself. That means keeping people out. Pushing first, before they have the chance to do it to me."

You tilt your head slightly, not interrupting.

"But you..." he exhales softly, like he's scolding himself. "You didn't push back. You didn't believe what you'd heard. And even after I gave you reason to leave it be, you stayed kind."

His voice dips, quieter now.

"I was not raised to disrespect a maiden. And yet I did. I spoke to you with suspicion, when all you'd shown me was softness. For that, I owe you an apology."

You blink. That, you hadn't expected. Not from someone as guarded as him. And not so gently said. He's apologising for snapping at you outside the undercroft during your first meeting.

"I don't expect anything in return," he adds. "But I would regret it deeply if I said nothing at all."

Your voice is soft. "Thank you, Ominis. You're a good friend."

His cheeks flush and he nods once, barely a movement. But it feels like the closing of a door that's no longer locked.

"You're not what I expected," he says again, after a pause. "And I don't mean that unkindly."

You smile, just slightly. "What did you expect?"

He hesitates. Then, honestly: "Someone who would have given up."

And before you can reply, he gives a faint tilt of his head, listening to some distant sound, and murmurs, "I should be getting to Muggle Studies."

You nod, watching as he turns toward the castle. His cloak sways gently behind him.

"Wait," you call gently.

He pauses mid-step, tilting his head back toward you.

"I'll walk with you," you offer, already moving to his side. "I've no other lessons till Astronomy tonight."

He hums, a faint flicker of a smile playing at his lips. "Lucky you. Only two lessons today. I have three."

"You poor thing," you tease.

"Indeed," he says, with the ghost of something that could be amusement. "But yes, you may walk with me."

The two of you fall into step, boots tapping lightly along the stone path as the wind stirs through the tall hedges. The sun hasn't yet lost its warmth, and you let yourself enjoy it for a moment two students in the quiet hours between classes, pretending that the world isn't half as complicated as it really is.

But it is.

And Ominis is the one to break the silence.

"I know for certain you've heard rumours," he says quietly, "that I practise dark magic."

You glance at him, but his face is unreadable. His voice is steady.

"It's quite the opposite," he continues. "I despise it. Because of my family. Especially because of them."

You're quiet for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle.

"I believe you," you say simply.

He nods, but doesn't speak for a few steps. Then muttered out

"It's easier for people to believe the worst. Especially when the surname is Gaunt. I'm sure you're already aware I'm a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Not something I'm proud of compared to the rest of my family. Blood purity is what the pride themselves on..."

You don't say anything this time. He isn't fishing for comfort; he's stating a truth, bitter though it may be.

"I've tried to keep Sebastian out of it," he murmurs. "I know he wants to cure Anne. I want that, too. More than anything. But the things he's willing to try..."

He trails off, his jaw tightening. "Please," he says. "I know Sebastian. I know he believes he's doing what's right. But I don't want him going down the wrong path. He is my dearest friend, you know."

You nod slowly. "He's lucky to have you."

"Sometimes I wonder if he agrees," Ominis says softly.

"I think," you say, "he knows. Even if he doesn't say it."

A quiet hum of agreement passes his lips. Then silence again, though not a heavy one. Just two people walking. The breeze tugs at your robes, and the castle looms ahead, welcoming and familiar in its vastness.

For once, things feel steady.

And you walk the rest of the way beside him, neither of you rushing.

Just enough time left in the day to breathe.

Ominis gives a polite dip of his head before parting ways, the echo of his steps fading down the corridor toward the Muggle Studies classroom. You're just about to turn away intending to head to the library or perhaps walk the grounds when a voice calls from the doorway.

"You there, ah! You must be the new 5th year! Come in, come in!"

You freeze. A tall, wiry man stands framed in the doorway, his long limbs seeming to fold slightly as he leans forward with enthusiasm. He wears full moon spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, a sharply tailored Muggle-style suit, and a bowler hat tilted at an ever-so-slight angle. Unlike the other professors, he looks more like a fashionable London doctor than a Hogwarts teacher.

"I... er don't take this class, Sir," you start, gesturing vaguely to the door.

"You do today, dear!" he chirps, beckoning with an eager hand. "You've no lessons now, I checked the timetables myself. Come along!"

You hesitate, but it's already too late. Ominis has turned in his seat and is smiling faintly in your direction. You shoot him a half-panicked look and mouth to him for help and realise he can't see your expression. Guess you have no choice.

You step inside the room with an awkward shuffle, feeling like you've been swept up in something you weren't prepared for. The place smells faintly of sandlewood. The classroom is unlike any you've seen at Hogwarts: posters of trains and Muggle appliances line the walls, and on the front table is a kettle, a stack of glossy magazines, a box of cereal, and a new  Muggle radio.

You sit beside Ominis, who leans in just slightly and whispers, "He's brilliant. His lessons are always fun."

You glance at Professor Potter, who is now fiddling with the kettle as though trying to summon tea from thin air.

"You're lucky," Ominis adds, a smile tugging at his mouth, "he brings around muggle treats for us."

You blink. "Is that allowed?"

"Probably not," he says. "But he doesn't care."

Professor Potter turns around with a wide grin and claps his hands once. "Now, what is the difference between a Muggle chocolate and a wizarding one? Anyone? No? Well, one turns into a frog when you eat it, guess which!"

You stifle a chuckle. It's barely been five minutes, and already the atmosphere in the room feels warmer than most other classes.

Maybe this accidental lesson won't be so bad after all.

Professor Potter busied himself at the front of the room with a well-worn kettle that hissed and clattered on a small enchanted stove, clearly modified to mimic a Muggle one. Steam began to curl into the air.

With a proud smile, he poured the hot liquid into mismatched floral tea cups lined up on a silver tray. "Now then," he said cheerfully, weaving his way between desks, "no reading of tea leaves today, I promise."

He paused at your desk, eyes glinting behind his spectacles as he placed a mug in front of you. "Though I've heard," he said in a lower, conspiratorial tone, "you've quite a knack for it."

Your heart skipped. but you merely blushed, tucking your hands beneath the desk. Ominis, seated beside you, said nothing but you were certain he felt the heat rise from your skin.

"We just drink it in this class my dear!"Professor Potter added with a smile, then continued on.

You breathed in the scent, it was Earl Grey, black tea with a hint of bergamot.

Not long after, he returned with a battered biscuit tin, the sort you'd seen in older village shops, the kind that always rattled a little when opened. He pried off the lid with a dramatic flourish. "Now, who's ready for a true Muggle delight? Straight from a Glasgow grocer. Tunnock's Tea Cakes! Or as I like to call them, portable Heaven."

He held one aloft like it was a sacred artefact.

You couldn't help but smile. The foil-wrapped chocolate treat was familiar. You'd seen them in the corner shop near the orphanage on the rare occasions you were allowed to wander. If you had a spare halfpenny, and the woman behind the counter was in a good mood, you might have bought one.
Professor Potter moved down the rows, offering them out. "Don't be shy—Muggles invented sugar cravings too, you know."

You reached out and took one, the silver wrapper crinkling softly under your fingers.

Ominis turned his head slightly in your direction. "Is it familiar?"

You nodded. "I used to buy one when I could afford it."

There was a pause, soft and thoughtful, before he murmured, "Then it's a good thing you're here now, isn't it?"

You didn't reply but your heart was full, warmed more by the moment than the cup of tea.

Once the tea had been poured and the wrappers of Tunnock's tea cakes crinkled, Professor Potter clapped his hands together and strode toward a nearby stack of worn books.

"Now then," he said brightly, plucking a volume from the top with a certain reverence, "we'll be reading a selection from Wuthering Heights today. A Muggle tale of great emotion of ghosts, grief, and the kind of love that leaves behind scars."

He paused, holding the book aloft like it were some rare magical tome. "Written by Emily Brontë. An ordinary woman, extraordinary pen. No spells, just words."

The class stirred with interest. You settled your hands around your mug, the warmth seeping into your palms, the peppermint steam curling up like spell smoke. Beside you, Ominis shifted slightly and let out a quiet hum of appreciation.

"You know it?" you asked softly.

"I do," he replied, almost too casually. "I've read it. More than once."

You blinked. "You've read Muggle literature?"

He turned his head slightly toward you, a wry smirk ghosting over his lips. "If my family found out, they'd summon Death and bargain with him to resurrect me just so they could kill me again."

You tried not to laugh too loudly into your tea.

"I happen to enjoy the Brontës," he added more quietly, almost shyly. "There's something deeply magical about their work, even without a wand."

You smiled, heart light. "I agree."

Professor Potter began to read aloud, his voice rising and falling like an actor's onstage. The classroom seemed to quiet under the weight of the words:

"I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"

He closed the book with a slow, thoughtful motion, letting the echo of the line linger in the air.

"Muggles," he said, "can be foolish and brutal... but brilliant too. I think we forget that."

You glanced at Ominis again. His face was still, lips parted slightly as if holding his breath. You wondered if he was imagining the scene in his mind's eye. Moors, wind, longing. Perhaps he didn't need sight to see it.

The class continued for a little while longer,no spells, no parchment work, just words, tea, and thoughts. Occasionally, Professor Potter would ask for reflections or impressions, nodding at even the shyest murmurs of opinion. It felt... different. Warm. Like a break from the usual tempo of Hogwarts.

When the class ended, you made no move to rise immediately. Neither did Ominis.

"That story..." he said after a pause. "It's a little dramatic, perhaps. But the pain, it's real."

"Most of the best stories are," you replied.

He stood then, and you with him. As you reached for your scarf, he added, dryly, "If my family knew I was taking Muggle Studies, I'd be disowned. Again. But perhaps more formally this time."

You grinned. "You're quite brave, then."

"Or foolish," he said, offering you the faintest smile. "I suppose it depends on who's telling the story."

As the last of the students filtered out, their chairs scraping gently against the stone floor, Professor Potter gave a fond wave toward you and Ominis. "Until next time," he called cheerily, collecting mugs and empty wrappers with a flick of his wand. "And no, Mr Gaunt, I won't tell your family."

Ominis gave a small, appreciative nod in the professor's direction. Then, turning toward you, he adjusted the collar of his cloak and said softly, "Thank you... for joining today. Even if it wasn't on your schedule."

"I enjoyed it," you replied honestly, hugging your books to your chest. "More than I expected."

He tilted his head just slightly, and though his pale eyes didn't move, it felt like he was truly looking at you. "You're a good friend," he said, voice gentler than usual. "I enjoy your company very much."

Your breath caught for a moment. The corridor was quieter now, save for distant footsteps and the faint flutter of pages from the classroom behind you. His words hung in the air between you, not too heavy, not too light - Just enough to warm your chest.

"I enjoy yours too," you murmured. "Very much."

A soft smile touched his face, rare and real. He didn't say anything more, just nodded, and the two of you began to walk in step through the corridor, your footsteps echoing side by side.

And though no glance was exchanged, there was something unspoken between you.

Something steady. Something kind.

Something beginning.

After supper, the Great Hall buzzed with its usual end-of-day chatter. Plates clinked, benches scraped against the stone floor, and the ceiling mirrored the dusky sky, streaked with lavender clouds and early stars. You sat beside Poppy, tucking into your meal.

"I saw you and Ominis earlier," Poppy whispered with a grin, nudging your arm. "Spending rather a lot of time together, aren't you?"

You blinked out of your thoughts. "We were just talking."

"Mm-hmm," she said, clearly unconvinced. "You make a good pair."

Your cheeks warmed, and you tried to suppress a smile. But Poppy's teasing smirk lingered long after you looked away.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

A few feet across the hall, at the Slytherin table, the clatter of cutlery and quiet conversation continued. The flickering candlelight illuminated polished badges and green-trimmed robes, casting sharp shadows across pale faces.

Sebastian leaned slightly toward Ominis, a slice of bread in one hand, voice low enough to avoid being overheard by the nearby first-years.

"Well, our new friend seems to enjoy your company," he said with a teasing tilt to his words.

Ominis didn't react right away. He sat with his back straight, head faintly tilted toward the Hufflepuff table, as if listening through the din.

Sebastian grinned and took a bite. "Been on any life-changing quests with her yet?"

"Not quite," Ominis replied, calm as ever. "But she's... kind. Thoughtful. I don't meet many people like that."

Sebastian raised a brow. "Merlin, listen to you."

Ominis exhaled through his nose, a faint trace of a smile forming. "If my siblings heard me talking like this, they'd hex me into next week."

"Lucky for you, I'm not your sibling," Sebastian said. "Though I might tease you into next week regardless."

Ominis shook his head with a quiet chuckle. "Of course you would."

Their conversation trailed off into silence, the two boys returning to their meal though Ominis's thoughts, evidently, were far elsewhere.

Little to their knowledge a certain scrawny, blonde-haired Slytherin was glaring daggers at Ominis and then over to the hufflepuff table.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The night air was sharp with cold as you climbed the steps of the Astronomy Tower, each footfall echoing through the stone spiral. Midnight classes always had a strange stillness to them like the castle held its breath beneath the stars.

Above, the sky stretched vast and endless, pinpricked with constellations that shimmered like scattered glass. It was beautiful but more than that, it was humbling.

Professor Shah stood at the front, spine straight and expression firm. "Tonight," she announced, "we study Cassiopeia. Use your charts and telescopes to locate her shape and record her position. Take your time. Precision over haste."

Around you, students began unfolding maps and adjusting lenses. You made your way to a spot along the railing, where your telescope already waited. Not far off, Amit Thakkar was fussing with his own setup, already deep in passionate monologue.

"Celestia," he sighed, not at anyone in the class, but at his beloved telescope "you are magnificent. Look at that clarity! Utterly unmarred. This is craftsmanship worthy of the stars themselves!"

You couldn't help but smile quietly to yourself. His enthusiasm was almost charming.

Nearby, Ominis Gaunt sat at his own worktable—different from the rest. Instead of maps or telescopes, he had before him a raised wooden chart of the sky, a custom constellation board designed with silver-thread lines and star-shaped studs to trace by touch.

His fingers moved with practiced care across the pattern of Cassiopeia, following each point of the constellation with measured ease. You watched as he mouthed the star names under his breath, completely focused, as though the stars were speaking directly to him.

There was no show in it. No vanity. Just quiet certainty.

He worked in silence, unaffected by Amit's theatrics or the chatter of students around him. Occasionally, Professor Shah glanced his way, but offered no correction, just a nod of approval before moving on.

You turned back to your own telescope. Cassiopeia came into focus with a slight twist of the dial. Five stars suspended in the dark, cold sky. You copied her shape into your notes as the wind pulled at your sleeves, breath fogging in the midnight air.

Time slipped by in silence. Shah gave a brief, "You are dismissed," and students shuffled off, parchment in hand, eyes half-closed with exhaustion.

As you followed the others down the stairs, your legs heavy, you passed Ominis still gathering his things, one hand brushing the edge of his constellation board. He looked composed, but tired.

The halls were quiet now. Dinner had long since ended as its midnight. By the time you returned to your dormitory, you barely had the strength to unlace your boots. Your limbs moved on instinct, your thoughts barely there.

The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep took you whole.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

4 months have passed since you first stepped through the gates of Hogwarts, though the days have not moved gently. Each one has pulled you deeper into a world far older and far stranger than you were ever prepared for. Beneath the castle lies the Map Chamber, a secret stronghold where the portraits of four long-dead witch and wizards, called The Keepers now guide your steps. Through their memories, you have glimpsed the weight of ancient magic so powerful and untamed and pulsing through time like a second heartbeat. Outside those chambers, threats have begun to circle. Victor Rookwood grows more persistent, his followers appearing like shadows at the edge of your path, and Ranrok's rebellion gains ground with every day that passes. The goblins search for something buried deep within the earth, and you are caught in the middle of a war you never asked for.

Yet for all the danger rising around you, today's concern is far more personal.

Sebastian had sent a letter hastily scrawled with "Urgent. Meet me in the Dungeons." And something else about Ominis not telling... so, here you are, beneath the castle once more, tracing the scent of stone and steam down twisting halls where few students linger.

"You're here. Brilliant!" Sebastian greets you with a mix of impatience and relief.

You tilt your head slightly. "I received your owl. What happened with Ominis?"

Sebastian's expression darkens as he sighs. "I told him none of us will be able to avoid darker magic forever. The more we know about Salazar Slytherin and the Dark Arts, the better prepared we'll be. But," he frowns deeper "only a member of his family knows where the Scriptorium is hidden. And Ominis won't tell me."

You nod slowly, torn. You have no desire to explore forbidden magic... and yet, there's something in Sebastian's desperation that makes it hard to walk away. He isn't chasing power, he's chasing hope. A hope that he might save Anne and that he can protect those he cares about. Including you.

"Perhaps I shall chat with him," you suggest.

Sebastian arches a brow. "You?" Then after a pause, he shrugs. "Well, I suppose it's worth a try. But don't get your hopes up. He's as annoyingly stubborn as ever. Nothing new. I know where he is. I'll show you."

He leads the way further into the dungeons, past the hollow clank of suits of armour and the soft flicker of torchlight on damp walls. Two ghosts duel in the distance, translucent rapiers flashing through one another's spectral forms. Their argument echoes faintly in the corridor.

Sebastian glances over his shoulder. "We should be careful. You never know who's listening. Especially Peeves. That bastard poltergeist is always creeping about. Nuisance, that one."

You press onward, past the quiet hum of the Potions classroom and up a narrow stone stairway tucked into the side of the corridor. The dungeons are quiet at this hour, no lingering students, just the low drip of water and the hush of your footsteps.

At the top of the stairs, you see him.

Ominis Gaunt. Standing alone near a stretch of cool grey wall, his posture stiff, his head slightly turned as if listening to something distant.

"Good luck," Sebastian mutters, already beginning to turn back the way you came.

You step forward, breath held.

And Ominis... tilts his head.

He already knows you're there.

Ominis stood near the wall, his posture taut, his head angled toward the floor. His lips were pressed into a faint line, his expression unreadable but something in the set of his shoulders spoke of tension that hadn't quite eased since you'd last seen him.

Not moody, exactly. Just... distant. Guarded.

He turned his head slightly at the sound of your approach, his voice low.
"What are you doing here...?" he asked, not with anger, but a weariness that clung to the edges of each word.

You took a careful step forward.
"Hello, Ominis. Do you have a moment?"

A breath escaped him, almost a sigh.
"What is it? What have you and Sebastian been up to now?"

You hesitated, choosing your words with care.
"Ominis... I know we've already exchanged apologies, and we've grown into something of a friendship now. But there's something else I've kept from you."

His head tilted slightly in your direction.

"I wasn't completely honest about the Undercroft. Sebastian did show it to me. He said he wanted me to have a place to practise spells, to catch up with the others in our year. He told me you wouldn't mind."

Ominis sighed, long and soft. His fingers flexed slightly by his sides.
"I know already, I appreciate your honesty. And again, I do apologise for how I reacted then. But... we mustn't dwell on the past."
A hesitant smile ghosted across his lips just barely there, but genuine.

Then, more quietly:
"Sebastian's been pestering me lately. About something. And I'm really - well i'm frustrated with him. He's a handful at times..."

You reply and agree with him. You didn't like talking behind Sebastian's back, but you understood exactly what Ominis meant. His agitation was warranted. Still... your sympathy for Sebastian hadn't lessened, and a quiet part of you wanted to try.

You tilted your head slightly.
"Don't tell me he's still going on about - what was it again? A Scriptorium?"

Ominis stiffened, startled.
"He told you about that?"

"Yes. We were talking about the Founders, and it just slipped out. Other than that, not much more."

Ominis exhaled, frustration mingled with exasperation.
"Of course he told you." Ominis sighed and continues "

Well yes, he thinks it contains the answer to saving Anne. I think it's more likely full of dark magic and is best left untouched."

You blinked.
"Wait, you haven't been inside?"

His reply was sharp, immediate.
"Of course not. I only know about it because of my favourite aunt, Noctua."
His voice softened as he continued.
"She thought like I do. She didn't agree with our family's views on blood purity or the Dark Arts. She believed there was more to Salazar Slytherin than what the Gaunts worship. She'd heard of the Scriptorium, and she thought it might contain something that could redeem his name. She even found the secret entrance right here, in this very corridor."

He paused. The next words were quieter.
"She wrote often to my father. Letters about her progress. Her hopes. And then... one day, she vanished. I was 8."
He looked away, and the silence between you deepened like a well.

Your chest ached. No visions this time, just grief. Raw, unresolved grief that still lived quietly behind his every word.

"Ominis... I'm so sorry about your aunt. I can only imagine what she meant to you. She sounds like a remarkable woman. Do you... do you want to find out what happened to her?"

He swallowed hard.
"Aunt Noctua went down this path with good intentions and lost her life. I don't want that to happen again."

You hesitated. Your instincts screamed against what you were about to say. But this wasn't about chasing forbidden power. This was about memory. About truth. About hope.

"You don't know for certain if history will repeat itself," you said gently.
"And besides... your aunt thought like you. This could honour her memory. You could finally learn the truth. And if it helps Sebastian find answers for Anne."

You stepped closer.

"Your aunt was alone, Ominis. But we're not. We can do this together."

There was a long pause. And then, slowly, Ominis turned his head to you.

"I've seen what you've done here... and I confess, you've convinced me. I didn't think it was possible."

Another pause. Then, more firmly:
"Very well. I'll tell you what I know. Fetch Sebastian. I'll be waiting."

"I hope I-... we don't regret this," Ominis muttered as you stepped away, his voice quiet with doubt.

You nod gently, placing a hand on his arm in reassurance before turning to find Sebastian. Luckily, he hadn't wandered far, just a short way down the corridor. You spot his familiar silhouette near a flickering torch, the dim glow casting sharp shadows across his determined expression.

"Sebastian, over here!" you call softly.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and together you walk back toward Ominis. The tension in the air is heavy as Ominis steps forward, his features stiff.

"These braziers grant us access to the Scriptorium," he says, tapping his wand lightly against the stone wall.

Sebastian's brow furrows. "Now you'll share? You wouldn't tell me when I practically begged. But you told our new little Hufflepuff? I'm the one with the sob story."

Ominis sighs. "It wasn't you who told me what I needed to hear."

He doesn't elaborate, and Sebastian scoffs faintly but moves closer to the braziers. "Opening these entrances has something to do with three," Ominis continues.

"Well, three heads are better than one," Sebastian replies quickly.

"It's two heads are better than one," Ominis corrects, brow twitching in annoyance.

"Well, three is bigger and therefore better. It's simple mathematics Ominis," Sebastian quips.

Before either of you can retort, the ground beneath your feet rumbles. You watch in awe as the walls shift and slide open to reveal a dark, yawning corridor ahead.

"Dark, ominous corridors," Sebastian says with a grin. "My favourite."

"No comment." Ominis murmurs dryly.

You step into the passageway together, the air colder and heavier the further you go. The stone looks older here, almost ancient, and cracks run like veins along the walls.

Behind you, a sudden meow cuts through the silence.

You turn to the source of the sound. It's your cat Hades, his fur slightly bristled. Why is he here?

Sebastian jumps. "Bloody hell! Creepy black cat down here too?"

"Hades!" you exclaim. "What are you doing here?"

He weaves between your ankles, then leaps up lightly onto your shoulder as if he'd always meant to be here. His tail flicks in agitation, ears turning at the slightest noise.

Ominis tilts his head at the sound. "Yours, I presume?" he asks.

"Yes," you reply and Hades jumps down and immediately brushes up against Ominis' side and lets out a deep, low purr. To your surprise a soft smile spread across his face. Ominis kneels slightly, extending a hand. Hades presses his head against it.

"He's half-Kneazle," you explain. "He can sense danger."

Ominis straightens again, lips thinning. "Then you should send him away. If he senses what lies beyond here, I'd take that seriously."

Sebastian shakes his head. "Enough. We've come too far. We can't quit now."

You hesitate, stroking Hades between the ears. He meows again, louder this time, almost pleading. You don't want to send him away. But...

"Hades, go," you whisper. "Please."

He doesn't move. You kneel and gently set him down, whispering it again and this time, after another moment of resistance, he turns reluctantly and slinks back into the shadows.

You stand, your chest tight. And then... it happens.

A sudden, dull ache blooms deep in your gut. You wince. It's not magic exactly and not the kind you can name but a sense. A warning. You push it down.

You're just nervous. That's all.

You cast Reparo on a nearby broken structure, and the stones knit themselves together with a low grinding sound. A carved relief reveals itself — a person facing a great serpent.

"A person... with a snake," you murmur.

"That must be the voice I hear," Ominis says quietly.

"The what?" Sebastian turns to him.

"The voice. It's ancient. Sinister."

Hades, now having snuck back, lets out a long, alarmed yowl.

"Hades, I said go." You speak out to the now really distressed cat. You walk over to him.

"Oh, calm down you big baby." you say gently, scooping him up again. He curls around your shoulders as if anchoring you in place.

Ominis then speaks out, his lips hesitating "I'm a Parselmouth," Ominis finally confesses. "I can hear and speak to snakes. Nearly all known Parselmouths are descendants of Salazar Slytherin."

You blink. "That's... fascinating."

He doesn't smile. "You might not want to praise it. It's often associated with Dark wizards. I haven't spoken it in years. But I wager if I do now... that door will open."

He tilts his head toward the relief.

"I hope you're having second thoughts," he adds, softly.

"I am," you admit, tightening your grip on Hades. "That's probably why he's here. I... I don't think we should..."

But you bite your tongue. You think of Anne. Of the path you've already walked.

"No. We can't stop now."

"Ironic," Ominis murmurs. "When I left home, I swore never to speak it again. Never to walk this road."

He steps forward, lifts his wand.

"...Stand back."

He then lets out a series of hisses, the sound inhuman and eerie, his mouth shaping syllables not meant for ordinary ears.

The relief stirs. The snakes on the door move.

You gasp as it creaks open.

"It worked! Ominis — you truly have a rare talent." You praise the boy and you swear you notice the slight blush on his face, though it is dark and hard to tell.

Sebastian mutters, "Between the two of you, I'm feeling left out."

"Between the two of us?" Ominis repeats slowly, turning toward you.

You hesitate. "I... never mind."

You step cautiously through the open doorway, the air shifting once again to a cooler, heavier and ancient atmosphere. The walls are taller here, the stone darker, and the path ahead splits and twists like a maze.

"It's like a labyrinth," you murmur.

"Salazar Slytherin would've wanted to keep it complicated," Ominis replies.

"The door we came through has sealed itself," Sebastian notes, his voice sharper now. "And there's more than one gate ahead."

"Then look closely for clues," Ominis says, his tone crisp, but not unkind.

You draw your wand, casting Revelio. The faint blue glow outlines nearby objects - lantern-like braziers, a snake-shaped dial on a pedesta and worn symbols etched into the stone.

You light one brazier with Confringo.

"The brazier..." you say aloud, watching as its flame flares a strange green. "It must be connected to the gate somehow."

Sebastian approaches a nearby pedestal. "What's this? Some kind of spinner?"

You reach out and gently turn the dial. For a moment, it clicks softly and then without warning, a serpent bursts from the pedestal and lunges at your face.

"Argh!" you cry out, stumbling backward. Your face is now wounded two puncture holes on your cheek.

Hades hisses from your shoulder, leaping down and bristling at the spot the serpent had been. The illusion has already crumbled into dust.

"Slytherin didn't make this easy," Sebastian mutters.

"Are you alright?" Ominis asks, concern cutting through his voice as he reaches blindly toward you.

You nod, wiping the blood from your cheek where the image struck you. "I'm Fine. Just a scratch."

You press onward, spotting another pedestal with an unlit brazier. You light it, spin the dial more carefully this time watching the symbols carved into the gate ahead. A match.

Click.

The gate unlocks.

"Matching the symbols worked..." you whisper. "It's a puzzle."

"I was about to do that myself," Sebastian teases. "Nice work."

You shoot him a half-smile, but your stomach still churns. There's a tension in the air that no spell can dispel.

Another parchment lies ahead. Aged, the ink faded but legible.

"Another entry from Noctua Gaunt," you murmur, unfolding it. "She mentions the puzzles being difficult. That she was struck when she failed... just like I was."

"She never gave up," Ominis says quietly behind you.

"She was trying to prove there was more to Salazar Slytherin than dark magic," you add, reading further. "She thought this place might restore his name."

"She wanted to change our family's traditions," Ominis says. "She was my favourite person in the world for it."

Your heart aches for him. You just want to comfort the poor boy.

You then reach another gate with another dial.

This time, you mess it up again. The wrong symbol — and again the serpent strikes. You cry out, staggering back, biting the same spot on your cheek, even deeper this time. Hopefully, this won't scar.

"They're getting harder," you grit out.

"Don't give up," Sebastian says quickly. "We're too far in."

You nod. You try again. This time, the dial clicks into place without incident.

"Nice work," Sebastian grins again. "One step closer."

You reach for a bottle of Wiggenweld in your satchel as you'd packed several before coming, just in case. You swallow the potion down, the cut sealing almost instantly. The dull ache in your stomach returns, stronger now... a warning.

You ignore it.

Ahead, the corridor grows narrower. Another pedestal, another gate. More braziers.

You solve it.

You should feel pride. Instead, you feel a flash of something else. A blinding light behind your eyes... a voice screaming. A woman's voice.

You clutch your head and stagger slightly. Hades leaps to your side, purring, winding around your legs to steady you.

"Do you hear that?" you whisper.

"Hear what?" Sebastian asks.

"I... I have a horrible feeling," you say breathlessly. "We shouldn't have come here. One of us is going to get hurt. Badly."

"We've made it this far," Sebastian says. "Don't panic now."

You bite your lip and nod.

The final chamber looms ahead.

"A gate. We're locked in again," Sebastian says.

"Salazar Slytherin is not yet finished with us," Ominis adds grimly.

You step forward and there it is.

A skeleton, draped in tattered Slytherin robes.

You freeze.

There are two things next to the skeleton. A wand and a journal entry. You pick both items up and shove the wand in your satchel. You'll give that to Ominis afterwards, he'll hopefully appreciate it.

Your throat tightens as you slowly read the letter in front of you, the final entry.

A sob sticks in your throat, but no sound escapes. You can't even cry. She was all alone.

You tuck the parchment gently into your robes. Hades presses his head to your arm.

"She died here," you whisper.

Ominis goes very still.

"This is where she died," he breathes. "This is where we will die. I shouldn't have listened to either of you." Ominis shrieks out, his voice shaken.

You turn sharply. He's moved away to the other side of the room, his chest rising with shallow breaths.

"Sebastian..." you begin, but it's too late.

"I'm truly sorry about your aunt," Sebastian says, stepping forward. "But... I know what to do."

You look back again see Ominis, his back towards the both of you. You go back over to Sebastian..you can sense there's a way out, you won't die here.

"Sebastian, you said you know what to do?" you ask.

He gestures to the door — the carvings of tortured faces. The word Crucio etched into the floor.

"This door... it requires the Cruciatus Curse to open. That's why Noctua couldn't go on. She had no one to cast it on." He pauses before continuing.

"Ominis has the most experience with this curse. He should cast it."

You reel back. "Sebastian, you know Ominis-" he cuts you off.

"You seem to be in his favour," Sebastian interrupts. "Please. Ask him."

You stare at him. At the door. At Ominis, curled in the shadows with Hades against him.

You swallow hard.

"Fine. I will ask Ominis. He does seem a bit cross with you." You reply. There isn't any other choice.

Sebastian then says, "Good. Work your magic, so to speak."

"Wish we had some liquid luck," you sigh out, turning on your heel and walking toward Ominis. He's away from the door, his head tilted down toward the stone floor, hands tightened into trembling fists.

"All of this could've been avoided," he says bitterly, voice sharp but exhausted. You can't blame him for it. You're just as worried as he is.

"Ominis," you breathe out gently. "I hadn't imagined we'd end up trapped like this."

He bites his lip, the tension etched into his features. "Salazar Slytherin did. He's to blame for many unimaginable things. And yes, I did overhear you and Sebastian. I won't do it. The Cruciatus Curse is pure torture. I would know."

"Sebastian told me a bit about what happened when you were young and..." you hesitate, the words catching. "It—it seemed as if you had no choice."

Ominis' lips curl in anguish. "Should've known he would've told you..." He exhales shakily. "And one always has the choice. I'm as guilty as the worst of my family."

Your eyes shut for a second. The vision strikes before you can stop it—an infant, no older than four months, lying in its cradle. Then a red bolt of light. The screaming pained expression of the baby sears itself into your mind. You choke back a sob.

"It was a baby..." you gasp out.

Ominis goes pale. Every ounce of colour drained from his face. His own heart pounds violently, nausea spills over him. "H-how could you possibly know this? Sebastian wasn't even told that part. How..."

You place a trembling arm on his shoulder. He flinches, then relaxes slowly into your touch.

"I promise to explain afterwards," you whisper.

He bites his lip again, steadying his breath before speaking. "Unforgivable Curses won't work unless you really mean them. I had to want to cause pain. And for that, I will never forgive myself."

His voice breaks. "That spell is the reason I have no family left. You and Sebastian will need to sort out another solution."

You nod, guilt eating at you. Guilt for asking, guilt for stirring up memories that clearly haunted him every waking day. You will explain everything to him, your Sight, your magic. He deserves the truth.

As you begin to walk away, Ominis mutters, voice trembling:
"If you cast Crucio, you'll regret it forever."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You return to Sebastian. "What do we do now? Ominis won't cast the Cruciatus Curse again."

Sebastian grits his teeth. "Ridiculous! As if dying in here is better than casting a damned spell."

His words sting. You want to shout, to remind him of Ominis' trauma but you bite it back. Arguing won't help now.

Sebastian exhales. "It's up to us. I can teach you Crucio, or I can cast it on you."

Your stomach twists. You don't want to wield it. Not ever. Hades brushes against your legs, then looks up at you expectantly. You scoop him into your arms.

Sebastian notices. "Or... we can cast it on the cat. That means neither of us will have to endure the pain."

You freeze. "Absolutely not. How dare you... even suggest that."

"We could cast Obliviate so he doesn't remember," Sebastian presses, then falters at your furious expression. "No, no... that was ridiculous of me to suggest. I apologise. Do you want me to teach you it to cast it on me?"

Your answer is immediate. "No. Cast it on me, Sebastian."

He sighs, resigned. "I shan't forget this. Ready?"

You nod, trying to steel yourself. "Ready."

His wand rises. "Crucio!"

The curse strikes you full force.

Agony explodes across every nerve in your body. It isn't pain like a wound or a broken bone. It is as though your very nerves are being ripped apart, flayed raw. Your skin feels aflame, your muscles seizing, bones grinding in unnatural ways. Every inch of you screams. The pain is so complete it eclipses thought. You hit the floor, writhing, the only sound escaping your mouth a stream of hoarse, unending screams. It is worse than death, worse than mutilation, a thousand knives flensing you open from the inside.

Finally, the curse lifts. You collapse into shuddering sobs, your body convulsing weakly.

The tortured stone door melts away.

Sebastian lowers his wand, hesitant to move closer. Your cat is there first, darting to your side, pressing his warm little body against yours, purring desperately as if to ground you.

Ominis is next, running to you, hands trembling as they very gently reach out to hold you. "A-are you okay?" His voice is shaking, ragged. He steadies you as you struggle to your feet.

"That pain... it was the worst thing I've ever endured. I—I'm alive. Let's keep moving."

Your hands fumble for your satchel. A Wiggenweld potion—thank the stars. You down it in one, relief washing through you as the last remnants of pain ease away.

Ahead, Sebastian's voice cuts through. "We've made it. We found Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium. I can't believe we're here."

You step into the chamber, awe and unease mingling. The room is vast, circular, with high vaulted stone ceilings carved with several serpent motifs. An altar of black stone dominates the far wall, upon which looms a massive relief of Slytherin's face. His beard unfurls into carved snakes, their eyes glinting faintly green in the torchlight. It makes you shudder.

Upon the altar rests a heavy, leather-bound book.

You reach for the book. "Sebastian. Ominis. There's a book here."

"You've found something?" Sebastian approaches eagerly.

"May I have a look?" he asks, and you hand it to him. He studies the cover with reverence. "Looks like a spellbook of some sort. This is incredible. A Hogwarts Founder's possession! what an honour."

While Sebastian pores over the book, you wander further. Your eyes fall on many pieces of parchment. Salazar's own letters. His words bristle with fury toward Muggle-borns, a sharp declaration of their unworthiness. You grimace, throat tight, especially at the mention of a great serpent hidden within the school somewhere... a basilisk.

"I see a way out," Sebastian calls suddenly.

"Best news I've heard all day," Ominis mutters, relief thick in his voice.

You call softly for Hades. He darts back to you and leaps gracefully onto your shoulder. Sebastian chuckles. "He's like a dog. You call out and he comes. Very smart boy." He scratches behind Hades' ears, his voice softer now. "I'm sorry, boy, for suggesting that."

You avert your gaze, but don't judge him. Desperation had driven his words.

Together you step through a stone archway. It grinds open beneath your hand, the passage twisting until the dungeon walls of Slytherin surround you once more.

Sebastian turns to Ominis, hesitant. "About your aunt—"

"Please, Sebastian," Ominis interrupts firmly. "I meant what I said before. We swear right now to never engage in anything to do with Dark magic again."

Sebastian bows his head. "Understood. I am truly sorry about your aunt, Ominis."

"I suppose... after all this, I am grateful to know what happened to her," Ominis says softly.

You pause. Then slowly, you reach into your satchel. "Ominis... I saw this next to her."

You draw out the wand, the elegant, time-worn relic of his aunt and place it gently in his hands.

His fingers curl around it, his expression shattering.

"...Noctua's wand."

Ominis froze as his fingers brushed the carved handle, tracing the owl's face with trembling care. His breath caught, lips parting as though words had abandoned him. "This is hers..." he whispered, voice raw and almost breaking. He held the wand close, reverent, as though afraid it might vanish if he gripped too tightly. For a moment, the bitterness that so often cloaked him slipped away, leaving only grief, and something quieter. Gratitude.

"Thank you for picking this up..." Ominis spoke out.

When the boys' footsteps faded into silence, you found yourself rooted to the cold stone floor of the dungeons. The echoes of screams, a mix of yours and the voice you heard still clinging to the air. Your legs carried you numbly through the winding corridors, past torchlight and shadows, each step heavier than the last. Hades had vanished somewhere along the way, likely off prowling the grounds, leaving you alone with your thoughts. By the time you pushed open the door to the Hufflepuff common room and slipped into the safety of your cozy chambers, the weight of everything crashed down.

You sank onto the bed, heart pounding as the realisation struck like a blow: you'd promised Ominis an explanation, but you hadn't given him one. He deserved the truth, desperately so and tonight, you would have to find the words.

You rise from the bed with a heaviness still pressing against your chest, lighting a single candle on your desk. The flame trembles as you dip your quill into ink, parchment waiting beneath your hand.

Dear Ominis,
I wish to offer my sincerest condolences for your aunt. She was brave to follow her convictions, and her memory deserves to be honoured. You deserve the truth, and I owe you that much. Please, meet me in the Undercroft at twilight.

Yours faithfully,

You write out ending with signing your name.

You set the quill down, watching the ink glisten before it dries

You fold the parchment carefully, then pause. Reaching for the small glass bottle on your desk, you give the paper the faintest misting of your perfume. soft and subtle, just enough that he'll know it's yours the moment he opens it. The scent clings delicately to the ink, a whisper of you between the lines.

You smooth the parchment once more, seal it, and cross the room to where Athena rests. She stirs as your hand strokes gently along her feathers, blinking awake with a soft rustle.

"Sorry to disturb you girl," you murmur, fastening the scented letter to her leg. "Please take this to Ominis. He'll be at dinner now, make sure to drop it right in front of him."

Athena tilts her head, as if understanding, then gives a solemn little hoot. With a powerful sweep of her wings, she glides through the enchanted window, vanishing into the castle's evening air.

You linger at the sill, watching until the last trace of her feathers disappears into the shadows. The scent of your own perfume lingers faintly on your fingers, mingling with the ink and promise of twilight yet to come.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The hum of the Great Hall at dinner swirled faintly around Ominis, the rise and fall of voices like waves against stone. He feels something drop in front of him, a letter of some sorts. He pulls out his wand and opens the letter to read.

The scent met him first. soft, unmistakable. Not parchment, not ink, but perfume. His lips parted in the faintest intake of breath as he traced the folded edges with careful fingers. He runs his wand over the words printed on it, the message transcribes to his mind. He finishes reading and holds up the letter to his nose, breathing in the familiar scent. That is one of the many things he notices about you. Your perfume. Not too strong and not weak. Perfect...

"What time is it?" he asked quietly to the student seated beside him.

The boy blinked at the sudden request. "Nearly seven."

Ominis rose at once, the scrape of the bench lost in the din of dinner chatter. His steps carried him from the hall, cane tapping lightly at intervals, his wand guiding him in sure strokes of sound and sense.

Through winding stairs, past murmuring portraits and the faint tick of scattered clocks, until at last he reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower. The air grew cooler, quieter. He paused at the familiar corner, the steady heartbeat of the grandfather clock thrumming through the floor.

With a flick of his wand, the hidden mechanism yielded, wood shifting on unseen hinges. Ominis slipped inside, letting the door close behind him.

The Undercroft embraced him in silence, that familiar hush he had come to know so well. Yet tonight, there was something else. The weight of another presence. The faintest rustle of fabric, the shift of air that told him he was not alone.

His lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, voice low.
"...It must be you."

You smiled faintly, relief loosening your chest as you answered his quiet assumption.
"Yes, it is she. And I had forgotten I owe you an explanation. Many apologies."

Ominis stilled, the shadow of earlier words flickering across his expression. You could almost feel his thoughts turning, but before his doubts could take root, you added quickly, gently, "It's fine. I haven't told a soul."

A sigh escaped you, the weight of vulnerability pressing close. Your gaze caught on a worn, dark-coloured sofa against the wall, the kind that must have seen decades of students come and go. "Let's sit," you murmured.

He followed, his steps slow but sure, and when you sank into the faded cushions, he lowered himself beside you. His voice, when it came, was softened by something unspoken.
"Please... explain how you know."

His eyes turned toward you, unfocused, and yet it felt as though he were staring straight into you. Two pale pools of water holding secrets deeper than any words. You drew a breath and let the truth fall.

"I am a Seer," you said quietly. "I have visions. And when I first met you, I had a flash. It was just for an instant, and I heard the wails of an infant."

You saw the way his body tensed, as though the memory itself clawed at him. Quickly, you reached for his arm, your fingers resting gently against the fabric of his sleeve. He didn't pull away. He didn't even flinch. And so you kept your hand there, anchoring both of you.

"I also possess Ancient Magic. Only a select few can. That's what the Keepers told me."

"The Keepers?" His tone was hesitant, unsure.

You explained, slowly, carefully, about the portraits, the Map Chamber, the strange tasks you'd been given. His head tilted as he listened, silent but intent, until at last you ended on the part that mattered most.

"...And Ranrok is after you," he whispered.

Ominis inhaled sharply, as though steadying himself. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear. "Thank you... for telling me. I shan't tell a soul."

You nodded, gratitude softening your features. "Thank you."

For the first time that evening, his lips curved into the barest smile. "I knew there was something special about you. Our mysterious new lady, the one who defeats trolls in her first week." His tone lightened, teasing effectively, but there was warmth beneath it. You blush at the fact he called you a lady too...

The smile lingered as he rose. "It's getting late. I'll walk you back to your common room."

You stood as well, smoothing the creases in your skirts, and together you left the Undercroft. The heavy door sealed itself behind you with a muted thud, the sound echoing faintly down the empty corridors.

The castle was different at night. Shadows lengthened across the flagstones, torchlight casting gold and amber pools that swayed with every breath of air. The silence pressed close, broken only by the faint creak of old wood, the whisper of tapestries shifting, the distant hoot of an owl carried from the Owlery.

Ominis walked with measured steps, his wand angled lightly before him, the tip glowing with a faint, steady light. You noticed the way his free hand brushed the wall at intervals, a quiet reassurance of where he was. His presence beside you was steady, grounding, like a flame that did not falter even when the air threatened to snuff it out.

Neither of you spoke at first. But the silence was not awkward; it was a hush that seemed to belong to you both alone. You listened to the rhythm of his footsteps alongside your own, the subtle scrape of his boots against stone, the soft sound of your boots clicking against the floors.

As you descended one of the grand staircases, the castle itself seemed to stir, a portrait coughed pointedly, another whispered curiously to a neighbour about "students out far too late." Ominis inclined his head politely, though his expression betrayed no amusement. You caught yourself smiling faintly, though you did not explain why.

The warmth of your earlier conversation lingered. You found yourself stealing glances at him at the sharp line of his jaw, the stillness of his features, the way his hazy blue eyes seemed fixed on a horizon only he could see. He must have sensed it, for he tilted his head slightly in your direction, as though acknowledging a look he could not meet. Ominis is extremely handsome.

By the time you reached the corridor leading toward the Hufflepuff common room, the weight of the day's revelations pressed gently on your shoulders once more. Ominis slowed, turning his head toward you.

"Thank you again," he said softly. "For your trust. For... everything." His voice was steadier now, though there was still a thread of something fragile woven through it.

You swallowed, your reply quiet. "Always."

He nodded once, a gesture both final and tender. "Good night."

And then, with a sweep of his wand, he turned and walked back into the shadows of the castle, leaving you at the barrel entrance of your common room your heart heavy and yet strangely light all at once.

The Hufflepuff common room was hushed when you slipped through, only the quiet crackle of the fire remaining. You crossed to the dormitory corridor, your steps carrying you to the great bathing chamber that lay opposite. Inside, steam clouded the lantern light, drifting lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. A neat row of tall, wooden tubs stood waiting, each fitted with brass taps enchanted to pour endless hot water. Heavy curtains hung for privacy, their edges stirring faintly in the warmth.

You chose one near the far wall, turned the taps, and watched the water rise, rippling with faint golden light from the charms woven into its depths. Shedding the layers of your day. corset, stockings, the whole lot, and all the weight of secrets still pressing on your chest. You stepped into the bath. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, the water luxuriously hot as you sank down until it embraced every inch of you.

A long, shuddering sigh left your lips as the warmth wrapped itself around you. The voices, the shadows, the memories of stone doors and whispered curses all seemed to fade, leaving only the gentle lapping of water against wood and the steady beat of your own heart. For the first time in hours, perhaps days, you let yourself rest.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

Half the keepers trials were now behind you, each one unraveling more of the Keepers' memories and with them a deeper understanding of the ancient magic that stirred in your veins. Yet the more you discovered, the more violent the visions became, flashes of voices, light, and shadow that left you shaken long after they passed. Still, all of that seemed a distant concern when compared to the newest announcement to echo through the Great Hall. "The Founders' Ball," came Professor Black's booming proclamation, "an occasion to honour the legacy of Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin." His words rolled over the students, followed swiftly by an exhaustive list of expectations and dress codes, each more pompous than the last. By the time you returned to your dormitory, the news still rang in your ears. It was to be held in a week's time, and though you had read of such events in books, you had never attended one yourself. The thought sent a nervous thrill through your bones. You would need advice, and soon.

The morning lessons blurred past in a haze of ink and parchment, your mind scarcely on incantations or equations. It wasn't until the great clock chimed for luncheon that you found yourself slipping into the warmth of the Great Hall. The scent of sandwiches of all flavours filled your nostrils but it was the sight of two familiar faces that caught your eye at once.

Poppy and Natsai sat together near the end of the Gryffindor table, their heads bent close in conversation. At your approach, they looked up with bright smiles.

"We were just talking about you!" Natsai said warmly, her cheery voice filled your eyes.

"You were?" you asked curiously, sliding onto the bench beside them.

"All positives!" Poppy assured you, her honey-gold eyes shining. She leaned closer, lowering her voice with a grin. "I still can't believe the two of you went on a poacher-slaying mission without me. Oh, I'm so glad Highwing is safe. I trust you to care for him."

Your lips curved at the memory of a recent mission you went on with Natty, the images it conjured were sharp and still raw.

"You would have hated it, Poppy. It was terrifying. Harlow nearly had us cornered and the conditions those poor creatures were kept in... But—" your voice steadied, "we're closer to catching him now. And we rescued what we could. The new rooms in the room of requirement are working in my favour." You spoke out, images of the sanctuaries that are in the secret part of the castle. Professor Weasley showed you it a couple weeks ago and with the help of Deek, the house elf you're able to rescue all sorts of beasts in need.

The three of you lingered over the tale, Poppy's eyes bright with every detail, Natty nodding along, her expression turning thoughtful at the mention of Harlow. Yet as the conversation lulled, you found yourself glancing between them, nerves pressing insistently against your chest.

"Ladies..." you began, lowering your voice so it was barely above the hum of chatter around you. "About the Founders' Ball."

Both girls looked at you at once.

You inhaled, fiddling absently with the edge of your sleeve. "Could you please explain what you know about balls in general.? I—I've never attended to one before. This is all very new and my knowledge is limited..."

Both girls exchanged a look and smiled.

Poppy leaned in first, her voice bright. "Hogwarts balls aren't quite like the grand society ones pure-blood families tend to have. They're... well, more of a celebration for everyone. The Founders' Ball especially. There are four main dances, one to honour each Founder as Black said, and usually you dance with different partners for each. It's tradition."

You blinked. "Different partners? For each dance?"

"Exactly," Poppy nodded, her curls bouncing. "But you don't need to worry yourself. I know for a fact plenty of people will ask you." Her grin widened in a way that left no room for doubt.

Natsai added quickly, her eyes shining with mischief. "Including myself. Will you dance the Gryffindor waltz with me?"

You laughed, the nerves easing from your shoulders. "Yes, of course. But—" you hesitated a little, lowering your voice. "We are both girls. Is that allowed?"

Poppy chuckled, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh, heavens, yes! We're far more progressive as society when it comes to dance partners. No one bats an eye if two girls, or two boys, or anyone at all pair up. It's the dancing that matters, not the rules." You smile, you're glad the wizarding world is open minded about relationships compared to the muggle world. Uranian love, two women or two men in a relationship isn't scandalous to most people which you're happy to hear about.

Natty smiled warmly, tilting her head. "Then it is settled. I shall look forward to it."

"We should get our dresses!" Poppy beamed suddenly, her eyes alight with excitement. "Let's go tomorrow to Gladrags. We'll find something splendid."

"That sounds wonderful," you replied, smiling at her enthusiasm.

Natty gave an approving nod, her bun bobbing lightly. "Yes, tomorrow it is. We shall all look dazzling."

The three of you shared a laugh, the kind born of easy friendship. You were glad to finally have some lady friends. The bell tolled faintly overhead, calling students back to their lessons. Together you rose, gathering books and satchels, the conversation still warm on your lips. As you left the Great Hall, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation for the Founders' Ball. Something bright and joyful at last, waiting just ahead.

Your third lesson flew by in a blur, and before long it was time for your last of the day... Divination. You like this class, it's a place where you can really use your intuition and even better your teacher is your dear friends mother.

The climb up the ladders carried you into the warm, perfumed haze of the tower, beads of lavender-scented incense smoke curling through the air. Professor Onai's voice floated over the room as she began the lesson, but your mind drifted elsewhere.

You couldn't help it. Thoughts of the upcoming Founders' Ball tugged insistently at your attention, weaving themselves into a vivid daydream. You imagined Ominis beneath the soft golden glow of floating lanterns, the sharp lines of his handsome face softened by the candlelight. His posture elegant as always, shoulders set just so, his fine robes catching faint glimmers of charm-woven starlight.

You pictured his hand finding yours. His long, graceful fingers curling so gently yet firmly around them. His other hand resting at your waist, steadying you as the music swelled. He would spin you effortlessly across the floor, his steps measured, precise, guiding you with absolute certainty despite eyes that did not see. You could almost feel the heat of his palm through the fabric, the way he would dip you lower, closer, the briefest ghost of his lips hovering just above yours. A dizzying mix of thrill and longing swept through you at the thought.

"Ah, let's hear from you," Professor Onai's voice pierced the fantasy, and you jolted upright, colour rushing to your cheeks as though she had plucked the vision from your very mind. "Shuffle the deck before you. Draw one. Tell us what it speaks."

You gathered the scattered tarot cards, shuffling clumsily with still-tingling fingers. One slipped free and slid across the desk as though choosing itself.

The Lovers.

Onai's smile curved knowingly. "And what is this card telling you? Do not be shy."

Your throat felt dry, but you forced the words out. "The Lovers card... it speaks of choices, harmony, and a bond that changes everything. I think... it means a true connection is worth the risk."

Professor Onai's eyes gleamed with approval. "Spot on. This card is not only about romance, but unity, trust, and decisions that shape who we become. I have every hope for what lies ahead of you, my dear.

Her words wrapped around you like a secret blessing, echoing even as she dismissed the class. Tired but restless, you carried the thought with you all the way back to your dormitory. You can't be bothered to get dinner so you just get some food from the kitchens to take to your room. The ball was only days away, and still your heart raced with the image of elegant steps, steady hands, and lips that hovered just out of reach.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, the day's weight pressing down on your shoulders. The flicker of the dormitory fire throws long shadows against the walls, but your mind isn't on the room around you. It drifts back to Divination class, to the card that had slipped from the deck as though pulled by fate itself.

The Lovers. The damn card is messing with your heart strings.

The image is still vivid in your mind, though the meaning troubles you more than it should. You don't have feelings for Ominis. Do you? No... not yet. And yet, your thoughts betray you. He's alluring. Is he perhaps a Veela? You read about those creatures. You shake you head at the silly thought but you can't seem to clear your mind of him.

His face rises in your memory, pale and handsome, his features set with that calm, aristocratic grace he always carries. The way his unfocused pale-blue eyes seem to pierce straight through you, the way his hands move with such careful precision. The way his hands hold his long, black almost sentient wand. You imagine him at the ball, his hand finding yours and the warmth of his palm steady against your glove. You see him spinning you, dipping you low, the brush of his lips so close to yours you almost forget to breathe.

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. Foolish. He's a Gaunt, from one of the most prominent pure-blooded families in Great Britain. Would someone like him even want to dance with you, let alone—

Your chest tightens. The thought lingers, stubborn, even as you slip beneath the covers. The Lovers stares at you in your mind, a card you cannot put back in the deck, no matter how hard you try. Even through all your thoughts you eventually managed to drift off and morning comes in the blink of an eye.

You wake not to the gentle light of dawn, but to the indignant screech of your owl, her wings beating irritably against the bedpost. Your feline friend adds his own complaint from the foot of your bed, a sharp, demanding mewl as if conspiring with her to rouse you.

You groan softly, but rise nonetheless, slipping from beneath the quilts. The air is crisp in the dormitory, carrying the faint scent of extinguished candle smoke and lavender sachets tucked in drawers. You dress quickly, fastening your corset, smoothing your skirts, pinning ribbons into your hair with fingers that tremble slightly from anticipation rather than cold winter air.

By the time you descend through the castle doors, the world is washed in pale winter light. The Highlands are cloaked in frost, each blade of grass gleaming silver in the morning sun. Your breath curls white in the air as you hurry down the stone path, your boots crunching against frozen earth. The air tastes sharp and clean, carrying with it the distant scent of pine smoke drifting from cottage chimneys.

The road to Hogsmeade winds like a ribbon between snow-laden trees. Birds chatter overhead, their wings beating frost from the branches, and the crunch of carriage wheels can be heard now and then as merchants travel toward the village. Excitement thrums beneath your skin with every step.

At last, Hogsmeade rises before you, its crooked chimneys puffing smoke, its shopfronts bright against the white streets. Icicles glitter like crystal teeth from the eaves, and children's laughter spills faintly from Honeydukes as they dart in and out with paper bags.

You spot them immediately. Poppy Sweeting and Natsai Onai stand outside Gladrags Wizardwear, their breaths curling in mist. Poppy waves the moment she sees you, her smile wide, while Natty lifts a gloved hand in greeting, her posture as elegant as ever.

"We were beginning to think you'd overslept," Poppy teased, tugging your arm warmly once you reached them.

Inside, Gladrags was alive with colour and fabric. Rich velvets, embroidered silks, and lace of every kind lined the racks and mannequins, glowing beneath charmed lanterns that shimmered in soft hues. Bolts of cloth floated of their own accord, draping themselves across forms as enchanted pins shifted hems and sleeves with precision. The air smelled faintly of lavender sachets and polished wood, with the occasional sparkle of magic snapping like static through the air.

The three of you wandered the aisles, pausing to hold up dresses to the light. Poppy gravitated toward, cheerful tones such as soft yellows and pale blues. She twirled in front of a mirror with a laugh, the enchanted glass complimenting her choice in an overly enthusiastic tone. Natty, on the other hand, considered deeper shades: emeralds and maroons with clean, sharp cuts. However both girls seemed fond of the current trend within your era. Puffed sleeves.

And then you found yours. A gown of pale pink satin, adorned with delicate white lace along the bodice and hem. The puffed sleeves rested lightly at the shoulders, romantic and soft without overwhelming your frame. When you slipped it on, the fabric clung just enough to flatter before cascading into flowing skirts that brushed the floor.

The shopkeeper hummed approvingly. "Exquisite. You look every inch the belle of the ball." The man chimed positively.

Poppy clapped her hands together. "It's perfect! You'll look wonderful."

Natty gave a satisfied nod. "Yes. Elegant, yet understated. It suits you."

You smoothed the fabric self-consciously, though a warmth bloomed in your chest at their words. With a few finishing touches such as lace gloves, a simple matching ribbon for your hair, and dainty slippers to make the outfit complete. You can thank Miriam and Professor Fig for your allowance to buy these pieces.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Days passed in a flurry, and soon Friday night hit, the night of the ball.

You stood before your dormitory mirror, the pale pink gown fitted to perfection. The lace caught the glow of candlelight, softening your reflection until even your nerves seemed less sharp. You pressed your palms to the skirts, drew a steady breath, and whispered to yourself: You can do this.

The castle hummed with anticipation as you stepped into the corridors. Students swept past in formal attire, laughter and excited voices rising like music even before the ball began. Girls in puffed sleeves and shimmering jewels, boys in pressed dress robes, tartan, and tailored cloaks. All a riot of colour converging toward the Great Hall.

The vast doors were already open, spilling golden light and the sound of strings into the corridor. Inside, garlands of evergreen and holly draped the rafters, and enchanted snow drifted from the ceiling, vanishing before it touched the ground.

You scanned the crowd and spotted them at once.

Sebastian and Ominis stood off to one side, their figures immediately recognisable despite how handsomely they're put together.

Sebastian was striking in a formal kilt of deep green and navy tartan, the sharp lines of his jacket softened by his familiar roguish grin. His hair, for once, was tamed into neatness, though some of his dark brown locks had already fallen rebelliously across his brow.

Beside him, Ominis wore robes of dark green so deep they were nearly black, the velvet catching light as he shifted. A long cloak draped elegantly from his shoulders, fastened with a silver clasp in the shape of a snake, while beneath it you caught the gleam of a silk waistcoat embroidered in muted patterns. His posture was composed, though his head tilted faintly as if listening for you.

Sebastian spotted you first. He gave a low whistle. "Well, don't you look radiant. Doesn't she, Ominis?"

Ominis scoffed at the phrasing, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. "I assume you look quite elegant this evening," he replied, his voice quieter but carrying more weight than Sebastian's teasing ever could.

A hush fell across the hall as Professor Ronan, his robes glittering with flamboyant patterns, tapped his wand against the conductor's stand. The enchanted orchestra behind him straightened, bows and instruments lifting in unison.

"The first dance," boomed Professor Black, already flushed from his wine, "in honour of Godric Gryffindor!"

Excitement rippled through the crowd as students paired off, skirts swishing and shoes clicking against the polished floor. You lingered near the edge with Sebastian and Ominis, your hands brushing nervously at the lace of your gloves.

Sebastian arched a brow. "Have you got a partner for the first waltz?"

Heat rushed to your cheeks. "Surprisingly, I do. Natty."

Sebastian's grin spread wide. "Good choice. Nice girl she is."

You tilted your head curiously. "And what about you two? Do you have partners?"

Sebastian glanced sideways at Ominis, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Well... Ominis, care to be my first partner?"

Ominis exhaled through his nose, the corners of his lips twitching in irritation. "If I must. But do not stand on my feet, and I am most certainly not kissing your hand. You can kiss that notion goodbye."

Sebastian barked a laugh. "Oh, this will be fun. Come along then."

You hid a smile as you drifted away, weaving through the crowd until you spotted Natty. She stood radiant in a dress of deep crimson and wore beautiful jewellery of gold, her ebony coily hair pinned back with delicate charms that shimmered like embers. Beside her was Garreth, who turned the instant he saw you.

"Look at you!" Garreth exclaimed, hand pressed dramatically to his chest. "Positively dazzling. You'll put us all to shame."

You laughed softly, not used to the compliments and with a smile you extend you hand out to Natty's, leading her to the dance floor.

The orchestra struck its opening note, a surge of violins filling the hall. Professor Ronan swept his wand through the air, and the enchanted instruments followed his every movement with precision. The waltz began fast, spirited and bright, every note a flare of Gryffindor pride.

Natty's hand was steady in yours as you guided her into the steps, her movements graceful and sure. Around you, the Great Hall spun with colour. robes swirling, shoes sliding, laughter bubbling above the music. For a moment, nerves slipped away, replaced by the rush of the dance.

And across the room, you caught sight of Sebastian and Ominis. Sebastian's grin was irrepressible as he guided his reluctant partner in quick, sweeping turns. Ominis' mouth was set in a thin line, but you could tell by the precise placement of his feet and the tilt of his chin that he was following every beat perfectly, even if he pretended to hate it.

The sight nearly made you belly laugh aloud but the music rose, demanding your full attention, as you twirled the Gryffindor around.

The music slowed to its final flourish, and the crowd erupted into polite applause. You bowed to Natty and softly kiss her gloved knuckle. cheeks flushed and heart still racing from the quickened tempo of the Gryffindor waltz. She gave your hand a gentle smile and congratulated you before Garreth swept her away toward the refreshment tables, already chattering about the punch.

You followed, weaving through clusters of students until you found a table laden with trays of dainty food. Silver platters gleamed with pumpkin pasties, sugared almonds, tiny meat pies no bigger than a walnut, and delicate custard tarts. Crystal goblets brimmed with pumpkin juice and sparkling elderflower cordial that fizzed faintly with magic.

You plucked a tart from the nearest tray, its buttery crust flaking sweetly on your tongue, and then a glass of pumpkin juice, cold and sharp. For a moment, you let the sweetness steady you, though your gaze kept drifting back to the center of the hall where couples were reforming, ready for the second dance.

Professor Black's voice boomed once more, announcing it was time for the Ravenclaw dance.

Your heart skipped. You hadn't secured a partner yet. Panic fluttered in your chest as you smoothed the lace at your sleeves, hoping, praying.... that a familiar voice might reach you. That Ominis might.

But instead, there was a light tap on your shoulder.

You turned and found Amit smiling up at you, his expression warm and earnest. He gave a small, practiced bow.
"May I?"

Relief and fondness tangled together, and you smiled back. "You may."

He took your hand with careful formality, guiding you into place just as the first notes of the Ravenclaw waltz swept through the hall. This one was gentler, less demanding than the Gryffindor dance. Its rhythm thoughtful, its steps deliberate, as though it asked dancers to listen closely to one another.

Amit guided you well, his movements precise if not a touch cautious. You let him lead, grateful for his steady presence. But your gaze... it wandered.

Past his shoulder, through the swirl of skirts and polished shoes, you saw Ominis.

He was dancing. With another girl.

Your heart tightened as you took in the sight: his hand resting lightly in hers, his posture elegant, his head angled just so as he moved across the floor. She leaned in close, speaking something you couldn't hear over the music. You wished—ache tightening in your chest—that it was you.

You dragged your eyes back to Amit, forcing yourself to match his careful step. He was your friend, and you his. He deserved your attention.

The music slowed. Amit turned you gracefully, ending the waltz with a neat flourish. He lifted your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, his lips warm against your glove.

You blushed, caught between the sweetness of the gesture and the strangeness of all this, the newness of being asked, of being led, of playing the part you had only ever read about in novels.

"Thank you," you murmured.

He smiled softly. "It was an honour."

And with that, you parted ways, slipping back into the crowd with two more dances ahead of you and a silent hope that at least one of them might belong to Ominis.

The Ravenclaw waltz ended, applause swelling once more. You slipped back toward the refreshment tables, hand trembling faintly around the goblet you'd picked up. The cool pumpkin juice steadied you, but not enough to quiet the anxious twist in your chest.

Why did it matter so much? Why did you feel like your entire evening balanced on one dance?

You hear your name be called out by a familiar cheeky voice.

You turned at the sound, your breath catching. Sebastian stood a few paces away, his grin unmistakable, Ominis beside him, posture composed, his expression unreadable.

Sebastian inclined his head with mock formality, though the sparkle in his eye betrayed him. "May I have the third dance with you?" His voice carried that teasing lilt you knew too well.

For a moment, you hesitated, worried he was only jesting. But his hand was extended, steady and sincere. Your pulse quickened. One more chance. You couldn't waste it.

"Of course," you replied, placing your hand in his.

The two of you moved to the dance floor just as Professor Ronen raised his wand and the instruments swelled again, this time with a lively, lilting tune for the Hufflepuff dance. The steps were quicker than before, joyous, full of turns and spins.

Sebastian guided you easily, a smirk tugging at his lips when he noticed your distracted gaze wandering past his shoulder.

"What's troubling you?" he asked lightly, as though the music itself had posed the question.

You tried to laugh it off, your cheeks warm. "It's silly..." You hesitate to tell him the truth.

"Humour me." He replied.

Your voice dropped, barely audible over the melody. "I... I want to dance with Ominis."

For once, Sebastian's smirk softened into something gentler. He leaned in as he spun you, voice low. "That isn't silly. You should. He is an excellent dancer and well he'd kiss your hand."

You scoffed, half flustered, half incredulous. "Be serious."

"I'm always serious," he teased, twirling you neatly back into step. His grin widened at your glare. "Trust me. Just ask him. He will dance with you, I promise."

The song drew to its close, Sebastian dipping you with showy flair before pulling you upright again. He caught your hand before you could withdraw it, pressing a warm kiss against the fabric of your glove.

"Take it off for the next dance," he murmured with a conspiratorial wink.

And then he let go, leaving your heart hammering and your glove suddenly feeling far too heavy.

You peel the gloves from your hands and leave them on a nearby table, telling yourself you'll fetch them later. Your palms are warm, far too warm and you pray they aren't sweaty due to your nerves. Oh, good heavens, what if they are? No, you can't dwell on that now. You must to find Ominis at once.

Your eyes sweep the glittering hall until you spot him. Relief, then dread. He isn't alone. A girl stands beside him, her voice eager. You edge closer, straining to hear the conservation.

"Would you grant me this next dance?" she asks hopefully.

His reply is calm, even polite. "I'm afraid not. I already have a partner. My apologies."

Your breath catches, your heart sinking like lead. Partner? It isn't you. You've missed your chance. For a moment, the air seems too thick, the music too loud. You think about leaving. Perhaps it would be easier. Slip away, lick your wounds in silence.

But then-

"May I share this last dance with you?"

The voice is soft, unmistakable. You turn, pulse racing. And there he is—Ominis, standing with quiet poise, his expression unreadable, his hand extended in invitation.

"Yes," you breathe, hardly trusting your own voice.

He takes your bare hand, his touch feather-light yet sure, and leads you to the floor with a grace that makes you think of swans gliding over still water. His other hand comes to rest at your waist, gentle but steady, while you place your arm over his shoulder. You can smell the faintest trace of musk and cinnamon on his robes, feel the warmth radiating from him. You try to breathe evenly, but your heart pounds so wildly you're certain he must hear it.

The music begins. Slow, measured, achingly intimate.

Your stomach curls. A slow dance. Oh no. You stumble slightly, panic rising, until his voice, silken, composed and cuts through.

"Just follow me. You are doing quite well." His voice as smooth as velvet.

You nod instinctively before remembering he cannot see. Too late to answer. But then his lips twitch, the faintest smile ghosting across his features, as though he senses your frantic little mistake.

He guides you through each turn with unerring precision, every movement effortless. Then, suddenly, his arms shift, stronger, surer and you let out a startled yelp as he lifts you up with practiced ease.

"Breathe," he murmurs, his voice oddly husky.

Heat floods your cheeks. "My apologies, Ominis. This is my first time."

His smile softens, the edges of his face touched with something almost tender. "You are doing splendidly," he assures you in his perfect, polished tone.

The dance winds toward its end. You sink into a curtsey, skirts pooling like petals at your feet, and he bows in return. When he straightens, he reaches once more for your hand which is ungloved and brushes his lips against it with old-world grace. His lips are warm and he lingers there longer than you expected.

Your breath hitches.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement. A scrawny petite girl in a poofy dress, eyes sharp as daggers, before she bolts into the crowd. You push the thought aside, telling yourself it was nothing. At least, nothing you could let ruin your night.

For now, the memory of his hand in yours and the ghost of his lips upon your skin is all that matters.

"Thank you for this dance," Ominis says, his voice low and steady, though there's something softer beneath it.

Your face burns, heat blooming from your cheeks down to your chest. You can feel the faint sheen of sweat gathering at your temples. Oh, gods. Thankfully, he cannot see your sweat, nor the way your nerves quake through you like a trembling harp string.

"Th-thank you," you manage, your words a whisper against the swell of music. Why did your words have to get caught on a stutter!

He releases your hand only when the spell of the moment requires it, and even then the ghost of his touch lingers, leaving you to clutch your skirts and breathe as though your heart hasn't just betrayed you.

"May I walk you back to your common room?" Ominis asked, his words as smooth as silk, yet carrying a careful earnestness.

You managed only a nod, your throat too tight for speech.

A faint smile ghosted his lips. "I assume you nodded," he said wryly, holding out his arm.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the fabric of hi green cloak brushing against your fingers. The simple gesture stole your breath more thoroughly than the dance had.

Together, you moved through the corridors, torchlight flickering along the stones, the hum of distant music fading behind you. Each step beside him felt unreal, as though you had stepped into a dream — one you scarcely wished to wake from.

You walked past the kitchens together, the warm scents of roasted chestnuts and sugared plums drifting faintly from the opened painting.

At last, you reached the Hufflepuff barrels, the familiar curve of the entrance dimly lit by torchlight.

Ominis slowed his step, inclining his head in your direction. "Thank you... for this evening," he said softly. "You were a most graceful partner and I wish you goodnight."

Before you could gather a reply, he gave a courteous bow and turned back into the shadows, his wand glowing lightly, guiding him along the way.

You slipped through the barrels into your common room, the glow of the hearth wrapping around you. Yet your heart still raced, your mind replaying the events. You hurried up to your dormitory, fingers clumsy as you freed yourself from gown and lace, exchanging satin for the simplicity of your nightgown.

At last you collapsed into bed, staring at the canopy overhead. You had survived your first ball, and more you had danced with him. A fine, aloof gentleman, sharp as steel and yet kind enough to surprise you. Mr. Darcy himself, perhaps, though softened by something warmer, something truer.

You exhaled a long sigh of relief, a smile tugging faintly at your lips, and let sleep steal you away the soft sounds of Hades purring to soothe you more.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled soft and golden through the high windows of your dormitory, catching in the frost that still clung to the glass. You woke with a smile you couldn't quite suppress, cheeks warm as if the memory of last night still lingered on your skin. Ominis' hand in yours, the slow spin, the way his lips brushed your knuckles, like a dream you were not ready to wake from. Your heart still fluttered when you thought of it.

There were still two days of lessons before you broke up for the Christmas holidays, and though your body ached with fatigue, your mind buzzed with anticipation. Soon, you would be staying with Professor Fig and Miriam again in their home in Guildford, three weeks of respite and that familial warmth. Yet even here, in the quiet of your room, you could not stop replaying every step of that final dance.

But while you basked in your newfound joy, another's quill scratched bitterly across parchment elsewhere in the castle.

A very short, scrawny girl hunched over a desk in the Slytherin common room, the greenish glow from the lake throwing her sharp features into an eerie pallor. Thin strands of ash blonde hair clung to her gaunt cheeks, and her large, blue, bulging, bug-like eyes seemed almost too big for her face as they narrowed in disdain. She gripped her quill so tightly the nib splintered, smearing ink across the page as her scrawl grew more fevered.

Dearest Father,

I regret to inform you that Ominis, our already blind sheep, has committed an act so heinous and scandalous that I could hardly bear to put it into words.
Last night at the Founders' Ball he allowed himself to dance with the new mudblood girl in his year in  full view of the entire school. He even placed a kissed upon her bare hand. Such disgrace cannot be ignored. She corrupts him, Father. She soils the Gaunt name with every step she takes beside him. You must know of this. You must act. She has him under her spell.

Your obedient daughter,
Vespera Gaunt

The ink blotted where her hand trembled, not with sorrow, but with zeal. Folding the parchment crisply, Vespera sealed it with a touch of green wax and pressed her family's mark into the surface. Her wide eyes glinted with satisfaction as she tucked it into an envelope.

By morning's end, the owl would be on its way

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Ominis stirred in his bed, the warmth of his sheets cocooning him in a comfort he rarely permitted himself to enjoy. For once, his first waking thought was not of dread or duty but of music, of movement, of you. He lay still for a moment, his lips curling into a small, unguarded smile as he let the memory wash over him.

He had never cared for such spectacles. The endless chatter, the scraping of chairs, the pressure to perform as though the Gaunt reputation depended upon every bow and step. But last night... last night had been different. Ending the evening with you in his arms, the delicate press of your hand against his, the way your voice trembled when you whispered your apologies for stumbling. It had been wonderful.

He had felt your nerves thrumming like the strings of a harp, yet you had followed him with trust. The memory of your warmth as he steadied you, the way you yielded to his lead, brought that rare smile to his lips once more. He could almost still smell the faint trace of your perfume clinging to his sleeve, a reminder that for a single dance he had not been a Gaunt, or a blind burden, or a shadow lurking in the corner. He had simply been Ominis, and you had accepted him as your dance partner for the final dance.

With a soft exhale, he pressed his head back into the pillow, reluctant to rise though the day had already begun. The castle outside his dorm stirred with the bustle of morning, but he clung to the quiet, savoring the memory as though it were a secret meant only for him.

For once, he thought, he did not regret attending a ball.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his memory more keenly than the music itself. There was something curious about it he had noticed, in that moment, that you weren't wearing gloves. Nearly everyone he had ever danced with, including Sebastian had worn them, layers of silk, cotton or lace as if touch itself must always be buffered, softened, hidden. But you? You had offered your bare hand to him. Unthinking, unashamed. The coolness of your skin at first, the subtle warmth that grew as his fingers closed around yours. It had been startling, almost intimate in a way the dance alone would never have been.

Not that he minded. No, not at all. He just wasn't expecting it.

As he turned onto his side, resting his hand beneath his cheek, he felt something shift within him. He doesn't quite know yet but it was something. Something undeniable.

You had earned his trust. That, in itself, was extraordinary. He had shown you his worst memories, his darkest secret, the very truth that made him loathe his own blood. And unlike so many others who would have recoiled, who would have condemned him as tainted and irredeemable, you had not fled. You had not even flinched. You had simply understood. You had remained. You also didn't give him pity.

It unsettled him, this quiet devotion of yours unsettled him because he realised how much he already relied on it. How much he relied on you. You were unlike anyone else he had known: steady when the world grew cruel, brave enough to wield a magic that was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Ancient, wild, uncontainable. Different, just as you yourself were different.

And yet, instead of fearing that difference, he found himself... drawn to it.

His lips curved into another faint smile, though it faded almost as quickly as it had come. He dared not name the feeling building within his chest, not yet. But for the first time in his life, Ominis Gaunt allowed himself to believe there might be something good, something rare, in being so near to another person.

Someone who did not see him as broken.

Someone who, perhaps, saw him at all.

For now, he settled on this: you were a dear friend. That truth alone carried a strange weight in his chest. At first, he hadn't been certain what to make of you. Too big for your boots, he had thought, striding so boldly into danger. What sort of fifth-year toppled a troll in Hogsmeade within her first week? But he had been wrong. You were the opposite of boastful. You carried your talents quietly, never seeking glory, even though your gifts were unlike anything he had ever known. Ancient magic, the rarest of abilities, and you're also a true seer. Yet you bore these abilities with a kind of modesty that unsettled him, because it was so rare.

The Great Hall was alive that morning, brimming with chatter and laughter that seemed to echo from the high-arched ceiling. Students leaned close over steaming plates, exchanging hurried whispers about last night's ball and who had danced with whom, who had looked the most splendid, who had stumbled during the waltz.

Candles floated lazily above the tables, not dripping any wax, their glow catching on the glitter of silver goblets and polished plates. The scent of porridge, pastries, eggs, sausages and buttered toast filled the air, mingling with the faint smoke from the hearths. You sat among it all, spoon in hand, the warmth of your tea cradled between your palms as though it might calm the quick beat of your heart.

You made your way toward the Hufflepuff table, but just as you were about to sit, something caught your eye across the hall. Sebastian raised his hand and beckoned you over with a quick wave, a grin tugging at his mouth. Ominis sat beside him, posture straight as ever, though his head tilted faintly at your approach.

You crossed the room and slid onto the bench opposite them.

"Well, a good morning to you," Sebastian said brightly.

"Good morning to you both," you replied, smiling at them.

"Good morning," Ominis echoed softly, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips.

You reached for the serving platters, helping yourself to what you craved most, while Sebastian's gaze strayed to Ominis' plate. A small stack of apple turnovers, golden and glossy, sat neatly before him, their tops drizzled with a pale sugar icing. Beside them, a modest helping of stewed apples, a slice of seed cake, and a cup of sweetened tea.

Sebastian chuckled under his breath. "Merlin's beard, Ominis! planning to eat sugar for your whole breakfast?"

A faint pink touched Ominis' cheeks. He straightened his shoulders. "There is nothing wrong with indulging in something sweet in the morning," he replied, his tone careful but tinged with defensiveness. "It makes the day more bearable."

You hid a small smile behind your teacup as you watched the exchange. Somehow you'd never imagined Ominis as the type to favour sweet things. He always carried himself with such composure, so measured and precise. Yet here he was, quietly enjoying apple turnovers and sugar-dusted cake and hot chocolate.

It was... endearing. Adorable, even. There was something almost boyish in the way he defended it, and the thought warmed you more than the tea in your hands.

You excused yourself for Care of Magical Creatures, catching sight of Poppy waving in the distance with Leander Prewett lingering beside her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Across the room, Ominis tilted his head as the soft rush of wings swept overhead. The distinct shuffle of claws on wood told him an owl had landed nearby. He frowned.

"What's there, Sebastian?" he asked.

"An owl. Looks as though it's for you," Sebastian replied, pulling away the thin parchment bound with a dark ribbon. He slid it toward his friend.

Ominis traced the paper with careful fingers until they brushed the wax seal. At once his chest tightened. The serpent's motif curled beneath his thumb, cold and sharp in his memory. His stomach dropped.

Letters from his family were rare. They never brought glad tidings.

With a slow breath, he broke the seal. Drawing his ebony wand, he tapped it to the parchment and let the words unfurl themselves into his mind in his father's voice. That deep, disdainful timbre that had haunted his childhood.

Ominis,

I am well aware of how you fritter away your holidays in Feldcroft, skulking about with that Sallow boy. This indulgence ends now. Your presence is required at home, without excuse or delay. Your mother is gravely unwell and longs for her son's dutiful attendance. You will return at once upon the close of term.

Do not test my patience.

—C. Gaunt

The voice in his head faded, but the words clung like frost. Ominis tightened his grip on the parchment until it crumpled faintly between his fingers.

His mother ill. That was unlikely. Too convenient. Too sudden.

No, this was his father's hand at work. A summons dressed in falsehood, nothing more.

And he already knew what awaited him at Little Hangleton.

Sebastian skimmed the letter, his brow furrowing deeper with every word until his mouth twisted. "That Sallow boy? I'm more than that." His voice carried its usual bravado, but beneath it was a flash of anger on Ominis' behalf.

Ominis gave a soft, humourless laugh. "I'm surprised he hasn't found out about me dancing with (y/n)..." His voice trailed off, quieter now, the faintest thread of warmth hidden in his words. He thought of you. Your ungloved hand in his, the scent of your hair as he guided you across the floor. He even thought of your cat.

Little did he know a pair of wide, hateful eyes had already watched.

"I must go back," Ominis said finally, voice firm though his hand still crumpled the parchment. "If it is some trick, I'll find a way to escape. I'm no longer underage. I can defend myself now."

Sebastian shook his head. "You don't have to go."

"I know," Ominis replied quietly. "But what if my mother is actually ill?" The thought was enough to anchor him in place, torn between dread and a son's reluctant duty.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The world shifted, and you found yourself out on the frozen grounds for Care of Magical Creatures. The wind bit at your cheeks, but Professor Howin's voice carried over the chatter of the class, strong and sure.

"Today we study the Horned Serpent, a creature sacred in some cultures, feared in others," she explained, tapping her wand against a life-sized model that shimmered faintly with enchantments. The carved scales gleamed like silver, curling horns spiraling back from its head. "They are native to North America, but there are records of sightings in Asia as well. Some of you may know it is also one of the four houses of Ilvermorny, the American school of witchcraft and wizardry."

The serpent's carved eyes glowed faintly, its oddly beautiful to you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hours blurred into days, and soon the Christmas holidays were upon you. Your trunk was packed, your books neatly stowed, and Athena in her bird cage impatiently from her perch as though she sensed the journey ahead and hades stayed upon your shoulder.

Professor Fig waited at the gates, his smile warm despite the cold, he's excited to see his wife again.

"Surrey will be glad to have you back," he said kindly, gesturing toward the carriage that would carry you south.

Your heart lifted. Three weeks away from the castle, three weeks in Miriam's company. You couldn't wait to step again into the hearth-warmed home, to hear her voice and laughter echo in the hallways.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The carriage rattled over frozen earth, its iron wheels crunching against ice. Ominis sat rigid in his seat, the chill creeping into his bones despite the heavy wool of his cloak. Across from him, Vespera was a pale, silent figure, her wide eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window. She hadn't spoken since they left Hogwarts. Not that Ominis minded. Silence, for once, was preferable. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck, his mother's handiwork. Knitwear are one of the few things his mother gives him and well the rest of his siblings. Poor woman has nothing else to do.

The thestrals slowed, and the air shifted. He knew before the wheels stilled where they had arrived. The estate loomed.

The Gaunt home had stood for centuries, though the years had not been kind. Most of the grandeur was gone, part of the house was rotting away, cold hearths, and corridors where damp gathered like ghosts. Yet it was still theirs. Still the cradle of his cursed bloodline.

The door opened with a protesting groan, and Vespera slipped out first. Ominis followed, wand flashing red to guide him, every sense sharpening as the familiar stench of mildew and neglect rose to meet him. He could hear the faint caw of crows overhead, the whisper of dying branches in the garden, the slow creak of the front gates that hadn't been oiled in decades.

Inside awaited his family.

Caspian Gaunt—patriarch, tyrant. A man in his mid-fifties with thinning long hair tied back in a vain attempt at dignity. His face was long and hollow, his eyes sharp as blades that cut without warmth. His voice could summon terror with a whisper.

At his side sat Ursula Gaunt, his wife. She was plump, pale, and faded, her features sunken by years of strain. Her mousy brown hair was tied back in a tight chignon, a style that seemed more prison than choice. Ursula rarely spoke unless spoken to, her words soft, careful, and edged with the weight of constant fear. Though not bedridden, she was diminished, her vitality long since stripped by a life of obedience.

Marvolo, the eldest son at twenty-six, lumbered in the shadows of the hall. Stocky, unkempt, and already balding, he reeked of sweat and stale tobacco. One smelled him before one saw him. Unmarried, unwanted, and bitter for it.

Euphemia, or Effie, followed soon after. Twenty-five and nearly 6ft tall, she dressed like a porcelain doll come horribly to life. Lace, frills, bows. Many china dolls filling the shelves of her bedroom. Her cackle rang shrill and jagged, more nightmare than laugh, a sound that clawed its way under the skin. She had once owned a rabbit. The poor creature did not last long.

Cardea, the second-eldest daughter, was absent. She had fled six years ago, vanishing into a life the family refused to name. To the Gaunts, she was already dead. To Ominis, she was the only proof that escape was possible.

The twins came next: Acantha and Thorne, both twenty-one. Handsome, yes—but not in the way poets sang of. Theirs was a beauty out of gothic novels, sharp and uncanny, as though something in their features leaned a little too far into shadow. Acantha was poised and sardonic, her wit cutting, her eyes sharp with cool detachment. She herself works for the ministry clearing up the messes of accidental magic.

Thorne, taller than them all at six foot six, carried himself with a predator's stillness. His hair fell in ash blonde waves to his shoulders, framing a face that seemed forever caught between allure and menace. He was no wielder of ancient power himself, but he devoted his life to researching the ruins and relics that whispered of it, his fascination bordering on obsession. Together, the twins were striking and unsettling. Faces you might find painted in oil on a crumbling manor wall, their gazes following you long after you left the room.

And finally, the youngest: Vespera. Small, wiry, insect-like in her stillness. She moved like a shadow, always watching, always listening. At thirteen, she already wielded her silence like a weapon. Her eyes bulged too wide for her thin face, giving her the appearance of something half-feral, half-child. She was perfectly suited to spying, and she relished it.

Eight. That was all the Gaunts amounted to now. A withering legacy clinging to the dregs of its own name.

Ominis stepped into the dark hall, his cane clicking against the stones. He could feel the weight of their eyes already upon him.

He hated it here.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

 

Dinner was in one hour.

Ominis retreated to his room, shutting the door softly behind him. The chamber was suffocatingly familiar. The elegant wallpaper had started to peel, the slight smell of mildew clinging to the corner. His bed groaned beneath his weight as he lay back upon it, the old mattress uneven, the wood frame creaking as though protesting his presence.

There were books on the shelf, but none of the ones he wished for. All were father-approved tomes: rigid texts on bloodline purity, archaic family records, and endless genealogies. Not a single novel, not even a copy of Jane Eyre he'd read in the library at Hogwarts. His father did not allow Muggle literature in the house. Ominis sighed, running his hand over the coarse bedspread.

The house itself was much the same. Half-dead. One wing of the manor had been kept in relative order: the dining hall, Caspian's study, the drawing room where the occasional guests were received. But the rest was decaying, corridors with plaster crumbling from the walls, black mold creeping like veins over the ceilings, elegant tapesteies were moth-eaten and hanging limp. The roof leaked in certain rooms. He could hear it sometimes, the drip-drip of water seeping into the rot.

Even the gardens bore the mark of division. Near the house, the beds were trimmed and orderly, kept presentable by the house-elves, Peony and Nub. But beyond that? Wild growth. Grass as high as Ominis' knees, nettles thick enough to sting through wool, thorn bushes stretching like claws. As a child, he had hidden in those overgrown tangles, away from Marvolo's fists and his father's shouts, crouched in silence until he could breathe again.

He thought of Feldcroft. He thought of Sebastian and Anne, their laughter beside the fire, the sweet scent of marshmallows toasting on the flames.

He thought of you.

You, sitting snug between Anne and himself, wrapped in warmth, safe. Perhaps your head was on his shoulder. His chest ached at the thought.

He sighed.

A gentle knock at the door startled him from his reverie.

"Come in," he called, his voice weary but calm.

The door creaked open. A small figure shuffled in, her voice a timid whisper. "Master Gaunt... Peony has come to fetch you for dinner."

"Thank you, Peony," Ominis said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He had always liked the elves. Where his family barked orders and inflicted pain, he had spoken to them kindly, even played with them in the garden when he was small. It made the memory of Marvolo's cruel games all the worse, using the elves as practice dummies for curses. The thought curdled his stomach.

But he rose anyway. Dinner awaited. And with it, his family

The knock at his door had dragged him reluctantly from the safety of his room. Ominis trailed his fingers along the damp, flaking wall as he descended the crooked staircase, the scent of mold and smoke thick in the air. His footsteps echoed hollowly, carrying him down to the dining hall.

Dinner was always the same. Painfully slow, unbearably tense. The scrape of cutlery against porcelain was pierced only by the constant hiss of Parseltongue slithering back and forth across the table, Marvolo and Effie indulging in their cruel jokes and half-whispered threats. Every so often, Effie's high-pitched giggle. Shape, doll-like and mad split the silence, making the hairs at the back of his neck rise.

Ominis sat in silence, his appetite faint at best. He counted the minutes, focused on the rhythm of his breathing, on the weight of his mother's knitted jumper against his chest. Anything to block out the oppressive air, the serpentine voices, the childish yet chilling cackle.

When at last the final plate was cleared and chairs scraped back, he nearly sagged in relief. But the reprieve was short-lived.

"Wait, Ominis. Not so quickly."

His Father's cold, sharp voice rang out like a whip crack, freezing him mid-step.

The words sent that familiar shiver down his spine, cold and merciless. Slowly, Ominis turned back, dread coiling in his stomach as the rest of the family lingered to watch.

"Stay a moment, Ominis. We've hardly spoken as father and son. You've grown into such a... peculiar and handsome young man. I should like to know what occupies your time when you're not sulking in corners."

Caspian said, his voice smooth, almost tender — though Ominis knew better.

The words twisted in Ominis' stomach like a knife. That tone was always worse than shouting. Rage could be anticipated. False kindness was a trap, a slow tightening of a noose. He kept his face still, his lips pressed thin, but he could feel the damp of his palms against his robes.

"I study, Father," he said carefully. "I keep to my work."

"Mm. Study." Caspian Gaunt's voice was laced with derision, the kind that made Ominis' stomach twist. "The excuse of every weakling who prefers books to blood. Tell me, Ominis..." His footsteps were slow, deliberate as he circled him, the air tightening with each measured step. "Does your study also involve parading yourself across the Great Hall with Miss (Y/N) (L/N)?"

Ominis' breath caught, his fingers curling tightly against his robes. He willed himself not to react, not to betray a single flicker of the shock that jolted through him — but his father's words struck home, a perfect blade between the ribs.

Caspian's tone dripped with contempt. "A disgusting orphan. A mudblood. A Hufflepuff. A stain upon the Gaunt name. And yet, my son dances with her as though he were... enamoured." He spat the last word, as though it tasted foul.

Ominis swallowed, throat dry. "She is—" He stopped, forced his voice steady. "She is nothing." That was a complete lie.

"Nothing you say?..." Caspian repeated it softly, like he was turning over something rotten in his hand. "I wonder... is that even the case all? Or have you allowed her to worm her way into your affections? Tell me, boy, do you seek to shame me further?"

He leaned close, so near Ominis could feel the shadow of his presence, hear the quiet rasp of his breath. "Answer me immediately. What is that filthy mudblood to you, my boy."

Ominis' silence stretched too long. He could not force words past his lips, though his heart hammered wildly against his ribs.

"I see," murmured Caspian, his voice low and venomous.

There was the sharp pop of a cork, the faintest slosh of liquid. Ominis' head jerked toward the sound, a cold dread sinking into his gut. Before he could react, hands like iron clamped around his jaw, prising it open with brutal force. A bitter liquid flooded his mouth, burning as it slid down his throat. He coughed, choked, gasped for air—

"What is that mudblood to you?" Caspian screeched, his voice no longer feigning civility, but seething with fury.

The truth spilled from Ominis' lips against his will, unbidden and unstoppable. His voice cracked, trembling, yet clear as a bell:

"She is the one I love the most. I think of her when I wake, and when I sleep. She is kindness where I have only known cruelty, warmth where I have only known cold. She knows my secrets, my shame, and yet does not turn away. I would face any punishment, any curse, if it meant she remained safe."

His hands shook as he tried to clamp his mouth shut, but the words tore free regardless, raw and aching. "I love her. More than my life, more than my blood, more than this cursed name."

The chamber fell silent for a moment, only the sound of Ominis' ragged breathing filling the space.

Caspian's laugh broke it — sharp, cruel, triumphant. "My own son. Defiled by affection for filth."

Caspian's voice rose to a hiss, the tip of his wand crackling with power.
"Cruic—"

But Ominis had been waiting, heart hammering, his wand angled low. He didn't hesitate. The spell ripped out of him in desperation—
"Stupefy!"

A crack of light struck his father square in the chest. Caspian fell back with a thud, his wand clattering uselessly to the floor.

Ominis stood trembling, the echo of his own spell ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts. He had done the unthinkable.

There was no time to dwell. He stumbled through the corridor, knocking into tables and frames, sending glass shattering across the floor. His wand scanned frantically, but his feet already knew the path out. He burst into the night, the air biting sharp against his face.

disapparition. He had to. He gripped his wand so tightly his knuckles ached, trying to summon calm, but his mind scattered like broken glass. He thought of you—your warmth, your voice, your perfume. For one fleeting moment he felt the pull toward you, the way he always did in quiet moments. But no, he couldn't risk it. He couldn't bring this danger to you.

Feldcroft. Focus on Feldcroft.

Sebastian and Anne's home, the safe place, the fire that never judged him. He clung to it, forcing his thoughts into order, wrestling down the panic. He pictured—not the sight but the sound of the crackling hearth, the creak of the floorboards, the faint tang of smoke on the wind. Sebastian's voice, Anne's voice.

The world snapped. His stomach lurched, his ears filled with a thunderous crack—

And then he was on his knees, gasping, snow crunching beneath his palms. The smell of woodsmoke filled his lungs. Feldcroft. He had made it.

Ominis pushed himself to his feet, his legs still trembling. He drew a shaky breath and raised his wand, the tip glowing faintly as he whispered the spell to read the world around him. His surroundings bloomed in faint outlines against the darkness of his mind—the brittle crunch of frost on grass, the sharp skeletal branches of a bare hedge, the distinct square edges of a cottage not far ahead.

The air was bitterly cold, burning his lungs as he staggered forward, clutching his cloak tighter around himself. His wand scanned over the path before him, stones beneath his boots, a worn wooden step.

The Sallow house. Relief coursed through him like fire in his veins. He reached out, fingers brushing the rough grain of the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound seemed too loud in the still night. He held his breath, his heart pounding as he waited, praying someone was home and praying Sebastian was inside.

The door creaked open, spilling a warm glow onto the frosted step.

"Ominis?" Sebastian's voice cut through the night, startled, half-disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"

He didn't wait for an answer, simply took Ominis by the arm and guided him quickly inside. The sudden wash of heat from the hearth nearly brought tears to Ominis' eyes. His body sagged with relief, his boots leaving faint trails of damp across the rug.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and chamomile. He heard the faint rustle of a blanket and a soft intake of breath.

"Ominis!" Anne's voice gentle, warm, though still laced with fragility—reached him. She rose slowly from the sofa, wrapped in her blanket, her steps careful but steady.

She embraced him before he could say a word. For a moment, all the chill, the dread, the echo of his father's voice fell away. Ominis smiled, hugging her back tightly, his cheek resting against her hair.

It had been too long. Far too long.

The three of them sat close by the fire, Anne tucked under the blanket between them, her warmth grounding him. Ominis rarely tolerated closeness, but here, pressed between the only people he trusted, he allowed it—needed it.

Sebastian's voice broke the silence. "So you did go back." His tone was heavy, threaded with anger and concern. "I told you it was a trap."

"I know," Ominis admitted quietly, hands knotted in his lap. "But if my mother truly had been ill... I couldn't ignore it. I had to see."

Anne's hand slipped into his, gentle but firm. He clung to it, almost childlike, and let the silence sit before he found the words.

"It wasn't her," he continued, voice low. "She's fine. It was him. My father. He—" Ominis stopped, breath faltering. His face tightened as though he'd tasted something bitter. "He forced Veritaserum on me."

Anne gasped softly, her grip on him tightening. Sebastian swore under his breath, the cushions shifting as his fists clenched.

"He demanded answers," Ominis whispered, each word jagged. "And I... I gave him one. Something I didn't even know about myself until the words were dragged out of me. Something that terrifies me because now... I can't un-know it."

He bowed his head, pale hair falling loose over his face. "I can't say more. Not yet. Just—know that it was truth. A truth I wasn't ready to face. Something I didn't quite realise myself."

The fire cracked loudly in the hearth, filling the silence that followed. Neither Anne nor Sebastian pressed him. Instead, Anne's hand stayed twined with his, steady and warm, while Sebastian leaned closer in unspoken solidarity. For a while, that was enough.

Later, when the house had gone still, Ominis lay in the Sallows' spare bed. The blanket smelled faintly of woodsmoke and herbs, but it did little to soothe him. Sleep refused to come.

All that lingered in his mind was you. Your laughter echoing faintly as though it were carried on the air, the warmth of your hand in his, the cadence of your voice was so alive, so certain. Even the trace of your perfume seemed to haunt him, as though it had settled into his very skin.

He turned onto his side, clutching the edge of the pillow. A knot of something unnameable pulled tight in his chest. It frightened him, the way his thoughts circled back to you again and again, until there was nothing else.

Was it admiration? Longing? Love? He did not know. Perhaps he did not want to know. To name it was to give it power, and power meant risk.

Still... he could not help the question that whispered against the quiet of the room:

Would you ever want him in return?

With that thought heavy on his heart, Ominis closed his eyes, the fire downstairs crackling faintly through the floorboards, and let the ache of uncertainty carry him into uneasy dreams.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

It was Christmas Eve, and joy seemed to cling to the very walls of the house. At last, you were back to the first place that ever showed you kindness, Miriam and Eleazar Fig's house, your home in every sense of the word. The fire crackled merrily upon the hearth, filling the sitting room with a golden glow and the faint perfume of pine. Miriam sat behind you, brushing out your hair with a patience and gentleness that made your chest ache with warmth. Each long stroke of the comb reminded you that she was more than a guardian; she was a mother to you in all but name. Eleazar, too, lingered nearby, pipe resting between his fingers, his eyes softening whenever they fell upon you. Though you could never bring yourself to call him by his first name , here in the quiet of his home he insisted upon it; Eleazar, not Professor Fig. It felt almost strange on your tongue, and yet comfortable too.

After an early dinner of Miriam's spiced soup, rich with root vegetables, herbs, and the sort of hearty warmth that banished the cold you retired to the spare bedroom upstairs. It wasn't exactly late yet, around 4pm but you needed some alone time to think. The space had long since become your room, the little writing desk by the window now cluttered with your books, quills, and small keepsakes. The snow outside blurred the world into silence, leaving you in the hushed stillness of a winter's night.

You perched at the desk, your belly still warm from the soup, and reached for the deck of tarot cards tucked into the drawer. It had been days since you had last handled them. Tonight, the thought came to you suddenly, perhaps you should do a reading, see what the cards might whisper on the eve of Christmas.

The cards were cool to the touch, worn at the edges, the gilded designs upon them faintly dulled with age. Yet that very age gave them their charm; they felt as though they had passed through many hands before yours, carrying stories older than you could imagine. You shuffled slowly, your fingers tracing the intricate backs, and laid out a spread upon the desk.

One card fell with particular weight. You studied its meaning, considering how it tied to the past term. Your trials, your visions, your friendships. It left you thoughtful, though not uneasy. If anything, the message felt like a nudge: to reach out, to connect.

A decision bloomed in your mind. Perhaps it was time to write letters.

You gathered fresh parchment, dipped your quill in ink, and began. First to Poppy, with her steadfast kindness; then Natty, whose bravery had matched inspired you on more than one occasion. Amit was next, eager-hearted and endlessly curious, he helped you on a recent mission which required the goblin language. One letter for Sebastian and Anne together, for you could never think of one without the other. And lastly, though your hand hesitated for the briefest of moments. You wrote to Ominis.

His name always lingered at the back of your thoughts. Even here, in the warmth of a loving home, you found yourself thinking of the reserved young man. The quiet strength he carried, the way his words lingered long after he had spoken them, the memory of your hand in his at the Ball. You pressed your quill to the page, and began to write.

—

Dearest Ominis,

Since the Founders' Ball, you have been very much upon my mind. Our dance together was one of the happiest of my life I must confess, I was nervous to step onto the floor, yet you guided me with such grace that I soon forgot my unease. I daresay you are a finer dancer than you will admit and well I hope we can dance again.

I am deeply grateful for your friendship. From your support through the scriptorium to that night beneath the enchanted chandeliers, you have shown me trust I did not expect. I cannot express how much it means to me to stand beside you in all these things. Even Hades has chosen you as a friend, and he does not give his affection lightly!

I look forward to next term and seeing you again. Until then, please accept this small gift as a token of my thought of you.

Yours most sincerely,
(Y/N)
—

You set the quill down, folding the parchment with careful hands. But something still itched at you: words alone seemed too plain. Then the thought came, sweet as treacle. You noticed you already wrote down about a gift before you even thought it! Of course. Ominis had such a fondness for confections; you had noticed the way his plate filled with turnovers and sugared fruits at breakfast. A tart would be the perfect companion to your letter.

You rushed downstairs to the kitchen, skirts sweeping the stone floor. Miriam looked up at once, eyebrows arching in curiosity.

"You look like a girl with a mission," she teased.

You explained your plan, cheeks flushing when you admitted who the tart was for. Miriam's eyes twinkled, but she only pulled forward her mother's recipe book. "Then follow this exactly," she said, pressing the leather-bound volume into your hands. "My mother always said a treacle tart will soften any heart. I even baked one for Eleazar to win him over! Oh, and be sure you clean up, or I shall bar you from this kitchen altogether."Miriam teased, handing you the old recipe book.

You opened the crackling pages and read aloud. "It calls for flour, butter, a little cold water... then golden treacle, breadcrumbs, lemon, ginger, and cream."

"Simple enough," Miriam said, folding her arms with a smile.

You set to work at once, rubbing butter into flour until it resembled soft crumbs, then adding water bit by bit until a paste formed beneath your fingertips. Rolling it out carefully, you pressed it into the dish. Next came the filling, warming treacle until it gleamed, then stirring in breadcrumbs, lemon rind, ginger, and cream. The scent rose sweet and sharp, filling the kitchen with comfort.

Miriam hovered over your shoulder, nodding in approval. "You've the knack for it. My mother would be proud."

When at last the tart was pulled from the oven, golden and gleaming, you felt your heart leap. It was perfect or near enough. You wrapped it in linen, still hesitating over how best to send it.

"Here," Miriam said suddenly, bustling over with a small parcel made of stiff brown paper and string. She tucked the tart neatly inside, then whisked out her wand. A soft charm shimmered over the package. "That will keep it still, warm, and fresh until it's opened. Perfect for a boy who needs a little sweetness from a sweet girl." She says as she playfully pinched your cheek.

You blushed furiously, unable to deny her knowing smile.

You approach your sweet barn owl, Athena. You secure the goods to her and she lets out a little hoot like she was saying "see ya!".

Athena spread her wings and lifted into the night, the parcel tied neatly to her leg and a bundle of letters tucked safe against her feathers. The air was cold and sharp, but she cut through it with ease, gliding in smooth arcs. Owls were clever like that if the distance was too great, they passed their burden to another in an unspoken chain.

First, she landed at the small wizarding owllery perched on the outskirts of London, far enough from any curious muggles. There, she dropped the letters addressed to Amit, Poppy, and Natty, leaving them in the care of local owls who hooted their assurances. But the remaining two: the neat packet for the Sallows and the carefully wrapped parcel for Ominis she kept close. Those belonged together.

She flew for hours, her wings slicing the night, until she made it to Scotland, specifically Feldcroft. Several huddled cottages, smoke curling from chimneys, the glimmer of hearth-light behind frosted windows. Athena circled once, then dove to the familiar Sallow home. Tapping her beak against the glass, she ruffled her feathers in satisfaction.

The window creaked open, and a middle-aged man with a short beard and a stern expression peered out. Solomon blinked, then unfastened the bundle. "Sebastian," he called into the cottage, "there are letters here for you, Anne, and Ominis."

Footsteps followed, and soon the three of them crowded round the small table. Sebastian's sharp eyes caught the familiar script on one of the envelopes, and his face lit. "Wait—this is (Y/N)'s owl, isn't it? She's sent us letters and a package?" He turned, surprise flickering to delight. "Ominis, this one's for you."

Anne opened hers first, her thin, pale fingers smoothing the parchment as she read aloud. The sweet words from you drew a soft smile to her lips. "She has such a kind heart," Anne murmured. "I can almost hear her voice in these words."

Sebastian grinned. "And she remembered to include me as well. Thoughtful as ever."

Now all eyes fell to Ominis. He traced the seal with careful fingers, but before he could break it open, Sebastian's hand darted forward, snatching it with mock mischief. "Please, may I do the honours?" he said with a flourish.

"If you must," Ominis sighed, tilting his head with practiced resignation.

Sebastian read it aloud with dramatic emphasis, drawing out every word, lingering over each phrase of gratitude and fondness, until he finished with a long, exaggerated "Awww." Anne rolled her eyes but laughed softly.

When the letter was done, Ominis turned to the package. As soon as he untied the string, the scent rose, warm and golden. His breath caught. "This- this smells like treacle tart..."

Sebastian leaned over at once. "She made this? For you?"

Ominis frowned slightly, puzzled. "But how did she know it was my favourite? I don't recall ever telling her. Did you?"

"No," Sebastian said, shaking his head. A grin tugged at his lips. "You do remember she's a Seer, don't you? Sometimes she just... knows things. Honestly, it's creepy."

Anne perked up. "She's a Seer? I wasn't aware." Her smile grew, despite her frailty. "That explains much." She reached for the drawer. "I'll fetch plates and cutlery."

As she moved, Sebastian eyed the tart with hungry amusement. "It's an entire tart—what is she trying to do, fatten you up?" Sebastian joked and Ominis scoffed in response.

"It smells divine," Anne added warmly.

"You three can have some if you really wish," Ominis said firmly, his lips curving into the faintest smile. "Let's think of it as a Christmas treat." His lips formed into a soft smile.

And with that, the knife cut into the golden crust, the three of them sharing in a moment of quiet sweetness, warmth against the shadows of winter.

The knife cut through the tart with a crisp flake, the golden filling spilling its warm sweetness across the plates. They each took a slice, and soon the small cottage was filled with the scent of sweet syrup and butter and pastry.

Anne was the first to taste it, her eyes widening. "Oh," she murmured, almost reverently. "This is heavenly!" She smiles out "Reminds me of Hogwarts..." she says with a slight frown. She misses the days when she wasn't sick from the curse cast upon her.

Sebastian, already halfway through his portion, nodded vigorously. "Merlin's beard... how does she do this? It's better than anything from Honeydukes. Her future husband will be a very happy man."

Anne nearly choked on her mouthful. She elbowed him sharply, crumbs dusting her lips. "Sebastian! Who says she needs a husband? Just appreciate her treats and keep your mouth shut."

Sebastian chuckled, rubbing his side where she'd struck him.

Ominis, who had been quietly savouring his slice, spoke without much thought, his words slipping out soft and earnest. "You know, I wouldn't complain if she were my wife..." Ominis then realised he said that out loud and instantly felt his face heat up.

Anne's brows lifted, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "So you do have feelings for her, don't you?"

Ominis froze, colour rushing to his pale cheeks. "W–wait! Hold on—"

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, smirking. "I knew it. All that careful modesty, and here you are confessing over a tart."

Ominis sighed, reaching pointedly for another slice. "No comment. This conversation ends now." He took a large bite, as if to punctuate his declaration, the buttery sweetness filling his mouth. He didn't care if the richness left him queasy later; it was worth every bite.

Inside, though, he seethed a little. Sebastian didn't need to make assumptions about his feelings for you, thank you very much.

Yet, as he set his fork down, Ominis couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips.

About five minutes passed, and Ominis began to stifle a yawn. "I think I shall retire for the evening," he murmured, his voice softened by drowsiness. "Forgive me for leaving so early. The tart was... very good."

Anne smiled kindly. "Rest, Ominis. You look exhausted."

Sebastian smirked but said nothing, watching as his friend slipped away down the narrow hall to the spare room. The door clicked shut, and a hush fell over the cottage.

It wasn't long before Anne set out the battered chessboard, its pieces already muttering irritably as they were placed. Sebastian joined her at the table, leaning his chin into his palm while his knight clattered forward.

"He's definitely in love with her," Anne said matter-of-factly, eyes fixed on the board.

Sebastian gave a low laugh. "Of course he is. And she obviously reciprocates those feelings. The way she looks at him—you'd have to be blind not to notice." He moved his rook with a snap of his fingers, the piece strutting proudly across the squares.

Anne shot him a pointed look. "Sebastian."

"What?" he asked, all false innocence. "You know I'm right."

Anne's pawn advanced with a clatter. "Then perhaps we ought to leave him be. If it's meant to be, it will happen in its own time."

Sebastian smirked, eyes glinting. "True. But it's far too much fun watching him squirm."

Anne rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips all the same.

But then suddenly Anne stiffened, her hand flying to her abdomen. A strangled cry tore from her lips as she doubled forward, the chess piece she'd been holding clattering forgotten onto the board. Her breathing came sharp and ragged.

"Anne?" Sebastian was on his feet at once, panic seizing him.

She pushed her hand out in protest, teeth gritted. "I'm fine— I'm fine." But her voice shook, and the lines of pain across her face betrayed her words.

"No, you're not," Sebastian snapped, already moving to her side. He slipped his arm around her shoulders with surprising gentleness, guiding her up from the chair. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs."

Anne leaned into him, her body trembling, each step up the narrow staircase laboured. Sebastian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing until he had her seated safely on her bed. He fumbled at her bedside table, fingers closing around the familiar vial of her pain relief potion.

"Here," he murmured, pressing it into her hands. "Drink."

Anne obeyed, her breaths coming slow and shallow as the potion dulled the sharpest edges of her curse. Her eyelids fluttered, exhaustion pulling at her as Sebastian tugged the blanket up over her shoulders.

He lingered there a moment, smoothing the covers, his gaze softening despite the storm behind his eyes. "I'll find you a cure, Anne," he whispered fiercely, almost like a vow. "I promise."

Anne let out a faint hum, already drifting toward sleep. Sebastian remained by her bedside until her breathing steadied, his hand resting lightly atop hers. Only then did he slip back into the hall, leaving the candle burning low.

The cottage grew still. Anne slept at last, her breaths steady beneath the faint crackle of the hearth downstairs. Sebastian lingered outside her room for a long moment, his back pressed against the wall, the weight of his promise heavy in his chest. He would not fail her... not again.

In the spare room, Ominis lay already deep in slumber. The day's trials had worn him to the bone, yet even in visionless dreams his thoughts curled toward you. Your laughter, your voice, the warmth of your hand in his at the ball. A faint smile ghosted across his lips in sleep, the only trace of the peace he so rarely found in waking hours.

And so the Sallow cottage, battered but filled with quiet love, settled into silence for Christmas Eve. Three young souls, bound together by grief and hope, carried the weight of their scars into the night. Unaware of how swiftly fate would draw your paths together once more.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

Christmas Day had been kind to Ominis. Feldcroft was quieter than Hogwarts, and though he never said so aloud, he preferred the stillness. The warmth of the Sallow household, the laughter of Sebastian and Anne, the simple comfort of firelight. All of it had been a balm after the chaos of the last weeks. Yet the best gift of all had been the homemade treacle tart you had sent. Every slice had been consumed, its sweetness lingering long after the last crumb was gone. He had eaten more than was sensible, but he didn't regret a single bite.

Now it's Boxing Day and this has brought noise more noise and cheer to the village. The large tented gathering in Feldcroft was nothing like the Founders Ball. Where Hogwarts dazzled with grandeur, Feldcroft overflowed with warmth. Laughter echoed off stone walls, mugs of steaming butterbeer and fire whisky sloshed from careless hands, and a fiddle screeched merrily above the stomping of boots. Lanterns with fire inside of all colours lit up the frosted night, and children chased enchanted snowflakes through the square.

Anne sat to one side, wrapped in her shawl, cheeks flushed from the cold. She didn't want to miss the celebration so rather then dancing she just watched taking it all in. She smiled faintly at greetings but kept her seat, while Sebastian hovered close, ever attentive, his eyes sharp with protectiveness.

Ominis drifted along the edges, his wand glowing guiding the way. He tilted his head, listening to the swell of laughter and music. This was a celebration unlike the stiff, formal gatherings of his family, or other pureblood events he dreaded. Here, there was much more freedom, even more than Hogwarts. Wizards roared with drunken joy, witches shouted across the square, neighbours clapped each other on the back. It was messy, imperfect, and unrestrained and to Ominis, strangely comforting.

Ominis was handed a tankard by a barmaid, the metal cool against his fingers. He lifted it to his nose, cautious as ever, and caught the sharp tang of firewhisky. His lips curved faintly. Well... one ought to appreciate the moment, he thought, before tipping it back and swallowing in one go. It burned down his throat, searing, but it left a welcome warmth blooming in his chest.

He barely had time to set the glass aside before two older wizards, loud with drink and laughter, clapped him on either side.

"Up you come, lad!" one crowed.

"Join the circle, boy!" roared the other, tugging at his arm.

Before Ominis could object, they had swept him off his chair and into the circle of dancers. His wand was tucked into his pocket now, useless, leaving him with no choice but to surrender to their rowdy guidance. Merlin help me, he thought grimly, as the circle spun.

Boots thudded against the packed floor, arms linked and swinging wildly. He stumbled at first, relying entirely on the town drunks for sight, who seemed more than happy to drag him along in time with the music. Enchanted fiddles sang overhead, the melody wild and fast, and voices all around him bellowed the words of some folk song too slurred to follow.

On the far side of the hall, Sebastian nudged Anne, grinning ear to ear. "Look at Ominis," he said with a laugh.

Anne's face lit up despite her weariness. "I never thought I'd see the day," she said, her laughter bubbling up as their dignified friend was hauled clumsily around by two overzealous villagers.

At last, Ominis managed to break free, his cheeks flushed, his hair slightly mussed from the rough treatment. He retrieved his cup by touch, and thanks to the enchantment upon the mugs, it refilled obediently with another measure of firewhisky. He downed it. Then a second. Then a third. Heat spread through his limbs, and for once, the tension in his chest loosened.

He collapsed into a wooden chair beside a table laden with food, letting the noise wash over him. The air was thick with the scent of mulled cider and roasted meat, the sort of smells that clung to clothes and hair for days. He breathed it in and almost smiled.

"May I join you?"

The voice was feminine, raspy and unfamiliar, yet it carried clearly even through the noise of the town.

"Of course," Ominis replied, voice steady despite the warmth buzzing through his chest.

"And what's your name, handsome stranger?" the young woman teased, her voice lilting with firewhisky mischief.

"Ominis," he said carefully, omitting his surname.

She gave a delighted little laugh. "Ominis, then. What a pretty boy you are surely you have many maidens weak at your feet!"

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, his usual guardedness slipping away in the haze of drink. "Hardly," he admitted, surprising himself with how easily the words came. "My family... tried to arrange something. It never lasted. They always declined once they discovered my blindness,"

he admitted. It was a sad truth, though one that left him strangely grateful. With no cousins left to bind him to, the Gaunts had been forced to look beyond their family. Every attempt had ended in rejection though, and in a way, Ominis was relieved. He would rather bear the sting of refusal from strangers than the horror of continuing the cycle of marrying cousins. He has some hope he can marry for love. However his brain was buzzing currently from the alcohol.

"Oh, you poor thing," she purred, leaning in so close that the scent of cinnamon-spiced whisky clung to her breath. "If I were around, I'd never let a man like you slip away. Blindness or no blindness. It only makes you more mysterious." She giggled.

He felt heat creep up his cheeks at her boldness.

"I'm Genevieve," she added with a smile in her voice. "I work at The Cinder & Steam Café in Hogsmeade. But a couple years before that I was a Gryffindor student. Oh Merlin, I got into so much trouble there... I wonder if your Headmaster still remembers me." She gave a low, suggestive laugh. "Our detentions sessions were very... long nights. He had to punish me often, I was very naughty." She purred.

Ominis flushed, the innuendo hardly veiled.

"So tell me, handsome," Genevieve murmured, fingers brushing his sleeve. "Would you do me the honour of a dance? A bachelor like you shouldn't be left sitting on the sidelines sulking."

Normally, he would have probably rejected, retreated behind his usual walls. But the drink made him bold, and the warmth of her hand on his arm tempted him further. He tilted his head, allowing himself a soft smile.

"Very well. Lead the way Miss." he said cheerfully, extending his arm. Now the alcohol was really giving him confidence.

And with that, Ominis let himself be drawn back into the swirl of music and laughter, the thrum of fiddles and stamping boots carrying them into the circle of dancers.

The two of them danced or rather stumbled in the lively ring of villagers. It was no elegant waltz beneath enchanted chandeliers, but a chaotic whirl of boots upon frost, laughter, and off-key singing. Ominis tripped more than he stepped, and Genevieve's hands darted to him again and again to stop him from toppling face-first into the ground.

Yet fate had other designs. With one particularly unsteady turn, his balance forsook him entirely, and he pitched forward—straight into the woman's large bosom.

"Oh my!" she gasped in shock. "Aren't you cheeky~"

Though whisky clouded his mind, Ominis possessed just enough sense to recognise the dreadful impropriety of his position. His words came out in a flurry, his voice strangled by mortification.

"Oh, Merlin! I- I beg your pardon, Miss! I swear it was not my intention to do that!"

But Genevieve only laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Oh, I am not complaining, love~"

Mortified, he tried to extricate himself, only to realise in horror that his hand still rested against her chest. He went to snatch it back, but she clasped it firmly in place.

"You naughty boy," she purred, her lips quirking with delight. "Teasing me so boldly."

Heat shot up Ominis' neck; he could feel the crimson burning his pale cheeks. He knew he ought to pull away, but some traitorous part of him. His body, not his mind was not entirely opposed to her attentions.

Genevieve leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "They say I have the finest set in town. Would you like to discover that for yourself? Hmmm."

His throat went dry. He was a young man with urges, and the temptation gnawed at him, urging him to surrender and well spend the night with her. Yet, even through the haze of drink, conscience tugged at him. She was a stranger. He could not, it's improper. He must not. Even though her large bosoms were tempting.

"I... I must decline, Miss," he stammered, forcing himself to withdraw at last. "Forgive me."

Genevieve gave a mock pout, her perfume thick in the frosted air. "A shame. You're a gentleman, then? Yet your trousers say a different story." She giggled as she stumbled off to get herself more drink.

Ominis felt his cheeks burn so hot he thought the firewhisky might set him ablaze from the inside. Merlin help him, she wasn't wrong, his own body had betrayed him, eager where his mind and heart would not follow.

"What on earth am I doing?" he muttered under his breath as he sobered up. No more fire whisky, he means it.

Ominis pulled his wand from his pocket, the familiar thrum steadying his nerves, and let its subtle hum guide him back through the raucous crowd. The merriment of the tent pressed thick about him, boots still stamping to music, tankards clattering, voices lifted in song until the very beams seemed to shake with it.

Tonight's festivities were of a kind he rarely endured in, too loud, too unrefined, too full of the unpredictable. And yet, for all his discomfort, he could not deny there had been a peculiar thrill in it. A dangerous thrill.

He pushed the thought aside as the wand tugged him gently forward, and soon enough he caught the familiar sound of Anne's soft laugh, Sebastian's teasing reply close at hand. Relief washed through him, banishing the lingering heat in his cheeks.

"Ah, there you are," Sebastian said as Ominis approached, his voice half-mocking, half-concerned. "You've gone missing twice now... what mischief are you up to, hm?"

Ominis allowed himself the smallest scoff, lowering himself to sit beside them. "Nothing of note. Tonight's revelries are... overwhelming."

Anne reached out, her hand brushing lightly against his sleeve. "You look pale, Ominis. More than usual."

"Do I?" he deflected, pulling his scarf closer to his throat. "Well, I daresay the firewhisky does not agree with me. Best I stay here with you both." He lowered himself onto the bench between them.

And so he did,grateful for the constancy of his dearest companions, even as the laughter and song swelled on around them, a tide he could never quite belong to. The warmth of the whisky loosened his tongue despite himself, and before long he sighed, almost boyishly, "I miss Y/N. She should be here. You know, some big-bosomed woman asked me to share her bed. I nearly accepted, Merlin help me, what's become of me?" Ominis places his face in his palms.

Sebastian and Anne burst into laughter at once, the sound contagious, shaking Ominis where he sat. "Can't believe she didn't approach me," Sebastian grinned through his laughter.

"Sebastian!" Anne scolded, though her eyes shone with amusement as she gently kicked him in the leg.

The three of them decided it was time to go back and well they made their way back to the house, the frost crunching beneath their boots. Uncle Solomon though had decided to stay at the gathering longer so it was just the three of them.

Sebastian pressed a small loaf of bread into Ominis' hands. "Here, you should eat. You've had enough firewhisky to drown a troll.."

Ominis accepted it with a faint, sheepish smile, breaking off a piece between his fingers. The three settled down before the fire, the flames crackling brightly, casting long shadows across the room. For a little while, they said nothing, just basked in the warmth, the firelight painting their tired faces with gold.

Sebastian leaned back against the arm of the chair, smirking as the fire crackled. "So," he began with a cheeky tone, "you said you miss our dear Hufflepuff?"

Ominis stiffened, the crust of bread pausing halfway to his mouth. "I was drunk Sebastian," he muttered, heat rushing to his ears. "Firewhisky loosens tongues, you know that."

Anne chuckled softly from her place on the settee, her blanket drawn close around her shoulders. "Oh, I don't think it was just the whisky speaking," she teased, her tone gentle but teasing.

Ominis gave a long, exasperated sigh, turning his face toward the flames. "You two will be the death of me," he murmured, before a quieter admission slipped free. "And so will she... if she continues dragging us into life-threatening quests. Poachers, Ashwinders, goblins—Merlin's beard, it's as though danger follows that woman wherever she treads."

Anne's smile faltered. She lowered her gaze to the fire, her voice breaking slightly. "I've not yet gone on a life-threatening quest with her... I'd love nothing more than to Bombarda a goblin camp." She sighed out,  the ache in her tone hollowed Ominis' chest. There had been whispers. Quiet talk of how much time she might have left. He admired Sebastian's fierce determination, yet it filled him with dread too, for Ominis feared that Sebastian was going down an even darker path.

"You will, Anne," Sebastian said firmly, his hand brushing hers with quiet conviction. "I'll make sure of it. You'll be back to duelling before you know it." His voice carried the weight of promise that was unyielding and almost dangerous. He would not let her go.

Anne looked at him, her lips curling into the smallest of smiles, while Ominis sat in silence, the flush on his pale cheeks betraying his heart.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The warmth of the Fig household wrapped around you like a blanket. Boxing Day was quieter than Christmas had been, the air fragrant with spiced cider and roasted chestnuts lingering from the day before. You sat at the table with Miriam and Eleazar, eating your way through the remains of yesterday's feast. Thick slices of goose, buttered parsnips, and a sliver of Christmas pudding that Miriam insisted you "must finish, or it will go to waste."

"How has Hogwarts been treating you?" Eleazar asked, his voice carrying both paternal warmth and scholarly curiosity.

You smiled faintly, a fork poised in your hand. "It's been oh so busy... but good. I've been practising with ancient magic more often. Learning how to yield it more." As you mention yielding it you realise you've lost count to the amount of poachers you've turned into chickens...

Miriam, who had been drinking her mulled wine, set it down with a gentle clink. Her soft eyes studied you with a mixture of motherly concern and sharp insight. "And your cameo locket? You've scarcely mentioned it since you first arrived. Has it stirred at all?"

Your fingers drifted almost unconsciously to the chain resting against your collarbone. The carved faces in the ivory had become so familiar under your touch that they felt like an extension of yourself. "It hums," you admitted softly. "Sometimes stronger, sometimes faint, but always there. Beyond that... no answers. Just the hum."

Miriam leaned back, thoughtful, her brow creasing slightly. "Ancient magic rarely reveals itself in a single stroke. It waits for its moment. But do not underestimate it, Darling. that locket is older than even I can guess. Treat it as you would a sleeping beast: quiet, but full of power."

The three of you lingered at the table, the warmth of the hearth chasing off the chill from outside. Eleazar poured himself another cup of tea, his expression softened by the homely scene.

"I've taken on a new apprentice of sorts to assist me with research," Miriam said, smoothing the edge of her napkin. "He's been helping me investigate a ruin we believe once belonged to Salazar Slytherin. It's suspected the founders are all users of Ancient Magic. I mean they did build Hogwarts." Said Miriam. "Oh Anyways, I was loosing track! The young man is a descendant of Slytherin. His name is Thorne." She added.

Your fork stilled against your food. "A Gaunt?" you asked, brows lifting. "Perhaps he's Ominis' brother."

"Indeed," Eleazar nodded, adjusting his spectacles. "Ominis Gaunt is in my Magic Theory class. Bright student, attentive, and far more disciplined than most of his peers. He doesn't let his blindness get in the way of being a skilled young wizard."

"He's a good friend," you said, unable to keep the softness from your voice.

Miriam's lips curved in a knowing smile as she reached for her teacup. "He sounds like a fine young man. Tell me..." she tilted her head with a teasing glimmer "is he the one you baked the treacle tart for?"

Your cheeks grew warm at once, and you ducked your gaze to your plate. "Yes... and I only hope he received it."

Eleazar gave a quiet chuckle into his hand while Miriam reached to brush a stray lock of hair back from your face. "If he has, my dear, then you've given him a gift sweeter than any charm or spell."

Your cheeks still tingled from Miriam's tease, but curiosity stirred stronger than embarrassment. You set your fork down, glancing between the two of them.

"Forgive me for asking," you said softly, "but please could you tell me what you know about the Gaunt family? Ominis has shared pieces here and there, yet I do not wish to press him since his relationship is strained with his family."

Miriam and Eleazar exchanged a look, the kind that spoke of unspoken agreement, and then Eleazar sighed.

"They are an old family, one of the sacred 29- erm 28 now." he began gravely, folding his hands upon the table. "A proud one, though pride, I fear, has soured into something else entirely. Their lineage stretches directly back to Salazar Slytherin himself. That fact alone has kept their name whispered with both awe and... unease."

"They are not numerous now," Miriam added gently, stirring her tea. "Only a handful remain, from what we know. Centuries of clinging to blood purity have dwindled their numbers. They have a habit of marrying cousins, preserving their line by any means. It means it's not uncommon among the older more conservative pure-blood families, but the Gaunts have taken it extreme."

Eleazar's mouth tightened. "The result has been decay of fortune, of reputation, and, I daresay, of character. They cling to whatever they can of Slytherin's legacy, hoarded whatever heirlooms they can. yet their home and habits tell another story."

Miriam reached across the table and covered your hand lightly with hers. "That Ominis has turned out so different speaks volumes. He bears the name, but not the poison. That is no small feat, Y/N."

You nodded slowly, your thoughts drifting to him. his slight aloof nature and personality. The weight of his surname seemed heavier than you had realised.

Miriam looked over at you, her expression softening. "His brother Thorne, though... he does seem like a good young man," she said after a moment. "I'm a Muggleborn myself, and he's worked beside me without a single hint of that awful pure-blood nonsense. Quite the opposite, really. He's polite, clever... and—" she gave a small, almost amused smile, "he speaks fondly of his twin sister, which tells me there's heart in him somewhere. Still, I'll admit... he's an odd one. Quiet, stares a little too long, keeps things close to his chest. But then—" she chuckled, shaking her head, "so am I. Odd, that is. Perhaps that's why I don't mind him much."

Eleazar leaned back in his chair with a hum. "Perhaps a sign of sense, to distance himself from them."

Miriam nodded, though her gaze was steady on you. "It is easy to forget that not every child reflects the sins of their house. Some make a choice to stand apart. Ominis... and perhaps his brother as well."

Her words lingered with you, planting a small seed of curiosity.

Your mind drifted, unbidden, to Ominis. What had he truly meant when he said his family was "awful"? You knew of his father's cruelty, and he had mentioned siblings here and there, seven in total, if you recalled correctly... but little else. Nothing else on his  mother other than the fact she enjoys knitting and sends him jumpers weekly, nor where the Gaunt estate even lay. He never volunteered such details, and you had never even asked him. You don't want to make him uncomfortable.

It struck you now how little you knew of his beginnings. His speech carried the status. Clipped, deliberate, precise. Slightly aristocratic, but certainly the polished inflection of those raised to mind their vowels. It could have placed him anywhere in the south of England, though the exact location a mystery. He was, in that sense, almost untethered, an enigma of origins, suspended somewhere between refinement and secrecy.

You wondered, not for the first time, what shadows clung to the halls of the house that had raised him.

Miriam set down her teacup with a faint clink, her brows knitting. "The Gaunts are... not a family to trifle with, my dear. Particularly Caspian Gaunt, their patriarch. His temper is as black as pitch, and though the family's standing has waned, they remain dangerously well-connected. One does not simply cross a man like Caspian without consequence."

Eleazar gave a thoughtful hum, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Respected still, by the right sort of people. Chief among them our dear Headmaster." He spoke, laced with sarcasm.

"Phineas Nigellus Black," Miriam muttered, rolling her eyes skyward. "What a prat."

That earned a low chuckle from her husband. He leaned nearer, his voice dropping, more confidential now. "She is not wrong. Yet I must ask my young student, what is said in this room must remain in it. Promise me, that. My dear Miriam has strong opinions and I gravely respect them." He leans over and kissed his wife's cheek softly.

You nodded at once, earnest. "Of course, sir. You have my word."

"Good," Eleazar said gravely, though his gaze softened as it lingered on you. "Then take heed. The Gaunts carry a name that still bends ears in certain circles. Be cautious of what you learn and who you repeat it to."

Eleazar's expression gentled, the stern note in his voice easing. "However," he added, "do not mistake me, I've no wish to discourage your relationship with young Ominis. He is a good lad, clever, and steady. And," he gave you a faintly teasing smile, "you seem very fond of him. And... he seems fond of you too."

Heat crept into your cheeks, and you busied yourself with the hem of your sleeve rather than meet his knowing look. Miriam arched a brow at her husband, a wry smile tugging her lips, but said nothing. Instead, she rose and patted your shoulder.

"It's getting late," she said softly. "Off to bed with you, before the hour steals all your strength. A week and a half remains until you return to school,use it wisely."

You nodded and bid them both goodnight, the warmth of their firelit parlour still clinging to you as you made your way upstairs. In the quiet of the guest bedroom, you changed into your nightie and slipped beneath the quilt. The mattress embraced you in its familiar comfort, and though the wind tapped at the windowpanes, you lay back with a sigh of contentment.

A week and a half till school began again. A week and a half till you would see your friends. And, whether you admitted it aloud or not, you miss his dearly and long for him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

You're dreaming. You know it, and yet every detail clings to you with the weight of reality.

Cold stone pressed beneath your boots, damp and uneven. The air was thick, dripping with rot and echoes that shivered through the cavern walls. Ruins, or perhaps a catacomb... you could not yet tell. Shapes blurred at the edges of your vision, slipping into focus only to melt away again.

A voice cut through the haze. Familiar, yet muffled, like hearing someone shout through water. You then recognise the voice to be of your dear friend, Sebastian Sallow.

The words weren't clear, though his anger bled through every syllable.

And then you saw it.

Green light. Unholy, sickening, unmistakable. It tore through the dark and struck a figure in the chest, sending them crumpling to the ground. Their face was a blur, no matter how you strained to see, shifting and twisting away as though the dream itself forbade you from knowing.

Your gut twisted violently. You knew what it was. The Killing Curse. Avada Kedavra.

The echo of its strike rang through the chamber, vibrating in your bones, and then a dead silence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

You jolted awake in your bed hyperventilating, breath ragged, skin damp with cold sweat. Already the dream was unraveling, slipping from your memory like smoke. Only one thing remained clear in your chest. A feeling of utter dread.

You slapped both palms to your cheeks, grounding yourself, desperate to shake the horrid feeling away. But you knew. You knew what was going to happen.

This was no ordinary dream.

It was a vision. Clear and cruel, the kind that left a residue of sickness in your gut. Your head spun, heart pounding against your ribs as though it wanted to escape.

Sebastian.

The green light still burned behind your eyes, flickering with every blink. Your stomach turned as the truth crystallised within you: he was going to go down a dark path. You didn't know when, or how, but it would end in death.

Someone's death. Someone close.

And for the first time, you felt powerless to stop it.

It was all so overwhelming.

And to make your nerves more known today was the day you would return to Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. The new year had dawned, It's now 1891. A fresh start, or so it ought to have felt. Yet you knew better. There were too many threads tangled in your life to simply begin anew. Ranrok's rebellion and hunger for power. Especially the power that runs through your veins, Rookwood's schemes lingered in the shadows, and the final Keeper's trial loomed heavy on your mind. Then there was Natty and her struggle with Harlow, a battle you'd promised to help her finish.

And beyond the battles, there were your friends. Your relationships. Your feelings about Ominis were a whirlpool of emotion you could scarcely make sense of. It's terrifying almost. But so beautiful. A beautiful feeling that leaves you warm and fuzzy inside.

Your nerves bubbled up in your chest, tight and insistent. You pressed a hand there, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use. What you needed was something grounding. Something ordinary.

A bath. Yes. That would wake you, soothe you, and clear your mind before the carriages rolled back to the castle.

You opened the door to the soft meow of Hades winding himself round your ankles, his large, fluffy, black tail flicking high in greeting.

"Good morning, boy," you murmured fondly, bending to scratch behind his ears. "You must get yourself ready for the journey ahead, too." He purred as you slipped past him into the Fig's bathroom.

The room was modest but elegant, as was Miriam's taste. Light coloured walls with some pops of colour, polished wooden flooring overhead, and a decent sized bathtub gleaming in the lamplight. Soft cotton towels, neatly folded, lay on a wrought-iron rack, and a ceramic basin with a small mirror stood beneath the window. What marked it as a wizard's home was the bath itself; with a lazy flick of your wand, steaming water poured forth from the brass taps, filling the tub in moments. Magic had a way of making the simplest chores delightful and you could not help but smile at it.

You stripped off your nightclothes and sank into the warmth with a sigh. The heat eased the ache from your limbs, soothing the tension in your chest left by uneasy dreams. You washed carefully, running the wash cloth over your arms, your neck, your hair, until you felt properly awake, clean and ready.

Stepping out, you reached for your wand where it rested on the chair. With a simple charm, the water vanished from your skin in an instant. You smiled faintly to yourself; how tedious it must be for the younger students, forbidden from using magic outside school. You're glad you're of age now.

Back in your room, you dressed layer by layer: first the chemise, then your drawers and wool stockings for the January chill. You laced your blouse, buttoned the familiar yellow tartan skirt, and fastened your fitted waistcoat, the bumblebee-striped tie completing the ensemble. Your fingers lingered over the cameo brooch as you pinned it to your bodice. Practical, yes. Can be worn as either necklace or brooch, but also mysterious. Each time you touched it, you wondered anew: was this the link to your mother, some secret you had yet to uncover?

You laced your dark-coloured heeled boots, smoothed your skirt, sprayed the faintest trace of your perfume, and caught sight of your reflection. Presentable. Composed. Almost like any other girl, save for the secret weight of the world tucked close to your heart.

Your trunk was packed, Athena asleep in her cage, Hades already settled in his carrier. You brought everything down to the small parlour where Professor Fig awaited with a smile.

"All ready to go?" Eleazar asked warmly.

"Yes! But where is Miriam?" you replied, glancing about.

"She was called away early on business," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "She wished you well, my young student. You'll have to send her an owl later."

You nodded, a little pang in your chest. "I will."

Outside, the frosted morning air nipped at your cheeks as you approached the waiting carriage. Thestrals stood harnessed, their skeletal wings restless in the cold, their ghostly eyes watching. Just like the one that had carried you to Hogwarts for the very first time. Your throat tightened with the memory of poor George Osric, the price of that journey.

The driver took your trunk and crates with brisk efficiency, loading them with ease. You climbed into the carriage, settling opposite Eleazar, and pulled from your satchel a thick, leather-bound book stamped in gilt: "A Compendium of Two Thousand Enchantments and Spells". A trusty companion for the road, and one to steady your mind.

The carriage jolted, then rolled forward. Hogwarts awaited for you.

The journey north unfolded beneath a pale winter sky. Frost glazed the fields and hedgerows, each branch glittering like spun glass. The rhythmic clatter of hooves lulled you into uneasy thought; every turn of the wheel seemed to echo the dream's refrain — that awful burst of green.

"You're quiet," Professor Fig observed after a time, glancing over his spectacles.

You hesitated. "I had a dream," you admitted softly. "It felt real."

His brows knit in quiet understanding. "You've been seeing more of them, haven't you? Visions."

You nodded. "They're growing stronger. I think... something terrible is coming."

Fig sighed, the lines at his eyes deepening. "Then we must tread carefully. Prophecy can guide, but it can also haunt. Do not let fear shape the path before you, my dear."

You tried to take comfort in his words, but the unease remained — a whisper threading through the rumble of the carriage wheels.

You tried to take comfort in his words, but the unease stayed with you, a quiet whisper beneath the rumble of the carriage wheels. Hours still lay ahead before you would reach the castle. Outside, snow covered the fields in pale silence, the world drifting by like a dream half remembered.

You looked back to your book, scanning a passage on hair-braiding charms. The words blurred together; you were not truly reading. After a moment, you closed it and glanced at Fig. A question has been on your mind.

"Professor Fig," you said softly, "how did you and Miriam meet?"

He looked up, surprised at first, then smiled. "She was my assistant once. Fresh out of Hogwarts and far too curious for her own good. We worked together on theoretical enchantment, studying how emotion affects spellwork." His eyes softened. "I first fell in love with her smile. It had a way of brightening even the dullest research room."

You smiled at the thought. "She must love you very much."

He chuckled, the sound warm and fond. "I hope she does. I love her very much."

The carriage rocked gently over the frozen road. The moment between you felt calm and comfortable. You watched the lamplight move across his face, softening the fine lines of age and thought.

After a pause, you asked, "And how is Dylan?"

At the mention of his son, Eleazar tensed a little, though his voice stayed steady when he spoke. "Dylan is well, I think. Busy, as always. You know how he is, a restless spirit. He has been working in America for the past few years and visits when he can..."

You nodded, remembering the one time you had met him. "He seemed kind, it was short and sweet but he's dedicated to his work." you said.

"He is," Fig replied, though a trace of wistfulness touched his voice. "A good man, clever, perhaps too clever for his own peace of mind. Miriam and I are proud of him, even if he prefers a life half a world away."

Silence settled again, filled only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the hiss of wind against the carriage walls. You sensed a quiet ache behind his words, the ache of distance and time.

"It must be difficult, being so far from him," you said gently.

He smiled faintly. "It is, sometimes. But one grows used to absence in this line of work. I have my students now. They keep me busy enough." His gaze softened as he looked at you. "Some of them feel as close as family."

Your chest warmed. "I'm honoured you think of me that way, sir."

"I should hope you do," he said, the sadness easing from his tone. "You have become quite dear to both Miriam and me. She often wonders if you still leave your books open on the kitchen table."

You laughed quietly. "She remembers that?"

"Of course. She says it is how she knows you are thinking."

The carriage swayed again, the rhythm steady and calm. You turned to the window, watching the snow drift past the glass. The warmth of his words lingered, though the weight of your dream still pressed against your thoughts. The flash of green light, the cry, the dread that refused to fade.

Somewhere ahead, through the frost and the fog, Hogwarts waited.

The silence that followed was soft, not uncomfortable. The sound of the carriage wheels filled it, steady and rhythmic. After a while, Fig shifted in his seat and spoke again.

"They are planning a change for next term," he said, his voice thoughtful. "The Ministry and Headmaster Black have agreed that travel to Hogwarts will soon be made uniform. They intend to make it mandatory for all students to take the Hogwarts Express from King's Cross."

You looked up, surprised for a moment, then smiled. "I do not mind that, to be honest. It would be nice to sit with my friends on the long journey."

He nodded, pleased. "It will certainly make the logistics easier. Though I expect it will not please everyone."

You laughed quietly. "I imagine not. What about students like Sebastian, who already live in Scotland? It seems rather pointless for them to travel all the way south just to come back again."

Fig chuckled. "Quite right. But when has the Ministry ever been known for practicality?"

"True enough," you said with a grin. "Thank Ignatia Wildsmith for Floo Powder, and—well—for Apparition too, once I've fully mastered it."

"That will come with time," Fig said kindly. "And when it does, you will find there are few places you cannot reach."

You smiled faintly at that, looking back toward the window. The snow had grown thicker now, falling in lazy spirals that blurred the edges of the world outside. The carriage rocked gently beneath you, warm and dimly lit, and for a fleeting moment the unease from your dream felt distant.

The thought of the castle waiting ahead filled you with something steadier than dread, something like belonging. Soon you would see your friends again, walk those familiar halls, and feel the comfort of knowing exactly where you were meant to be.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop at the castle gates, the world had faded into twilight. You stepped out into the cold, the familiar scent of pine and snow filling your lungs. The lamps along the path burned warmly, guiding your way toward the towering doors of Hogwarts.

Professor Fig helped you down before glancing toward the Great Hall. "I must attend to something before dinner," he said, adjusting his coat. "You should hurry along. The feast will be starting soon."

You nodded, smiling. "Of course, Professor. I'll see you later."

He returned the smile, then disappeared down one of the side corridors, leaving you to make your way alone.

You climbed the grand staircase, the air buzzing faintly with the castle's magic. The paintings greeted you like old friends, their colours glowing in the lamplight. One portrait, of a young man playing a lute, caught your eye. He looked down as you passed, his expression soft and a little daring. For a moment, you could have sworn the tune he played was meant for you—and, judging by the dreamy faces of several passing witches, for everyone else as well.

You shook your head with a quiet laugh and carried on.

The Great Hall doors stood open, spilling golden light into the corridor. Inside, the long tables gleamed beneath floating candles. The air was filled with the murmur of returning students and the comforting smell of roast and spice.

Your gaze found the Slytherin table almost at once. Sebastian and Ominis sat side by side, their heads turned toward one another in quiet conversation. Sebastian noticed you and gestured animatedly, as he always did, while Ominis listened with that patient half-smile of his. You wished you could join them, but new term feasts meant sitting with your own house.

You scanned the Hufflepuff table for a familiar face and spotted Poppy near the end, laughing brightly with two other students. Every seat around her was already taken.

Suppressing a sigh, you moved further down and took an empty spot beside two unfamiliar students who were both friendly enough, though their names escaped you the moment they spoke them. Still, it was pleasant to be surrounded by chatter and warmth after so many weeks away.

As you settled in, you couldn't help glancing once more toward the Slytherin table. Ominis sat with his hands folded neatly before him, head tilted just slightly, as though he sensed your gaze even across the room.

You quickly turned back to your plate, cheeks warm, pretending to busy yourself with the bread rolls.

You slipped out of the Great Hall as the chatter began to fade, the last of the candles flickering overhead. The night air that drifted in through the castle's corridors carried the scent of cold stone and wood smoke. You had only taken a few steps toward the staircase when two familiar figures came into view.

"Ah, there's our favourite badger," Sebastian called, weaving through the departing students. His grin was quick and familiar, though his eyes softened when they met yours. "Thought we'd lost you to Professor Fig for good."

You smiled. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me for now."

Ominis stood just beside him, his posture neat as always, wand resting lightly in his hand. "It's good to hear your voice again," he said quietly. "How was your holiday?"

"It was... peaceful," you replied, though your smile faltered for a moment. "And yours?"

Sebastian's grin brightened. "Feldcroft was the same as always. Snowy, loud, and full of food. Boxing Day was enjoyable, right Ominis."

You turned to Ominis. "I thought you went home?"

There was a pause, small but noticeable. his shoulders stiffened slightly. "For a couple of hours," he said, his tone careful. "But I'll explain in the Undercroft, if you care to join me... err us." The faint correction in his voice made you smile.

Sebastian smirked. "I told him he could've just said we'd like to talk, but you know Ominis, never one for unnecessary words."

Ominis exhaled in quiet amusement. "Or unnecessary commentary."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "All right, all right. The Undercroft it is."

Sebastian's grin widened. "Knew you'd say yes. Come on then, before anyone notices we've gone wandering off again."

Walking along the corridors, your footsteps echoing softly over the stone floors. The castle felt quieter now that most students had returned to their dormitories, the torches flickering low and steady. The air had that stillness Hogwarts always held at night, as though the walls themselves were listening.

You found your gaze drifting to Ominis. His expression had softened since dinner, the faintest smile resting on his lips. A rare, unguarded sort of peace that made your chest ache. The light from the torches caught the side of his face, brushing gold across his sharp cheekbones and the pale curve of his jaw. You couldn't seem to look away.

Even the way he held his wand drew your attention: fingers relaxed but sure, his movements graceful and precise without thought. There was something captivating about him when he was unaware of being watched, something steady and quietly beautiful.

You looked away for a moment, your heart fluttering against your ribs, only to find your eyes sliding back to him again. It was hopeless.

Your thoughts drifted suddenly to the treacle tart you'd sent him over the holidays. You could still picture it wrapped neatly in parchment and tied with a pretty ribbon, the note you'd written folded carefully beneath. You wondered if it had reached him safely. You hoped he'd liked it. You'd ask soon, once the moment felt right.

The three of you wound your way up the tower's spiral staircase, the castle darkening with each level until you reached the long, dead-end corridor of the Defence Against the Dark Arts wing. The grandfather clock at the far end ticked softly in the silence, its pendulum swinging in slow rhythm.

Sebastian glanced around to make sure no one was nearby, then leaned casually against the wall. Ominis lifted his wand, tracing a familiar pattern in the air on the clock opening the front up.

"After you," Ominis said quietly, stepping aside. His sleeve brushed yours as you passed, and warmth bloomed through you despite the chill in the air.

The three of you slipped inside. The stone sealed behind you, cutting off the faint ticking of the clock above.

The Undercroft was exactly as you remembered. Dim, cool, and still. The air smelled faintly of dust and candle smoke, the only light coming from the lanterns that hung from the ceiling.

You love this space and you love being with your two favourite Slytherins.

The three of you sat together on the old, dusty sofa tucked against the wall. It gave a soft creak beneath your weight, stirring a faint puff of dust into the candlelight. The Undercroft felt still and safe, its quiet warmth wrapping around you like a familiar cloak.

Sebastian spoke first, grinning. "Nice tart you sent us! Didn't know you could bake."

Thank you Sebastian for reminding you of it as well you were going to mention it but it slipped from your mind. Before you could reply though, Ominis turned slightly toward him, the corner of his mouth curving into a rare smile. "Sebastian, the tart was actually addressed to me," he said, his tone light but teasing.

Sebastian scoffed. "Yes, well, I was simply ensuring it was edible before you risked your delicate constitution. Who knows it could've been laced with poison." He teased.

You couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped you. "Glad you both enjoyed it," you said warmly. "I admit, it was a rather large tart and was perfect for sharing."

Ominis tilted his head toward you, his expression softening. "How did you know it was my favourite?"

You met his pale eyes, luminous in the candlelight. "I went with intuition," you admitted. "And I suppose I was right."

He smiled faintly. "You were. I did enjoy it very much."

You felt your cheeks warm. "I'm glad you did, Ominis. I felt as though you needed something something sweet."

He hesitated before answering. "I did... thank you, my dear..." His voice faltered for a moment, and colour rose up his neck. "...friend," he added quickly, his posture straightening as if he could will the slip away.

Sebastian snickered under his breath. "Careful, Ominis, that almost sounded affectionate."

"Almost?" Ominis replied, trying for composure, though his face betrayed him with the faintest shade of pink. "What I meant to say," he continued, "is that I appreciate the gesture."

You smiled gently, but your mind caught on the words he had almost said. My dear. The phrase echoed in your thoughts, soft but persistent, replaying with every small silence between you. The way it was spoken softly from his mouth. Unthinking, natural and had sounded less like a mistake and more like something that had nearly slipped past the guard he so carefully kept.

You found yourself wondering whether he had meant to call you his dear.

Sebastian had already moved from the seat, rummaging through a pile of books nearby and muttering about something you couldn't quite pick up on. But your attention stayed on Ominis and the slight downward tilt of his head, the faint crease between his brows, the quiet effort to appear composed.

You smiled again, small and private, letting the thought stay unspoken. For now, at least.

And as the candlelight flickered around you, the word dear lingered like a whisper in your chest, soft and impossibly sweet.

 

You shifted a little closer, your voice gentle. "Ominis, what happened? You said your family summoned you home. You can tell me if you want to. No pressure on you to do so."

He hesitated slightly, his jaw tightening as he drew in a slow breath. "My father wrote to me near the end of term," he began. "Said my mother had fallen ill and  had demanded me to home straight away."

His expression darkened, the faint smile that had lingered from before vanishing entirely. "It was a trick," he said quietly. "She wasn't sick. They only wanted me back under their roof."

He stopped there. The rest of the sentence seemed to die in his throat. The silence that followed stretched heavy and uneasy, filled only by the soft ticking of the clock somewhere far above. His knuckles had gone pale where they rested on his wand.

Ominis couldn't bring himself to tell you the rest. What had happened after that dinner. His father confronting him about dancing with you and demanding an explanation. When he couldn't give him one he fully expected him to use crucio on him but no, he did the worse. Forcing the truth from him. Forcing a truth he didn't fully get understand. Something he had kept deep within and hasn't fully brought to the surface yet.

You could see there was more, there was something he couldn't bring himself to share. The words hovered at the edge of his lips but refused to leave. You didn't want to force him.

You hesitated before reaching out, your fingers brushing his shoulder in quiet reassurance. He flinched at the contact, just barely, and you pulled your hand back at once. "I- I'm so sorry," you stammered, your chest tightening. "I didn't mean to—"

Before you could finish, his hand moved instinctively, catching yours in his. His grip was warm, steady despite the tremor in his voice. "Don't be," he said softly. "Don't ever apologise. You did nothing wrong."

Your breath caught. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, almost unconsciously.

"A-and I'm sorry," he continued, voice lower now, "that I cannot finish explaining what happened. Only that I... ran. I managed to Apparate to Feldcroft and stay with Anne and Sebastian. It's where I usually stay when not forced to return home."

You swallowed, the ache in your chest deepening at the quiet weight of his words. His hand was still around yours, fingers curled loosely as if he hadn't yet realised he was still holding on.

"I'm glad you did," you said gently. "You're safe now. That's what matters."

He nodded faintly, but his eyes... those pale, distant pools seemed to look right through the candlelight, as though seeing something far away.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but full of something unspoken... something that trembled quietly between your joined hands.

You swallowed, the ache in your chest deepening at the quiet weight of his words. Your heart rate growing faster by the second. His hand was still touching, hesitant at first, then steadier as neither of you pulled away.

You turned your palm to meet his properly, your fingers sliding between his until your hands rested together. His skin was cool to the touch, slightly smooth but also calloused . His fingers were long and slender, elegant in their shape, yet his grip was careful and gentle enough that you could have pulled away at any moment, though you didn't.

The touch was grounding. You could feel the faint tremor in his hand ease as he breathed, the tension in his shoulders softening little by little.

Ominis' thumb brushed against the back of your hand once, almost without thought. His hands were beautiful, you realised hands that had never needed sight to be precise, to find their way, to hold something with meaning.

The silence in the room was warm, weighted, filled with everything neither of you yet knew how to say.

The room had fallen into a peaceful hush. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the old clock above and the quiet rustle of pages as Sebastian skimmed through a stack of dusty books on the far side of the room.

The room had settled into a gentle quiet, the clock above ticking steadily as Sebastian flipped through a book on the far side of the room. You sat back in the sofa chair, your hand still resting in Ominis's.

After a while, you felt a faint weight against your shoulder. It was subtle at first, then steadier. You turned your head slightly and saw him there, fast asleep, his head resting against you. His face looked softer in sleep, the usual lines of tension gone. The sight made your chest feel light and warm, a flutter of something tender rising inside you.

The peace was short-lived. "Well," Sebastian's voice cut through the quiet, "looks like one of you's finally relaxed."

Ominis stirred instantly, blinking as he straightened, a faint pink colouring his cheeks. You bit back a smile, watching as he tried, and failed, to compose himself.

"I— I can explain myself," Ominis said quickly, his voice still heavy with sleep.

"Can you?" Sebastian replied, a grin spreading across his face as he shut the book with a quiet snap.

You couldn't help but smile at their exchange, though a small pang tugged at you. The warmth that had lingered where Ominis's head had rested was already fading, the weight gone from your shoulder.

"It's all right, Ominis," you said softly. "I'm just glad you were able to rest."

He turned toward you, lips parting as if to argue, but the faintest trace of a smile betrayed him instead.

Sebastian stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. "Speaking of rest," he said, glancing toward the darkened ceiling, "it's getting late. We've got lessons in the morning and if I'm not mistaken, a certain someone has a Keeper's trial waiting."

You nodded, feeling the familiar pull of anticipation and unease mix in your chest. The peace of the Undercroft would have to wait; tomorrow promised new mysteries, and perhaps, more moments like this one.

This is all so overwhelming," you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended. The words hung in the still air, fragile and honest.

Ominis turned his head slightly toward you, his expression softening. Sebastian, for once, said nothing, simply watching with a faint, knowing smile.

"I have more things to learn," you added, almost to yourself. The thought felt heavy but right, like a truth you couldn't ignore.

Ominis gave a small nod. "Then you'll learn them," he said, his tone steady, certain. "You always do."

Sebastian rose from his chair, stretching as he glanced toward the Undercroft's archway. "And we'll be there," he said simply. "Now, come on. Before Professor Sharp decides to start lessons before dawn again."

You exhaled a quiet laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. For tonight, that was enough.

By the time you reached your dormitory, the castle had fallen quiet. The fire in the grate burned low, washing the room in gold and shadow. You sat on the edge of your bed, thoughts circling like restless birds. San Bakar's trial lingered heavy in your mind, the echo of what you had seen refusing to fade. And still, you found your thoughts drifting to Ominis and the warmth that had rested so briefly against your shoulder.

It should have brought peace, yet all you felt was the weight of what remained undone. The final trial, perhaps, but not the end. There was still so much you did not understand. You thought of Rookwood's memory, of Isidora and the pain she took from her father. Sebastian's voice returned to you, filled with that fragile hope. You could help Anne. But what Isidora did was not healing. It was sacrifice.

There must be something you can do. The thought pressed against your ribs, sharp and certain. Watching Sebastian lose himself to dark magic was agony, watching it pull him away from everyone who cared for him even more so. You wanted to help him, to help Anne, to find a way to use your gift as it was meant to be used.

You looked to the window. The first threads of dawn were creeping through the glass, pale and new. Tomorrow, you told yourself, you would search again. The answers were out there, waiting for you to find them.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The roar of the sea echoed in your ears as you stood before the great creature known as the Lord of the Shore. The air was thick with salt and tension, your breath shallow as the Graphorn pawed at the ground, its molten eyes fixed upon you. Every instinct screamed to run, yet you held your ground. Slowly, you lowered your wand, bowing your head in respect. The beast's snarl softened to a low rumble, and for a heartbeat the world stilled. When you dared to look up, the creature was staring back, its gaze unreadable yet strangely knowing. You smiled faintly, relief washing over you as it knelt before you, allowing you to place a hand against its ancient, scarred hide. Power hummed beneath your fingertips, wild and steady. It had accepted you.

Somewhere far away, within the still warmth of Hogwarts, Ominis Gaunt sat alone in the study room. He had no idea where Sebastian was as well he didn't show up to lessons. Perhaps something to do with Slytherin's spellbook. Ominis grimaced at the thought.

The room was quiet but not completely silent,. It was filled with the pleasant hum of life. The faint clatter of chess pieces, the rustle of parchment, the low laughter of students gathered by the fire. He preferred this over the library, where quiet pressed just a little too much, and every sound felt like an intrusion. Here, the world felt more gentle. Also, cats aren't allowed in the Library and Ominis thinks that is ridiculous, they make the perfect study partners.

He sat curled in one of the armchairs near the window, his wand guiding over the open book in his lap. He would never admit it aloud, but he had a fondness for romance novels. They were predictable in the best of ways, a safe refuge where love always triumphed. His lips curved faintly at a line he'd just read, one that spoke of devotion without needing sight to see it.

He was so lost in his book that he barely noticed the soft thump of paws before a sudden weight settled onto his lap. A deep, rumbling purr followed, vibrating through his robes.

"Oh," he murmured, setting his book aside. "Making yourself comfortable, are you?"

If you come to this study area it's guaranteed you'll have a cat either next to you or upon you.

He ran his hand through thick, silky fur, and at once recognised the softness. The size. The warmth.

"Hades," Ominis said quietly, smiling to himself. "I should have known."

He continued to stroke the cat, the low purring melting into the comforting sounds of the room. Hades was heavier than most cats, half Kneazle as you stated. Ominis likes the creature immensely, he's very intelligent but rather clingy. There was something reassuring about him, something that reminded him of you. He likes his purr and well he likes your voice.

His mind wandered back to you again...

You were out there somewhere, facing danger again, doing what others could not or would not. His chest tightened at the thought. He admired you deeply. Your courage, your power, your loyalty but the worry never left him. You carried too much on your shoulders. He wished he could share some of it, wished you would let him.

He had once misjudged greatly. Now, he could not imagine his life without your presence. He loved your voice, the way it filled a room without needing to be loud. He wondered what you sounded like while singing, he's heard you hum a couple of times.

He'd felt your hand a few times now, soft and sure, and still remembered the warmth of it. You'd let him kiss it once, bare skin against skin, and he'd spent nights wondering if you'd meant to let him.

There were whispers, of course. Ominis doesn't tend to believe rumours unless there's proof but there's one that's struck him. You and Amit having feelings for each other.

He likes Amit. How could anyone not? Intelligent, curious, with a heart of gold and an admirable love for the stars but the thought of you together made something inside him ache in a way he didn't quite understand. He can't even remember who's voice it was he heard say it.

He sighed softly, letting Hades' weight ground him. The cat shifted, purring louder, pressing close. Ominis smiled, his voice low and affectionate.

"You're a sweet boy," he said, scratching lightly behind the cat's ear. "I do hope you approve of me, not many do."

The thought of you lingered like the taste of the treacle tart you'd sent him for Christmas. Sweet and soft, every bite made with care. He could still remember its warmth, its scent, the way it made him feel something dangerously close to loved. He should've got you something in return, but what...

He leaned back in the chair, Hades' purring rumbling against him like a heartbeat. "She would laugh if she saw me now," he murmured. "Jealous of her cat."

He had a few of Aunt Noctua's belongings, small keepsakes he could never bring himself to part with. One of them sat tucked away in his dormitory, a serpent-shaped bracelet that had once encircled her wrist. When he was very young, she had given it to him, pressing it into his hand with a smile. "If you ever find someone worth courting, give them this," she had said. "Not to bind, but to show you care."

He had never forgotten her words, though the meaning of them had grown heavier with time. The bracelet fastened with Parseltongue, an enchantment meant to claim in the old Gaunt tradition. It was not a trinket of affection but of ownership, and the thought of offering it to anyone filled him with unease. What if she mistook his intent? What if she thought he wanted to claim her, to make her his possession? The very idea made his stomach twist.

He wasn't even sure what the bracelet was made of. Gold, silver, perhaps platinum. He would use his wand later to be certain, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was the fear that if he gave it to her, it might carry the wrong kind of meaning. Aunt Noctua had meant it as a token of love. His family would see it as something far darker.

"She'd laugh at us if were here right now, boy." He spoke to the feline with a slight smile, trying to distract his busy mind.

The cat purred louder as if he was giving an answer, and Ominis chuckled quietly to himself, the faintest blush colouring his pale cheeks.

The purring lulled him into thought. He found his fingers stilling in Hades' fur as his mind began to wander again. First gently, then with that quiet ache he could never seem to shake.

You had done so much for him already. Far more than he ever deserved.

His thumb brushed absently over Hades' soft back as memories surfaced: the cold, echoing walls of Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium, the air thick with dust and dread. He remembered how the stone hissed under his feet, how the magic in the air pressed like a weight against his chest. You had handed him his aunt Noctua's wand there. Her wand, lost for years, hidden among her last words and her suffering. You had spoken her name with respect, with kindness, as though she were not a cautionary tale but a woman to be mourned.

He swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his chest. He could still hear you scream. The sound had carved itself into his bones, sharp and unrelenting. While you endured the curse, he had stood in the corner, useless and terrified, his wand heavy in his trembling hand. The one moment in his life he's greatful he doesn't have sight. He could not stop it, could not bear it. He had felt like a coward. Good thing he didn't see it but hearing your screams was worse.

Sebastian had acted; you had sacrificed yourself for them both. And Ominis... Ominis had hidden behind his own fear. He told himself he was helpless, that he couldn't risk hurting you further, but deep down, he knew it was cowardice. A part of him had always been his father's son, too afraid of power, too afraid of what he might become if he used it.

And she is wonderful.

Her warmth. Her voice. The quiet certainty she carries even when her hands tremble. She sees the world in ways he never could, not just through sight but through something far deeper. Her gift, her curse, her being able to see beyond the veil. It both frightened and fascinated him, she saw his darkness memory and that power within her, that ancient kind of magic that shimmered beneath her skin... it set her apart from everyone.

He had known since the beginning that she wasn't ordinary. But then again, neither was he.

Two individuals of mystery. Two who didn't quite belong anywhere but seemed to understand each other all the same.

The Seer and the Son of Serpents.

He almost smiled at the thought. It sounded like the title of a book he would read. Tragic, beautiful, and inevitably doomed with a hopeful happy ending. Perhaps that was why he loved it. Perhaps that was why he loved her.

Because Ominis Gaunt was in love with her.

He could deny it to Sebastian, to himself, to anyone who dared ask, but his soul can't lie. Not in the quiet, not with her cat asleep in his lap and her sweet laughter echoing somewhere in the back of his mind. The truth sat heavy in his chest, warm and aching all at once.

He loved her curiosity, her stubbornness, her way of asking questions that no one else would dare to. He loved the way she treated magic as something alive, something that could be coaxed and nurtured instead of forced. He loved her heart and the way she reached for people even after they hurt her.

Ominis brushed his hand gently over Hades' fur, his voice barely above a whisper. "You must think I'm a fool," he murmured. "Falling for someone like her. Someone who could burn brighter than the sun itself."

Hades purred on, unbothered, loyal as ever.

"Yes," Ominis said softly, almost smiling again. "A fool indeed."

He sat quietly for a while longer, Hades purring softly in his lap, the weight of the cat grounding him as his thoughts wandered to her. Her warmth, her strange, gentle power, the way she seemed to see right through every guarded wall he built. She was everything he wasn't. Bright where he was careful, brave where he hesitated. So different, yet somehow bound by the same thread of mystery.

He huffed out a quiet laugh under his breath. If she were here, she'd probably hand him one of her tarot cards with that knowing tone of hers and say, "You, my dear, are The Fool."

The words echoed in his mind longer than they should have. My dear.

Would she even call him that? He had said it once by accident the other day and corrected himself too quickly. He still thought about it sometimes, that slip of truth.

He smiled faintly, tracing slow circles on Hades' fur. "The Fool," he murmured. "The beginning of a journey. Perhaps that's what this is, then."

He smiled faintly, tracing slow circles on Hades' fur. "The Fool," he murmured. "The beginning of a journey. Perhaps that's what this is, then."

His mind wandered to the little reading she had done for him a few weeks before. He had humoured her at first, quietly sceptical of the cards and their supposed insight, yet the spread had been uncomfortably precise, uncovering corners of his soul he had never shared aloud.
The cards she had drawn were the Three of Swords, The Empress reversed, and Death.

She had spoken gently, her voice soft but steady as she interpreted them. The Three of Swords, she said, reflected the grief he carried, wounds of the heart that never truly healed, pain buried so deeply it had become part of him. The Empress reversed, she explained, pointed toward a fractured maternal bond, a love that should have nurtured but instead confined, twisted into guilt and longing. And Death, she said, was not an omen of mortality but of transformation, a release from something that no longer served his spirit.

He had laughed then, quiet and sardonic, and said, "Well, I'm going to die, aren't I? Gaunts don't live long these days."
But she had only smiled and shaken her head. "No, not at all. It isn't death, Ominis. It's release. A severing from the weight of them."

Now, sitting quietly in the dim light, her words came back to him like a whisper. She had been right, painfully so.
Especially about his mother.

He rarely spoke of Ursula Gaunt, even to himself. To others, she was a ghostly presence, a woman defined by silence and duty. But he knew her better than most. She was a gentle creature hollowed out by obedience, a woman who once dreamed of freedom and found herself instead bound to a cruel husband and a cursed name. She was not a wicked woman, not truly, but she was weak, shaped by fear and generations of control. Trapped between survival and rebellion, she chose silence.

He could still hear the sounds of her knitting spells, always busy with knitting or embroidery as though creation could drown out the sound of her own misery. She had loved him, he supposed, in her own broken way, yet that love had been suffocating, wrapped in guilt and expectation. His Seer friends words had captured it perfectly: "She loves you, but she is bound. Not to you, but to her chains."

He breathed out slowly, the warmth of Hades' fur grounding him. Perhaps "Death" had never been about dying at all, but about living differently. About finding the courage to become something apart from the ghosts that had made him. He has hope. He will make a better future for himself. Perhaps he'll change his last name...
The cat purred louder, pressing against his hand as if in agreement.

"Perhaps that's what loving her is. A bit foolish... but she's no fool. I am."

But I'm not ashamed to love her," he whispered so softly it was almost a breath. "She is... delightful."

His hand stilled in Hades' fur, the purr rumbling beneath his palm like a heartbeat. The cat tilted his head up and gave a small mrrp in reply, as though agreeing with him.

Ominis smiled faintly, the kind that curved just one corner of his mouth. "I am most certainly very fond of your owner, Hades..." he said in a voice so low and so quiet it was almost meant for the cat alone. Then, as if seeking comfort, he gathered the half-kneazle gently against his chest.

Hades was quite a tolerant cat by nature, but he rarely allowed anyone to hold him like that. He reserved that kind of closeness for her. Yet now, pressed to Ominis' heart, he settled without complaint, a small weight of warmth and trust. It was almost as if he had accepted Ominis — not as a stranger, but as family. As his unofficial Father...

The steady purr grew slower, deeper, until Hades drifted into sleep. Ominis chuckled quietly, the sound barely stirring the air. "A loyal little thing, the perfect witches familiar." he murmured, brushing his thumb over the cat's soft fur.

Ominis reached for his wand and lifted the book up he was once reading. He traces the ebony wand over the delicate pages, the whispered charm translating the words to thought. The room returned to its gentle quiet, filled only with the faint hum of music from the enchanted gramophone and the soft rhythm of Hades' purr against his chest.

And there Ominis stayed - reading, listening, and secretly loving her in silence. However, his mind raced again.

What if I'm under a love potion... the thought crossed his mind, unbidden and absurd. Ominis frowned faintly to himself. No, that was foolish. He had free will. He could think clearly, act as he chose, and yet—

She had a way of unravelling his composure without trying. Her laugh, the soft lilt of her voice, the kindness that seemed to pour from her like light through glass. It wasn't Amortentia or enchantment. It was her. Entirely her.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the chair, the faint purr against his chest grounding him. No, he wasn't bewitched. He was a young man simply in love with a maiden, and it terrified him more than any curse ever could because he thinks he's undeserving of her.

Part of him wanted to tell Sebastian. Confess it between the half-joking remarks and the long silences they shared. But another part that was larger and quieter wanted to keep it buried deep, where no one could touch it. Where it was safe. Where it was his.

Even asking her to dance had felt like crossing a boundary he'd built for himself, yes she wasn't the first girl he asked to dance but she's different...

He had been forced into dance lessons as a child, taught posture and etiquette by tutors his parents hired to make the Gaunts appear noble again. Forced to move with grace, to hide the rot beneath their name. A gentleman, whether he wished to be or not. It wasn't even just dance he was forced to act like a seeing child. The Gaunts were ashamed of him but they couldn't just dispose of him as their legacy was almost 6 feet under.

That night at the ball, though, it hadn't felt like performance. It hadn't been duty. When he'd taken her hand and heard her breath catch in surprise, when her fingers had rested lightly on his shoulder it had felt real. Natural. Like something he had chosen, for once in his life.

He still remembered the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her hand, the faint hitch in her breath when he'd guided her through the first step. It played again and again in his mind, a quiet symphony that refused to fade.

Ominis drew a slow breath and read from his book again. Anything to distract from the truth already burning quietly within him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The final trial was over. At last.

Your body still hummed faintly with the remnants of ancient magic, your mind heavy with all you had witnessed. The memory of San Bakar lingered... his final act of mercy on her, his horror, and that flash of green that ended Isidora's life. Even now, the image of her father's empty gaze haunted you. Whatever she had meant to do, had curdled into something darker, something that consumed her. Perhaps her end was the only option. It could've gotten more worse.

Now, all that remained was to open the final repository.

Ollivander had agreed to craft the wand that would grant you access. A wand unlike any other, made from the relics gathered from each Keeper's trial. You had met him only yesterday, in his small, timeworn shop that smelled of cedar and varnish.

A few days he had told you, his tone reverent as his hands brushed over the artifacts. A wand like the one he was about to create had never existed before.

And so, you'll have to wait.

The rest of the day dragged on, long and heavy. You were exhausted, yet you could not sleep. Rest felt undeserved when there was still so much to do, so much to understand. The thought of staying still made your mind itch. You needed to move, to think, to breathe somewhere quieter. It's still only the mid afternoon, you had set off on your journey at sunrise.

You gathered your journal and quill, wrapping your cloak about your shoulders before heading out. The corridors were pleasantly warm, filled with the faint scent of parchment and wax. Students passed you with soft laughter, the murmur of their conversations echoing off the stone.

By the time you reached the study hall, the light had grown softer, the last of the afternoon sun spilling through the high windows. It wasn't as silent as the library, which you preferred. The gentle sound of a few chess games, quiet page turns, and the crackle of the hearth filled the air.

You smiled faintly. This place always steadied you.

But then, as your eyes wandered across the room and something caught your attention which immediately made your heart lifted at once.

There, in one of the cushioned chairs near the fire, sat Ominis Gaunt. A book rested open in his hand, his wand hovering lightly above the page as he read. But what truly warmed you was the sight of your cat, Hades, curled soundly in his lap, purring loud enough that you could hear it from where you stood.

Ominis' hand moved slowly, stroking the thick black fur, and a faint, amused smile rested on his lips. The firelight caught the soft edges of his hair and the pale curve of his face, bathing him in gold.

For a moment, you simply lurked. Quiet, unseen, and utterly taken by the sight. It was domestic, peaceful, and somehow perfect.

You felt butterflies ease inside you, all the heaviness of the day slipping just a little. Whatever exhaustion lingered from the trial, whatever unease the Pensieve had left behind, it all softened at that single image: Ominis and Hades, side by side in the gentle light of the fire.

You thought, almost laughing to yourself, that the cat had good taste in company.

You wanted to approach, to say something, to join them. But part of you didn't.

They looked so content together. Ominis sitting there in quiet ease, one hand absently tracing over Hades' fur, the other still resting on his open book. There was something almost sacred in the stillness of it, something that made you afraid to disturb it.

Yet your heart ached with the wish to be closer.

Before you could think better of it, your feet carried you a few steps forward, the soft scuff of your boots against the rug barely audible.

Hades stirred first. His bright green eyes blinked open, glinting in the firelight, and a sharp little meow escaped him. In an instant, he stretched, jumped down from Ominis' lap, and bounded toward you, his tail flicking high.

Ominis startled slightly at the movement, his head lifting, brows knitting as his wand angled instinctively toward the sound. The moment he heard your voice, though, his features softened.

"Hello, sweetheart," you murmured, bending to scoop Hades into your arms. He nestled into you immediately, pressing his head against your chin and purring so loudly it made your chest vibrate. You smiled and kissed the top of his head, your heart blooming with quiet affection.

"I thought I recognised that voice," Ominis said at last, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. "I'm starting to recognise the sound of your footsteps."

You smiled faintly at Ominis' words, a soft laugh slipping out despite the heaviness in your chest. "You two looked comfortable," you said, your tone light though exhaustion threaded through it.

"We were comfortable," he replied, his mouth curving into a small smirk. "Until you came and disturbed us."

You laughed again, quiet but genuine, and he tilted his head slightly toward the sound, the faintest warmth in his expression. After a brief pause, his voice gentled. "You sound exhausted..."

"A little," you admitted. "It's been a long morning."

He hummed softly in understanding, then reached out with his hand and tapped the seat beside him. "Come here," he said. "There's space."

You raised an eyebrow at the size of the chair. It was certainly meant for one but you stepped closer all the same. As you settled beside him, you realised just how little space there truly was. Your leg brushed his, your shoulder fitting neatly against his arm. The contact was warm, grounding, and it made something flutter deep in your chest.

Hades, clearly unbothered by propriety, leapt gracefully onto the chair and sprawled himself across both your laps, his purr rumbling contentedly. His tail flicked lazily against Ominis' sleeve before draping over your knee, the soft sound of his breathing filling the quiet between you.

For a long moment, none of you moved. The light from the nearby fireplace cast a golden glow over Ominis' face, softening his sharp features. His fingers absently brushed over Hades' fur again, slow and thoughtful.

"It seems," he murmured, "your familiar has decided we're both his now."

Ominis hesitated before speaking, his thumb idly tracing the spine of his closed book. The quiet stretched between you, filled only by the soft purr of Hades sprawled across both your laps. Then, after a moment, he asked quietly, "How was the trial?"

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders relaxing as you leaned back against the chair. "It was... intense," you admitted. "Unlike anything I've faced before."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, listening intently as you continued.

"I had to face a Graphorn," you said softly. "The Lord of the Shore."

He stilled at that.

"They're massive, Ominis. Beautiful, but terrifying. I'd read about them in Beasts, but seeing one in person was something else entirely." You smiled faintly at the memory, the awe still lingering in your voice. "It was furious at first, and I had to use my wand but eventually I just... knelt before it. Bowed my head. And it stopped. It bowed back."

Ominis' brows drew together, his lips parting slightly. "You tamed a Graphorn by bowing to it?"

You laughed softly. "Seems that way. It let me ride it across the coast to the final Pensieve chamber. We trampled over poacher camps. I don't think I'll ever forget that feeling."

"Is it still there?" he asked, curiosity threading through his voice.

You shook your head, though he couldn't see it. "No. He's with me in my Nab-Sack. I couldn't just leave him. He's earned his peace, and he's earned a safe home."

Ominis was silent for a moment, processing that. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Of course you couldn't leave him. You never do."

Your heart softened at his tone. "You make that sound like a bad thing."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "No. It's one of your best qualities."

The warmth between you grew, but then you sighed, your expression dimming. "After that... I saw the memory."

Ominis' posture straightened slightly.

"It was about Isidora," you said. "The others were right to fear what she was doing. She found a way to remove pain from people by literally drawing it from them and store it. It started as a kindness, but she began using it on her students, on her father... until it consumed her." You swallowed hard. "In the end, San Bakar had to use the killing curse on her."

You fell quiet. The fire crackled faintly beside you, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that ran down your spine.

Ominis' hand twitched against Hades' fur. His voice was low when he spoke. "A tragic end. But she made her choice..."

"She did," you said softly. "And now... it's on me to finish what she started. The Keepers say the final repository is beneath Hogwarts itself."

His head turned sharply. "Beneath the school?"

You nodded. "Yes. And to access it, I'll need a special wand. One crafted from the artifacts I found in each trial. Mr. Ollivander's making it now. He says it will take a few days, and he'll owl me when it's ready."

Ominis' expression was unreadable, but his grip on his wand tightened slightly. "A wand forged from ancient relics," he murmured. "That's powerful and very dangerous."

"I know," you said gently. "But it's the only way to finish this."

For a while, neither of you spoke. Hades stirred, purring louder as if to fill the silence. The weight of everything you'd endured hung between you. The trials, memories, prophecies and yet, here, in this small corner of the world, it felt far away.

Finally, Ominis said softly, "You've done so much already. I only wish I could help you more."

You smiled faintly, turning your head toward him. "You already do, Ominis. More than you realise."

You looked down at your hands, tracing a small circle against Hades' fur as you spoke. "My magic," you began quietly, the words fragile at first. "I want to use it for good, Ominis. I want to heal people... but I don't know how yet."

He turned his head slightly toward you, his pale eyes soft but alert, listening with the kind of attention that felt almost tangible.

"I keep thinking," you continued, "that it could be the key to saving Anne. That maybe, if I learn to control it properly, I could help her—really help her." Your voice wavered, a mix of hope and fear. "But every time I remember what Isidora did... I can't help wondering if I'll end up like her. If it's even possible to use that kind of power without losing yourself."

Ominis didn't interrupt. He let the silence linger just long enough for you to breathe.

"Sebastian's already killing himself trying to find a cure," you went on, your tone trembling slightly now. "I see what it's doing to him. He's desperate, Ominis. I can't stand to watch him destroy himself, but I don't know how to stop it either. I just—" You broke off, pressing a hand to your chest. "I just want to help."

Ominis' breath left him slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low but steady. "You already do help people. You've helped me more than anyone else and I've only known you for five months."

You turned your head toward him, his words catching you off guard.

He went on, quieter now, as though weighing each word before speaking. "But power like yours... it isn't meant to be rushed. You're not Isidora. You're nothing like her. She wanted control. You want compassion. There's a difference."

The sincerity in his voice struck deep, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him.

Hades shifted in his sleep, pressing closer against you both, his soft purring breaking the stillness that followed.

You exhaled slowly. "I just hope I'm strong enough to make the right choices."

"You are," Ominis said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "You always are."

Your chest ached with the warmth of his words, and for a heartbeat, neither of you looked away. His expression softened, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes before he added quietly,

"You are delightful to be around."

You blinked, caught entirely off guard by the earnestness in his voice. "Delightful?" you echoed, small and breathless.

"Yes," he said, the faintest smile touching his lips. "You bring light into dark places. And that... is no small thing."

He hesitated then, his voice quieter, thoughtful. "Light and darkness aren't things I see. They've never been colours or shadows to me. I've only ever understood them through people." He paused, his fingers brushing absently over Hades' fur. "And you... you're light. You walk into a room and somehow, it feels warmer. That's what makes you so delightful."

You felt your throat tighten, the words sinking deep. For a moment, you couldn't think of anything to say. You could only watch him, the way his face softened when he spoke, as if he didn't realise what his words were doing to you.

Hades gave a sleepy stretch across both your laps, purring louder, as if agreeing. The two of you glanced down at him, sharing a brief, fond silence.

You could have said something, but you didn't. The warmth between you was enough. For once, the world outside felt far away and here, in this small corner of Hogwarts, everything was still.

You could have cried at his words. They were spoken so gently, so sincerely, that your chest ached with the weight of them. No one had ever said something so kind to you... not like that, not in that tone, as if it were a simple truth.

You took a slow breath, your voice trembling slightly as you found the courage to speak. "Ominis... I don't think you realise how much you matter. You listen to people — really listen..."

He turned his head slightly toward you, and though his sightless eyes couldn't meet yours, you felt the full attention behind them.

"And you're strong," you went on softly. "Not because of your name, but because you're still kind after everything your family put you through. You could have become like them, but you didn't. You chose to be good. You chose to be different from them."

For a long moment, Ominis said nothing. His lips parted as if to respond, then closed again. The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was heavy with emotion, filled with things neither of you knew how to voice.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. "You see me far better than anyone else ever has, even Sebastian at times."

You smiled faintly, blinking away the tears gathering in your eyes. "That's because you're worth seeing."

"Well I can't see but I'll let the others do that for me." He smirked slightly and you gave a soft giggle at his comment.

Hades shifted again, curling up more tightly against both of you. The warmth of his body, the soft hum of his purr, and the nearness of Ominis wrapped around you like a spell. While Ominis reached out to stroke the cat his hand brushed against yours.

Neither of you pulled away.

The quiet stretched between you, and it might have stayed that way — until Ominis spoke without thinking.

"Your hands are so soft," he murmured.

The words slipped from him before he could stop them. His breath caught the moment he realised he had said it aloud, his cheeks warming with sudden embarrassment.

You turned to him, surprised, though a small smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you... but they aren't as smooth as you think."

His head tilted slightly toward you, a faint smile of his own ghosting across his face. "Well, they are to me."

Something in his tone made your pulse skip. You could feel your heart fluttering against your ribs, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe. The faintest colour touched his pale cheeks, but he didn't retract the words. He meant them.

Then, after a long pause, his voice softened further. "My aunt would've loved you, you know."

Your expression gentled. "Noctua?"

He nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth turning upward, though the sadness in his tone lingered. "Yes. She... she would've admired your courage. And your kindness. You remind me of her sometimes — not because you're alike, but because you see people the way she did. You see the best in them, even when they can't see it themselves."

You felt your throat tighten, emotion rising so suddenly that it hurt to swallow. "I wish I could've met her," you whispered.

Ominis smiled faintly, his voice a near whisper. "Perhaps, in some way, you already have."

For a while, neither of you spoke again. Hades purred between you, a soft, steady rhythm that filled the quiet. Your hand remained close to his, and though the two of you never quite bridged the distance, the warmth that lingered there said more than words ever could.

The silence stretched between you for a while, gentle and heavy. The lamps glowed softly against the stone walls, and Hades' purr filled the space between heartbeats. Ominis sat very still, his thumb tracing over your hand where it rested in his. Then, in a voice quieter than before, he spoke.

"There's something I've not told many people," he began. "You deserve honesty, at least that much."

You nodded, watching him carefully. His face was calm, but there was tension behind it — that quiet restraint he wore whenever the topic brushed too close to home.

"I'm one of seven," he continued, his tone even, deliberate. "The Gaunt family has always believed that quantity ensures legacy. My father, took that belief to heart. He wanted as many heirs as possible — and he made certain we all knew why we were born."

He hesitated, breathing in deeply before continuing. "My oldest brother, Marvolo, is the cruelest. I think he enjoyed reminding the rest of us of our place. He used to mock me for my blindness. Said I was proof our bloodline was rotting. That no true Gaunt would be born this way."

Your chest tightened at the words.

Ominis' voice stayed calm, though there was a quiet crack beneath it. "He'd move my wand, my books, small things, just to watch me search for them. It amused him. I learned to keep my expression still, to never give him the satisfaction. He said once that if I couldn't see the world, I didn't deserve to live in it."

You felt the urge to reach for him, to say something, but he went on before you could speak.

"Noctua was the only one who ever tried to protect me," he said softly. "She was Father's youngest sister, eleven years older than me. After my grandparents had died, she moved into the house with us — there was nowhere else for her to go. Most of Father's siblings were dead by then. The Gaunts have never been good at surviving, not really."

He gave a faint, humorless smile. "She was different from the rest of them. She didn't see me as broken. She'd sneak me sugar quills, play the piano for me and make me laugh — something no one else in that house knew how to do."

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "She told me once that kindness is the only thing that separates us from monsters. I didn't understand her at first. Now, I think she meant our family."

You hesitated before asking, quietly, "Your parents... they were both Gaunts?"

He stilled for a moment, and then gave a small, almost weary nod. "I'm afraid so. It isn't something I'm proud of, but... it's the truth and the reason most of my family are mad."

You could hear the quiet strain in his voice, the way he seemed to choose every word carefully.

"It's common among certain pureblood families," he continued. "But they took it to the extreme. They called it preserving purity as they want to keep the gift of parseltongue. All of us can speak it and we were forced to speak it at the table." He exhaled slowly, the sound almost a sigh. "You've seen what it's done to us. The arrogance. The decay. The madness that seeps into our blood."

You said nothing, only reached for him properly this time, resting your hand against his arm. He didn't flinch.

"They think it's pride," he murmured. "But it's a curse. Every child born weaker than the last, every generation more cruel. Noctua used to say she wished she'd been born someone else. She wanted to make something of herself, to be free of it all. And in the end... it killed her."

His voice broke slightly on the last word.

You squeezed his hand gently. "You're not like them," you whispered. "You never were."

For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, very softly, he said, "Noctua used to tell me the same thing. I hope you both are correct."

He turned his head slightly toward you, the faintest smile touching his lips. "It is the truth. She'd have adored you. You both carry that same light. The kind that softens every dark thing around it."

The words stole your breath for a moment.

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his tone, at the way he said your name like a prayer he was afraid to finish.

Hades stirred again, curling closer against Ominis' leg, as though sensing the moment and grounding it. The faint hum of his purring filled the air like a heartbeat.

You wanted to tell Ominis how wrong he was about himself — how much light he carried, how his gentleness was more powerful than any magic. But for now, you simply let the silence sit between you, warm and unspoken, your hands still joined.

Ominis sat quietly after finishing his story, his expression softer now, the tension that usually guarded his words loosened by trust. For a while, neither of you spoke. The firelight shimmered across his pale hair, and Hades' steady purring filled the hush between you.

At last, he turned his head slightly toward you. "Now... I've shared my story," he said, his tone gentle but curious. "May I learn more about you? You've listened to me ramble long enough. I still know so little about why you didn't join Hogwarts until our fifth year."

You inhaled slowly, the question catching somewhere in your chest. It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him — it was that no one had ever truly asked before. You gave a faint smile, almost shy. "Well... I suppose you should know."

You took a steadying breath. "I was raised in a Muggle orphanage. My mother died a few days after I was born and left me there. I have not a clue about my father. Growing up, strange things happened sometimes — bursts of what I now know was accidental magic. But when I turned twelve, the age you all usually start school. It all stopped. However, I'm not the only ancient magic user who started late. Isidora and Percival Rackham did as well."

Ominis listened closely, his brows knitting in quiet sympathy.

"I thought I was ordinary," you continued softly. "I didn't know what Hogwarts was, or that there was even another world out there. My letter obviously never came. I didn't even know it should have." You gave a small, wistful laugh. "Looking back, I think part of me always felt something missing, but I didn't know what it was. When I turned 16 though, that's when it changed. These strange bursts of what I know is magic returned as well as my visions."

His voice was gentle when he asked, "And you truly had no idea?"

"None," you said. "Not until Professor Fig came for me."

You hesitated then, your hand drifting to the chain around your neck. "My mother left me with this," you said, unclasping it. You held the cameo in your palm, the platinum catching the candlelight. You placed it carefully into Ominis' hand.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, tracing the carved wax with the tips of his fingers. "A cameo... my mother, aunt and sisters all have them but this one feels enchanted, faintly... though I can't quite place it."

You nodded. "I've tried to learn more about it, but it resists every charm I use. It feels alive somehow. I don't know what it means, only that it belonged to her. It's all I have of her."

Ominis turned the locket once in his fingers, thoughtful. "Then it's precious," he said simply. "And it's proof she loved you enough to leave you with something of herself."

Your throat tightened. "I like to think so."

He placed the locket gently back into your palm, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. "She must have been extraordinary," he said softly.

"I hope so," you replied, fastening it once more around your neck. "Sometimes I feel like she's still guiding me. That she's the reason I found Hogwarts at all."

Ominis tilted his head, a faint smile curving his lips. "Perhaps she is. And perhaps she led you to all of us too."

The warmth in his tone made your chest ache in the gentlest way. You smiled back, voice quiet. "Maybe she did."

For a long while, the two of you simply sat there, the fire crackling low and the air filled with something that felt like understanding. It was rare, you thought, to be seen so clearly and rarer still to feel safe in the seeing...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

The day before had been difficult, painfully so, but ending it with Ominis had made everything feel lighter.

You had made good friends since coming to Hogwarts and cared for each of them dearly. Yet Ominis was different. He made you feel different. The fluttering warmth in your chest whenever he spoke to you or smiled your way was something you still struggled to name. A crush, perhaps, though it felt far too gentle and deep for that word. You had admired people before, back at the orphanage or at the bakery where you worked, but those feelings had been simple and fleeting. This was not.

Watching him with Hades had not helped. Seeing your half-Kneazle stretched across his lap, purring contentedly as Ominis laughed quietly, had stirred something in you that refused to fade. He had grown more open with you recently, speaking of his family and his aunt, of the silence and bitterness that had filled his home. When your hands had touched, even for a moment, you could not forget the warmth that lingered.

That morning had begun peacefully, until an owl arrived at your window.

Sebastian's handwriting was hurried and uneven, the kind that spoke of sleepless nights and restless thoughts. He wrote that he had found something remarkable—a relic said to reverse Dark Magic, hidden in the catacombs near Feldcroft. A student had discovered it years ago, but the relic had been left behind. Now it waited, untouched and powerful.

According to Sebastian, this relic could undo curses. It could heal what Dark Magic had ruined.

You read the letter twice, your heart caught between hope and dread. A relic that could reverse Dark Magic sounded too good to be true. The Keepers' warnings, Isidora's downfall, the way power had corrupted even kind souls—all of it weighed heavily on your mind.

You thought back to the vision you had over Christmas. The one where Sebastian raised his wand and cast the Killing Curse. You had told yourself it was only a dream, yet part of you feared it was something more.

No. You could not turn away now. This was for Anne. All you would be doing was exploring possibilities, searching for answers.

You folded the letter carefully and slipped it into your satchel. The sky outside the window was pale with morning light. You pulled your cloak around your shoulders and exhaled slowly, steadying your heart.

Whatever awaited in those catacombs, you would face it.

For Anne.

Guilt pressed against your chest as you reached the outskirts of Feldcroft. The path that led to the catacombs was narrow and winding, bordered by low stone walls and scattered tufts of wild grass. The air was cold enough to sting your cheeks, and the letter from Sebastian felt heavier in your pocket than it ought to.

He had asked earlier if Ominis knew what you two were doing.

"I didn't tell Ominis. I promise," you said quietly.

"Good. Ominis would be livid if he knew what we were about to do," Sebastian replied without hesitation.

You nodded, though the words stung. You hated this. The secrecy. The quiet deceit. Ominis had trusted you, opened himself to you in ways few ever had, and here you were keeping something from him. He had shared his truths, his fears, even the parts of himself he could barely face. Yet you were still hiding this.

But this was for Sebastian. For Anne.

Sebastian was desperate for a cure, and in truth, so were you. Anne has been nothing but kind to you. The ache of wanting to help her never left you. You were certain there was something you could do, something inside you capable of destroying the Dark Magic that crippled her. You just did not yet know how...

The two of you reached the entrance together, a heavy stone door carved into the hillside. Moss crept along the edges, and faint runes were etched around the archway, almost lost to time. When Sebastian placed his hand against the stone, a dull tremor passed through the ground before the door began to shift and open, scraping against the earth.

"I'll be interested to compare what lies inside to what I've read about this catacomb," Sebastian said, his voice carrying an eager energy that barely masked his exhaustion.

The door groaned open fully, revealing a dark passage that descended deep beneath the ground. You both stepped inside.

The air was thick and stale. The walls were rough and damp, carved from solid rock that had long since lost its warmth. The tunnel felt too narrow, the ceiling too low, as if the weight of the entire world pressed down upon you.

It smelled of stone and decay. A centuries-old scent that clung to your throat and made you cough softly. You lifted your wand, casting a gentle Lumos. The faint golden light danced along the walls, glinting off fragments of bone scattered among the dust.

You sneezed, the sound echoing in the stillness.

"I am sure that foul smell is the scent of success," Sebastian said with a teasing grin, his tone light but forced. "Try not to lose your nerve yet."

You managed a small smile in return, though your stomach twisted uneasily. The flickering wandlight cast long shadows ahead, and the deeper you went, the colder the air became. The silence felt unnatural, broken only by the soft crunch of your footsteps and the occasional drip of unseen water.

Something about the catacombs felt wrong. Not cursed exactly, but as if the place itself remembered what had been buried within.

Still, you pressed on.

For her.

The path sloped downward, and with each step the air grew colder, heavier, and thicker with the scent of dust. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling in pale, drifting curtains, and small bones littered the floor beneath them. Your wandlight caught the faint shimmer of silk threads glistening in the dark.

You slowed as you reached a wide chamber. Rows of stone drawers lined the walls, each carved into the rock as though meant to house the remains of the long dead. Their lids were sealed tight, though age had cracked some at the edges.

Sebastian stepped closer, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Storage for bodies, perhaps," he muttered under his breath. "Or treasures, if we are lucky."

You lifted your wand and aimed it at one of the carved drawers. "Accio," you whispered. The stone front scraped forward with a heavy groan, revealing nothing but dust and fragments of bone. A faint chill crept up your arms.

You both searched further. Your eyes caught a large wooden crate in the corner, half buried in rubble. You used Accio to drag it toward you, the sound echoing across the hollow chamber. Climbing onto it, you steadied yourself and looked up. Above, there was a narrow ledge and a glint of something faintly golden.

A chest.

You reached for it carefully and opened the latch. Inside lay a pair of elegant gloves, the fabric soft and finely embroidered. You smiled faintly at the unexpected find. "Lovely," you murmured to yourself, "but not quite what we came for."

You slipped the lid shut again and jumped down lightly from the crate, your boots stirring the dust that had settled thick across the floor.

As you turned, a faint rustling sound made your heart skip. Something moved in the darkness beyond the cobwebs. A leg. Thin, sharp, and glistening with venom pushed through.

"Sebastian," you whispered, already raising your wand.

The spider emerged fully from the shadows, its many eyes reflecting the light like shards of obsidian. A venomous Scurriour. It hissed low, its fangs dripping as it crept closer.

You grimaced and steadied your wand. You hated doing this, but there was no other choice. "ARGHH Confringo!"

The spell struck true, lighting the air in a burst of red flame. The spider screeched, curling in on itself before collapsing into ash. You exhaled shakily, though there was no time to rest—more emerged, skittering across the walls and ceiling.

Sebastian shouted something and joined in the fight, his spells cracking through the air beside yours. Together, you struck them down one by one until silence finally settled again.

Your chest heaved with the effort. You swallowed hard, forcing down the unease twisting in your stomach. "Not today," you muttered under your breath. "I am not being bitten by a spider today."

Sebastian gave a short laugh, though it was more nervous than amused.

You turned your attention back to the far side of the chamber. A thick veil of cobwebs blocked the next passage. With a sigh, you raised your wand again. "Confringo."

The fire burst forward, devouring the webs until the stone archway beyond was clear once more.

The smell of scorched silk and ash lingered as you stepped through, the light from your wand spilling into the new passage. The deeper you went, the more the air changed—no longer still and musty, but heavy with something else entirely.

It felt like the catacombs were breathing.

The path wound deeper into the earth, and after what felt like hours, the rough stone gave way to something softer underfoot. You stopped, blinking in surprise. The ground was carpeted with grass, pale and thin, yet alive. The faint scent of damp earth filled the air.

"All this grass," you murmured. "It no longer feels like a tomb."

Sebastian's voice came from just ahead. "I've read much about catacombs," he said quietly, his tone half awe, half curiosity. "Never imagined one could hold a place like this."

You frowned, glancing around the strange patch of life in the depths of the dead. "Will we be safe here?"

"We're fine," he assured you, though the tightness in his voice betrayed a flicker of unease. "Just watch out for those bloody spiders."

It didn't take long for his warning to become prophecy. The clicking sound of legs scraped over stone, and several venomous Scurriours burst from the shadows. You moved on instinct, wand already raised, your spells lighting the chamber in flashes of gold and red. Sebastian fought beside you, his curses echoing sharply. When the last spider fell, silence rushed back in, broken only by your quick breaths.

"Sorry, spiders," you muttered, wiping your brow. "But I am not dying down here."

Sebastian gave a short laugh, shaking his head as you pressed on. The tunnel ahead glimmered faintly as the wall-mounted lamps flared to life in succession, casting a dull golden light over the path.

"How ominous," you said dryly.

Sebastian chuckled softly. "I'll admit, that's rather clever of the old builders. Creepy, but clever."

You both descended another set of stone steps, the sound of your boots echoing off the walls. "Revelio," you whispered for what felt like the hundredth time. The magic pulsed outward, revealing hidden carvings and faint traces of enchantment across the chamber.

"This room's larger than the rest," Sebastian noted. His eyes gleamed in the light as he stepped forward. More spiders skittered across the floor, but this time your spells were swift, and they fell before they could draw close.

"Now this is the sort of grand room I'd like to be buried in," Sebastian said with a grin.

You gave him a bemused look. "Surrounded by grandeur?"

"Grandeur and then some," he replied. His wandlight swept over an ornate altar covered in a neat pile of bones. "Even an altar with bones. Lovely."

You grimaced slightly. "Bones outside a sarcophagus. Seems a bit odd."

"Perhaps the dead were feeling decorative," Sebastian said.

You ignored his joke, eyes drawn to a glimmer of parchment near the altar. "There's something here."

He joined you as you lifted the yellowed note. The handwriting was faded but legible enough. You read aloud, your voice echoing faintly through the chamber. "It says the last person who was here used bones as a key..."

You looked up, hesitating. "That sounds grotesque."

"Or ingenious," Sebastian said, already watching as you raised your wand.

"Wingardium Leviosa," you whispered, and the bones began to rise. Their clattering echoed like whispered laughter as you guided them toward a carved recess that seemed to fit their shape. When the last bone settled into place, a deep rumble filled the air. The stone door ahead trembled, then slid open.

Sebastian grinned. "You see? Ingenuity."

You lowered your wand with a sigh. "Disturbing ingenuity."

He gestured toward the doorway. "After you."

Beyond lay another vast hall, a broken bridge stretching over a chasm thick with writhing vines. The remains of Devil's Snare covered the lower levels, glowing faintly in the dark.

"Spooky bone bridge," you muttered as you cast Reparo. The skeletal walkway reassembled before your eyes, the bones locking together with eerie precision. You stepped carefully across, Sebastian following close behind, wand raised.

"I am beginning to think the student who built all this had a questionable sense of humour," he said under his breath.

You gave a small, weary smile. "At least they had one."

The two of you pushed onward through more winding corridors. At one point you separated to inspect different barricades of bones, mending and shifting them with magic, hoping to find some sign of the relic. Every movement of stone echoed through the tunnels, magnified by the silence that followed.

When you met again at the great door near the end of the passage, Sebastian's face was lit with triumph. "You've done it!" he said eagerly.

You smiled at his excitement. "I knew we'd get through. I felt it in my bones."

He grinned. "Nice."

The heavy stone door creaked open, revealing the final chamber beyond. Inside, the air shimmered faintly, alive with old enchantments.

Sebastian's voice lowered. "The student's diary mentioned the Imperius Curse. I wouldn't be surprised if we need it here. It's an unforgivable, but useful when you're outnumbered. It places the victim completely under the caster's control. If you'd like to learn it, I can teach you."

You froze, the words hanging in the cold air. Part of you wanted to refuse outright. Yet another part whispered that knowledge itself wasn't evil—only how one used it.

You sighed. "It's probably wise to know the spell, I suppose. At least it isn't Crucio."

Sebastian nodded, clearly relieved. "I couldn't agree more. A spell like this could save your life. It shouldn't even be an Unforgivable. You have a lot at stake, and an ability no one has seen in centuries. The world will not always fight fair."

You hesitated, then met his gaze. "You're right. What if someone attacks and means to kill? It could save us both."

You drew your wand, heart steadying. "All right. Show me."

"Focus," he said softly. "It isn't an easy one. Your intent must be clear."

You followed his movements, tracing the precise arc of the spell in the air. The energy that gathered felt cold and unfamiliar, a shadow brushing against your will. When the connection snapped into place, you exhaled sharply.

You had learned it.

A faint unease settled in your chest. Knowledge like this always carried a price. Still, a small part of you whispered that it was better to be prepared—better than powerless.

"There's something ahead," you said, sensing a shift in the air. "Be on your guard."

You were right. More spiders scuttled out from cracks in the stone. You and Sebastian fought together in a flurry of light and flame until the last one fell silent. You lowered your wand slowly. "Not the right time to test that new spell," you murmured.

Sebastian gave a short laugh, his shoulders relaxing.

The path twisted once more, leading through another set of chambers and barricades. Each time you solved the strange bone puzzles, Sebastian's words of praise met you like small bursts of warmth in the cold.

At last, you entered a room unlike any other. An old table stood before a raised altar, and on it rested a rolled parchment beside a small, pyramid-shaped relic that gleamed faintly in your wandlight.

You stepped closer, unrolling the note. The ink was old but still legible. "It says this relic has the potential to benefit all wizardkind—perhaps even the whole world. But it requires a dark sacrifice. Until that sacrifice is understood, the relic must remain sealed."

Sebastian's voice broke through your thoughts. "The relic, look!"

You lifted your gaze to the pyramid. It was just as the drawing described, marked with faint runes that shimmered like smoke.

"It matches," you said softly. "This must be what the student meant."

Sebastian's breath caught. "I can't believe it. After all this—it lines up perfectly. We've really found it." His voice was full of relief and awe, almost trembling with the weight of it.

You frowned, your fingers tightening around the parchment. "Sebastian... what do you suppose it meant by 'the dark sacrifice required to release the relic's potential'?"

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the object, gleaming with hope and something sharper beneath it.

A shiver ran through you. Your mind flashed back to the nightmare you had seen over Christmas—the image of Sebastian raising his wand, the green light blooming from its tip.

No, you told yourself. That was only a vision. He would never—

You swallowed hard.

Sebastian turned toward you then, his expression softening when he saw your face. "I have no idea. But we are here for the relic."

You nodded, though your stomach tightened. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe this was still about healing Anne, not chasing something darker.

Still, as you looked at the relic, the light seemed to pulse faintly beneath its surface, like a slow heartbeat.

And you could not help but wonder who—or what—it was waiting for.

You swallowed hard. Something deep within you twisted uneasily, a pull in your chest that told you what your mind refused to admit. Your intuition was screaming, louder than it ever had before.

No.

Not this time. You would not ignore it again.

"The note advises us to leave the relic alone," you said softly, clutching the parchment.

Sebastian turned toward you, his eyes fierce with conviction. "I assure you, we were meant to find this. For Anne's sake." There was a hint of irritation in his tone, as if your caution had become an obstacle rather than a concern.

"Sebastian—"

He shook his head. "I am taking it. You can't stop me. Let's head back to Feldcroft." His voice carried a finality that made your heart sink.

He lowered his wand slightly and muttered, almost to himself, "I must keep this a secret... especially from Uncle Solomon."

The echo of footsteps stopped you both. You froze, wand raised, as a shadow moved at the far end of the chamber. For a moment, your breath caught in your throat—then you recognised the figure. The familiar silhouette, the perfectly styled dirty-blond hair, and those pale, unmoving eyes that somehow still saw everything.

"Ominis," you whispered, the relief in your voice undeniable.

Sebastian's head whipped around. "Is that Ominis?"

"It is."

Ominis stepped into the light, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his posture said everything.

"Ominis," Sebastian said sharply. "The sounds we kept hearing—it was you."

"You gave me no choice," Ominis replied evenly. "I had to follow you."

Sebastian's jaw clenched. "You should not have."

"Sebastian, please leave the relic alone," Ominis said, his voice low but firm. "We will find another way to help Anne."

Sebastian's expression hardened. "I'm sorry, Ominis. But I'm taking it."

You stood frozen, unable to move or speak. The air between them crackled with anger and desperation.

"No, you are not," Ominis said sharply. "If you don't put it back, I will."

Your throat finally loosened enough for words. "Please, hold on—both of you." You stepped forward carefully. "Sebastian, please take a step back."

Sebastian glanced at you, then at Ominis. "Fine," he said tightly, "but Ominis knows I won't step back from a fight."

Ominis let out a breath of disbelief. "I can't believe this," he muttered, frustration bleeding through every word.

Sebastian turned away, stalking to the far side of the room where the parchment still lay upon the table. He leaned over it, pretending to read, though it was clear he was simply trying to collect himself.

You moved closer to Ominis. His face was drawn and pale in the dim light. "How much did you hear?" you asked quietly.

"I heard everything," he said. "I was so relieved when I heard you tell him to leave the relic. I—" He hesitated, his composure faltering for a moment. "I don't want him putting you in danger."

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice.

"Please," he continued. "We need to stand together—convince Sebastian this is wrong."

"And if nothing changes his mind?" you asked gently.

"Something has to," Ominis said, his voice breaking on the edge of desperation. "I need your help. Please, Y/N. I don't want to lose you too."

You exhaled slowly, looking back toward Sebastian, who was still muttering over the parchment. "Ominis, you're right. This is too risky. Sebastian refuses to see it."

"Good," he said, straightening slightly. "Then we are agreed. We will not allow him to leave here with that relic."

You bit your lip. "I do think we need to talk to him... but I fear we won't stop him."

Ominis tilted his head toward you. "What are you suggesting?"

You stepped closer. The faint glow from your wand softened the lines of his face, and for a fleeting second, you wanted nothing more than to touch him—to rest your hand against his cheek and feel the steadiness that always seemed to radiate from him. You forced yourself to focus.

"I'm suggesting we negotiate," you said. "We allow him to leave with the relic under one condition—that this ends here. After this, no more relics, no more dark magic."

Ominis's brows furrowed. "That is exactly what we agreed upon in the Scriptorium. And yet, here we are. I am being taken for a fool."

"You're not," you said gently. "But this may be the only way to keep your friendship intact."

He was silent for a long moment. You could almost feel the weight of his thoughts.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," you added quietly, "but perhaps we should trust that he knows best—this time."

Ominis turned his face slightly toward you. The faintest trace of sadness coloured his voice. "Fine. If I am trusting him on this, then I am trusting you too."

His next words were softer, almost to himself. "The Dark Arts always seem harmless until it is too late."

You watched him sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders in defeat. "Go then," he said. "Leave with the relic. I will say nothing more. I only hope I don't live to regret this."

You nodded, feeling the same hollow ache. "Sebastian," you called gently. "You're free to take it. Ominis has changed his mind."

Sebastian turned, disbelief crossing his face. "What? Ominis?"

Ominis's voice was quiet now, resigned. "Go on then."

You gave Sebastian a small nod. "We'll explain on the way."

He hesitated, then reached for the relic. As his fingers brushed the cold surface, the air around you seemed to pulse once again, faint and almost imperceptible, like the breath of something ancient awakening.

And though none of you spoke it aloud, every one of you felt the same uneasy truth—
something had changed.

You and Sebastian left the catacombs in silence. The stone door ground shut behind you, sealing the relic and Ominis alike within the dark. You hesitated, glancing back once, but Ominis did not follow. He had remained in the chamber, perhaps to gather his thoughts or simply to be rid of you both for a while. You could hardly blame him.

The walk through the tunnels felt endless. The flicker of your wandlight caught on every bone and fragment of web, every memory of what had just passed. You tried to steady your breath, yet guilt pressed against your ribs like a physical weight.

When at last you reached the surface, the air was cold enough to sting. The fog drifted low across the moors, thick and silver, and the wind carried the smell of damp stone. You wrapped your cloak tighter and drew in a deep breath, hoping the chill might clear your thoughts.

"Sebastian," you said softly, breaking the silence. "Please, make the right choices. I fear the future."

He looked at you, his expression softer now that the danger had passed. "You mustn't fear," he said quietly. "Anne will be cured."

You studied him, the way conviction burned through his exhaustion. "You believe that completely, don't you?"

"I have to," he replied. "It's all that keeps me going."

Your heart ached at his certainty. "And Ominis?" you asked after a pause. "He will never forgive us for this."

Sebastian's gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the fog blurred the edges of Feldcroft's rooftops. "Ominis will come around. He always does," he said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "He cares for you, you know. I have a strong suspicion he feels the same way you do."

Your breath caught, a rush of heat rising to your face. "H-how did you—?"

Sebastian cut you off with a knowing look. "It's so obvious. You should see the way he listens when you speak. I know for certain he feels the same way."

You could only stare at him for a moment, your pulse fluttering. The thought alone was enough to make your chest ache in a different way.

Sebastian gave a faint smile, one touched by weariness rather than amusement. "I've known him long enough to recognise when someone's gotten under his skin. He's steadier with you. Quieter, somehow."

You looked down, unsure what to say. "He means more to me than I ever intended," you admitted. "But it's complicated."

"It always is," Sebastian said gently. "But right now, we can't afford to think about any of that. Not until Anne is better. That has to come first."

You nodded, though your chest felt tight. "You're right."

He gave a small nod, satisfied. "Good. Then let's keep moving before Ominis decides to curse the both of us for good measure. Hmm, on second thought I doubt he'd curse you ever."

You smiled faintly, the tension easing just a little. "That's reassuring," you smile out..

Sebastian laughed under his breath. "He's far too protective of you. If anything, he'd curse me for dragging you into this."

That earned a real laugh from you this time, quiet but genuine.

As you followed him through the fog toward Feldcroft, your thoughts remained tangled somewhere in the catacombs caught between the relic, the guilt, and the unspoken feelings you could no longer ignore

The walk back to Feldcroft was tense, the silence heavy between you. The fog had thickened, settling like ash across the moors. You had hoped the cold air might clear your thoughts, but unease only grew heavier with each step.

Then, as the village came into view, your heart dropped.

Smoke. Thick, black smoke coiled up into the pale sky, rising from the centre of Feldcroft. The air stung your eyes and throat as the faint crackle of fire reached your ears.

"No... this isn't good at all!" Sebastian's voice broke through the haze. "Feldcroft is under attack!"

You froze for half a heartbeat, then ran. "We must hurry!"

The closer you got, the worse it became. Goblins swarmed through the narrow streets, setting fire to homes, shouting in that guttural, snarling language that made your blood run cold. Villagers were screaming, fleeing for shelter, and your heart hammered against your ribs as you drew your wand.

"Protego!" you shouted, deflecting a jet of green light. The blast ricocheted into a wall, scattering stone. Sebastian was beside you, his expression grim and focused.

You moved on instinct, the magic rising through you like a storm. You had channelled ancient magic before, but never like this. It poured from you, wild and electric, making your wand flare with blue light until it hummed with raw energy. You flicked your wrist and the nearest goblin turned into a frog. Another into a beetle. One shrieked and vanished into a puff of feathers.

It was intoxicating, terrifying. You could feel your pulse race with every surge. The power wanted to spill over, to consume, and you forced yourself to pull back before it did. You didn't need to destroy everything. You only needed to protect.

A sudden, pained cry broke through the chaos.

You turned sharply. Across the square, Anne had stumbled from her house, her face pale and her hand clutched against her stomach. Her eyes were wide with terror as she looked upon the burning homes, the goblins, the ruin of her village. Then she cried out again, her body twisting in pain as the curse tore through her.

"Anne!" You sprinted forward, dodging a blast of fire that singed the edge of your cloak. You dropped to your knees beside her and caught her trembling hands. "Anne, it's all right, you're safe. Stay with me!"

Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. She gripped your hand so tightly it hurt, her eyes squeezing shut. "It—hurts—"

"I know," you whispered. "I know, just breathe."

Without thinking, you reached for her again, the way you had reached for the Graphorn, for the power deep within the trials. Ancient magic stirred in your chest, a low hum that travelled through your veins and gathered in your fingertips.

Light flared at the point of contact.

Anne gasped, her eyes flying open in shock as tendrils of dark energy rose from her skin, twisting like black smoke before coiling into your palm. The sensation burned, searing through your hand like frost and fire at once. You pulled back sharply, the power crackling through you.

For a moment, you thought you had made it worse. But then Anne drew a shuddering breath — steadier than before — and her colour returned, faint but visible. She blinked rapidly, her trembling easing just enough for her to push herself upright.

"What... what did you do?" she whispered, staring at your hand.

You looked down. Faint traces of that same dark energy still flickered around your fingertips before fading into nothing. You could not answer her. You barely understood it yourself.

Before you could say another word, a shadow moved through the smoke.

A goblin approached, its blade drawn, its body surrounded by pulsing darkness. You scrambled to your feet, pulling Anne close, but your reflexes were too slow.

The goblin lunged.

"Imperio!"

Sebastian's voice rang through the chaos. His spell struck the goblin in a flash of pale light, the magic snapping into place with a sound like shattering glass. The goblin froze mid-step, his weapon trembling in the air.

Then, slowly, he turned the blade on himself.

You flinched, your stomach twisting as the sound of steel met flesh. The goblin crumpled to the ground, still and silent.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The air hung heavy with smoke and the echo of your own heartbeat. You could only stare, the sight burning behind your eyes.

Sebastian stood a few feet away, chest heaving, wand still raised. His expression was unreadable — a mixture of shock and grim satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "Sebastian... what did you—"

He said nothing.

Sebastian stood a few feet away, chest heaving, wand still raised. His expression was unreadable — a mixture of shock and grim satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "Sebastian... what did you—"

He said nothing.

The silence was shattered by a furious voice cutting through the smoke.

"Boy! What have you done?"

Solomon came storming forward, his face contorted with anger, his wand gripped tight in his hand. His boots crushed the smouldering debris beneath his feet as he closed the distance between you.

"Saved my sister!" Sebastian shouted back, his tone fierce, defiant.

"Saved her? With an unforgivable curse? From that bastard book, no doubt!" Solomon's words were sharp, his fury shaking with disbelief. He reached for Anne, but she pushed his hand away, standing on her own for the first time in months.

Her face was pale, but her eyes were wide with a fragile clarity. "I can stand," she whispered. "I can stand."

Solomon froze, stunned for a moment before his anger returned. Anne still winced, clutching her side, but the pain was dulled — no longer consuming her.

Sebastian's frustration burst forth. "What did you expect me to do? The Imperius Curse saved Anne's life. It saved her life too!" He gestured toward you, voice breaking. "The goblin was going to kill them both!"

Solomon's eyes darkened. "You've gone too far, Sebastian. You're blinded by obsession. Your father would be ashamed. Stay away from her. Stay away from all of us!"

Sebastian's face twisted, anger and pain warring behind his eyes. "My father is dead," he hissed. "And if he were here, maybe he'd understand that I'm trying to save what's left of this family!"

Before either man could say more, a strange shimmer caught Sebastian's eye. He turned sharply toward you. "What is that? On your hand."

You looked down, startled. The faint dark energy still lingered, curling around your fingers like smoke before fading again. "I... I think it's part of Anne's curse," you said, your voice shaking. "When I was down there with her, my magic activated. I didn't mean to, but I think... I think I removed part of it."

Sebastian stared at your hand, wide-eyed. "You what?" His voice broke into disbelief, almost awe. "You pulled part of it out? That's— that's incredible!"

You shook your head quickly. "I don't know. I fear I've made it worse."

Before Sebastian could answer, Solomon turned on you, his fury now burning straight through his grief.

"What are you trying to do, make it worse?" he roared, stepping toward you. "You foolish girl! Do you have any idea what you're meddling with?"

You flinched, taken aback by the sheer venom in his tone. "I was trying to help!" you protested, voice breaking. "Anne's pain lessened, I swear it did!"

"Enough!" Solomon snapped. "You and that boy have no understanding of the danger you're inviting into this house!" His voice cracked under the weight of emotion. "You'll both destroy her!"

Anne's voice cut through the shouting, trembling but clear. "Stop it! Both of you, stop!" She was standing fully now, tears in her eyes. "She's right, Uncle. It doesn't hurt as much. I can breathe again."

For a heartbeat, Solomon faltered. His eyes flickered between the three of you, confusion and fear tightening his jaw.

Sebastian's fists clenched at his sides. "You see? She's better. All this time, and you've done nothing but tell us to give up!"

"Because I've lived long enough to know where this road leads!" Solomon shouted back. "Dark magic takes, it never gives! And it will take her too if you don't stop!"

You stepped forward instinctively, trying to calm the storm brewing between them. "Please, this isn't helping anyone—"

But it was too late.

The fury between uncle and nephew was about to erupt into something far more dangerous.

Anne's breathing steadied little by little, though her eyes were distant. Solomon's fury still hung heavy in the air. After a tense silence, he finally turned away, muttering something under his breath as he guided Anne back toward the house.

Sebastian watched them go, his shoulders rigid with anger. His jaw clenched as he turned to you. "He doesn't understand. He never has." His voice trembled, though it was more from exhaustion than rage. "Everything I do is wrong in his eyes."

You sighed softly. "Perhaps I'll try and talk to him. If he hears it from someone else, maybe he'll see reason."

Sebastian gave a short, bitter laugh. "If anyone could get through to him, it would be you, but I doubt even you could manage it. Still... try if you wish." He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression softening as he looked at you. "You should head back soon. I'll follow after. We'll talk later in the Undercroft, all right? I'll bring Ominis and fill him in on what's happened."

You nodded faintly. "Be careful, Sebastian."

He gave a tired half-smile and turned toward the road, his cloak trailing through the soot-stained dirt as he disappeared into the mist.

You exhaled, steadying yourself before walking slowly toward the house. Solomon sat outside, slumped in an old wooden chair. His hands were clasped together, his eyes fixed on the ground. The anger had not left him, but it had changed — hollowed into something quieter, something heavier.

You hesitated, then spoke softly. "Pardon me, Mr. Sallow."

He did not look up at first. "What was he thinking..." he muttered, shaking his head. Then his gaze snapped to you, sharp again. "What Sebastian did was inexcusable. And you—" his tone hardened, "don't ever do that again."

"It wasn't on purpose, I assure you, sir," you said quickly. "All I wanted to do was help, to lift the curse, even slightly. Perhaps I could try again?"

"No." His voice was cold and final. "You stay away from us, girl. You and your strange magic. I've seen what that kind of power does." He rose to his feet slowly, every word deliberate. "If you come near this family again, I'll be writing to the Headmaster myself."

You bit down the reply that tried to form. Nothing you said would change his mind now. The only sound between you was the crackle of dying embers from the burning fields.

With a quiet nod, you turned away. The air was bitter and sharp, the scent of smoke still clinging to your cloak as you began the long walk back to Hogwarts.

You did not look back.

You returned to Hogwarts under the shroud of night, your cloak still smelling faintly of smoke and ash. The castle loomed ahead, its windows glowing softly against the fog. You made your way through the quiet corridors, your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The path toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower felt longer than usual, each turn heavy with the weight of everything that had happened.

When you reached the end of the corridor, you stopped before the tall grandfather clock. The ticking was steady, faintly comforting. You raised your wand, tracing the air with a practiced flick. The gears turned, and the clock swung open with a quiet creak, revealing the hidden passage.

You stepped inside.

The air in the Undercroft was cool and still, the flicker of a few lanterns casting soft light over the familiar stone walls. Sebastian and Ominis were already there.

Ominis turned at once toward the sound of your footsteps, his wand raised in alert. The moment he recognised you, his expression softened, and he moved quickly toward you. His hand reached out, hesitating for just a second before resting on your arm.

"Sebastian told me everything," he said, his voice tense with worry. "I heard what happened in Feldcroft. You're not hurt, are you?"

You offered him a small, tired smile. "I'm fine, Ominis. Thank you for asking."

He didn't look convinced, but his hand lingered for a moment before falling back to his side.

You drew a steadying breath. "Let's sit. We have a lot to unload."

The three of you settled on the worn sofa that had seen countless secrets. The flickering lanternlight danced across Sebastian's face; he looked exhausted but restless, one leg bouncing slightly as if he couldn't stay still. Ominis sat upright beside him, his expression unreadable.

Sebastian was the first to speak. "Did you talk to Solomon?"

You hesitated. "I wish I had better news. He doesn't want you near Feldcroft or Anne. He said the same to me."

Sebastian exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. "Of course he did. I had to stop that goblin! He nearly killed you — and Anne! And you helped her, you did help her."

Ominis turned his head toward you then, his tone softer but filled with concern. "Y/N... how did you help her?"

You looked down at your hands, the faint traces of blue still imprinted in your mind. "My hand glowed," you said quietly. "The same blue as when my ancient magic activates. I reached for Anne, and it just... happened. It took some of the curse. Not all, but part of it."

Both boys fell silent, their faces tense in the lanternlight.

"I'm scared," you admitted, your voice trembling. "What if I made it worse?"

Sebastian leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You didn't. You saw her — she could stand. She could breathe. Whatever you did, it worked."

You sighed softly and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. "It just left me so drained. I can still feel it, like it's sitting somewhere under my skin."

Ominis turned his head slightly, listening to the tone of your voice. "Then rest," he said quietly. "You've done enough for one day."

Sebastian said nothing. His expression was tight, unreadable. You could almost see the thoughts flickering behind his eyes — determination, guilt, desperation.

Finally, he spoke. "If Solomon thinks he can forbid me from seeing Anne, he's wrong. I'll find another way to fix this. I don't care what it takes."

Ominis straightened, his patience thinning. "Sebastian, you used an Unforgivable Curse. You could have been expelled, imprisoned — or worse. When will you see that this obsession is going to destroy you?"

"Obsession?" Sebastian snapped. "I'm trying to save my sister! That's not obsession — it's love!"

Their voices echoed through the stone chamber.

You stood, your hands trembling. "Enough, both of you. We can't do this tonight."

They fell silent, the tension still thick between them.

Sebastian's hands were clasped tightly together, knuckles white. You could see the exhaustion in his face, the weight of guilt and determination pressed into every line.

"I can't just sit here and do nothing," he muttered again, his voice sharp. "You saw her. You saw what you could do."

You lifted your head slowly. "Sebastian, it isn't that simple. I don't even understand how I did it. I could make it worse if I try again."

He looked up at you, frustration flickering in his eyes. "Then figure it out! You have this gift, this power, and you're holding back. Anne's running out of time."

Ominis turned toward him, his tone calm but firm. "Enough. Can't you see she's frightened? Whatever she did in Feldcroft came from instinct, not control. She isn't a weapon, Sebastian."

Sebastian rose abruptly from the sofa, his expression tightening. "I never said she was. But at least she's doing something."

You stood as well, the fatigue in your chest heavy. "You're not listening. You can't keep pushing everyone like this. We're trying to help, but there are lines we shouldn't cross."

Sebastian stared at you for a long moment, his jaw set. "If you won't use your magic on Anne, then I will use the relic. She needs to be healed, and I'll do whatever it takes."

"Sebastian, don't," Ominis warned, his voice rising for the first time that night. "You're crossing into something you won't come back from."

Sebastian's mouth tightened. "You sound just like Solomon."

He turned abruptly and strode toward the entrance. His footsteps echoed harshly against the stone as he vanished through the passage, the clock closing behind him with a dull click.

The Undercroft fell silent once more.

You stood frozen, staring at the place where he had been. The echo of his words lingered in the air, heavy and cold.

Ominis exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping. "He's slipping further away," he murmured. "And I don't know if either of us can reach him now."

You rubbed at your palm, feeling that faint hum again beneath your skin — the ghost of the magic you still didn't understand. "We'll find a way," you whispered, though your voice trembled. "We have to."

Ominis turned his head toward you, his expression softening. "Then we will. But you can't face this alone."

You gave a faint nod, though the ache in your chest only deepened.

The clock ticked faintly above, and for the first time, the Undercroft felt colder than usual.

The silence in the Undercroft lingered long after Sebastian's footsteps faded. The low hum of the castle filled the emptiness he left behind — the faint drip of water somewhere in the walls, the flicker of a single lantern swaying on its chain.

You sank back onto the sofa, your shoulders heavy. The firelight trembled faintly across the floor. Ominis stood beside you for a long moment before lowering himself down too, his movements slow, deliberate.

Neither of you spoke at first. There was only the sound of your unsteady breathing and the soft ticking of the clock beyond the hidden wall.

At last, you broke the silence. "I want to help her," you said quietly. "I can't stop thinking about Anne. About what I did. If I could do that once... perhaps I can do it again. But I need to understand it first. I can't risk it without knowing more about my power."

Ominis turned his head toward you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You still want to try again?"

You hesitated, fingers twisting together in your lap. "Yes. I think I do. But this time I'll be careful. I'll study. I'll find out what this magic really is before I even consider using it again."

He reached out slowly, searching until his hand brushed against yours. His touch was light but firm, grounding. "Please," he said softly. "Don't risk yourself for her. I know how much you care, but if this power harms you — if it takes anything from you — I couldn't bear it."

Your throat tightened at the sound of his voice. You turned your hand beneath his, your fingers brushing his palm. "I'll be careful, I promise. But I can't just ignore this. If there's a chance I can help, I have to try."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as if studying your tone. "You sound like him when you say that," he murmured. "Determined. Reckless." Then, more quietly, "But kinder. Always kinder."

You smiled faintly, though your eyes stung. "That's hardly a fair comparison."

"I don't make them lightly." His thumb brushed against the back of your hand. "Just... promise me you'll think before you act. Promise me you'll keep yourself safe."

"I promise," you whispered.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The Undercroft felt smaller, the light softer, the air warmer. You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, steady and real.

At last, he rose and offered you his arm. "Come on," he said quietly. "It's late. I'll walk you back to the Hufflepuff common room."

You nodded, taking his arm. Together, you stepped through the narrow passage and back into the quiet corridors of the castle, your footsteps fading into the dark.

Chapter Text

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Morning light crept through the tall windows of the dormitory, pale and cool against the stone. The castle was quiet, wrapped in the hush that followed a night of uneasy dreams. A soft, persistent tapping broke the stillness.

Perched upon the narrow windowsill was a snowy owl, feathers dusted with grey, eyes a deep burnished amber. It was Elsie, the Sallow family's owl — unmistakable in her poise and the faint scar along one wing. She stood expectantly, one leg raised, the small roll of parchment secured by a red ribbon.

The letter bore Sebastian's handwriting, quick and unpolished, every line tilting slightly upward as though the words themselves strained toward urgency. The ink had smudged in places, betraying the pressure of a restless hand.

Hello,

About what happened in the Undercroft... I owe you an apology. My behaviour was unkind, and I regret it more than I can say. You've done more for Anne than anyone else ever has, and I know I've asked too much of you. Please, meet me in the Undercroft when you can. I only want to make things right.

– Sebastian

The parchment trembled faintly between her fingers as she finished reading. A sigh escaped her, soft and weary, before she set the letter down on the desk beside the bed. Outside, Elsie gave a short hoot, as if waiting for an answer, then took flight through the cold morning air, wings scattering snowflakes into the light.

The letter lay where it fell, the ink still glistening wet — a small weight in an already heavy morning.

You stare at the letter for a long moment before folding it carefully and slipping it into your jacket pocket. Ignoring Sebastian would only make things worse. He has always been reckless, yes, but underneath it all, you know he is just scared. Scared for Anne, for losing what little family he has left. You can't bring yourself to resent him for that. You care too much.

Still, the thought of seeing him again stirs unease in your chest. His words in the Undercroft had been sharp and cruel, but they came from pain, not hate. You tell yourself that if you go, maybe you can help him before that pain consumes him completely.

You dress quickly, fastening your waistcoat and tying your tie. The morning air is cool and damp, spilling faintly through the stone windows. As you reach for your satchel, it suddenly lurches beneath your hand with a soft thump.

A small, muffled mrrrp follows.

You lift the flap and sigh. "Hades."

Your half-Kneazle stares up at you from inside the bag, his olive-green eyes wide and far too innocent. His sleek black fur gleams faintly in the light, and he gives a soft chirp, as if he hasn't just made himself comfortable on your parchment and books.

"Hades, honestly. I can't take you everywhere," you scold, though your voice is more fond than stern.

He blinks slowly, tail flicking once before curling around himself, clearly determined to stay put.

You sigh and give up. "Fine. You can stay, but you'd better be quiet."

He chirps again, pleased with himself.

You shake your head with a small smile. "Spoiled creature."

Adjusting the strap so the satchel sits comfortably against your shoulder, you take one last look around the dormitory. Morning light filters through the narrow window, catching the rising dust in soft gold. You take a slow breath and step out, your mind already fixed on the Undercroft and the conversation waiting for you below.

The corridors are quiet that morning, filled only with the distant hum of the castle as it stirs to life. Candles flicker in their sconces, throwing pools of gold across the worn stone walls, and shafts of sunlight spill through the arched windows, catching the soft dust that drifts lazily in the air.

You have always liked mornings at Hogwarts. The hush before lessons begin, the faint warmth of light through the old glass—it feels safe, calm, untouched by the chaos that waits beyond.

Your footsteps echo softly as you make your way toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower, each turn of the staircase familiar now. Still, your thoughts wander restlessly ahead of you.

You can't help wondering if Ominis will be there when you reach the Undercroft. He often is, though lately it has been harder to tell. Things between him and Sebastian have grown tense. You do not know if it is because of the relic, the magic, or something deeper.

A small, wistful sigh escapes before you can stop it. Ominis Gaunt—polite, modest, maddeningly beautiful and just slightly reserved. You can picture him even now: the careful tilt of his head when he listens, the way he holds his wand so naturally that it almost feels like an extension of his hand. There is something about him that calms you, that draws you in without trying. The thing about him that stands out the most to you are his beautiful eyes. They're like the planet Uranus.

You had tried to name these feelings...admiration, fondness, perhaps gratitude. But none of those words seem to fit. The warmth in your chest when he speaks, the way your pulse stirs when his hand brushes yours... it is something else entirely.

It is love. Quiet, unspoken, impossible love.

You press a hand to your satchel and shake your head lightly, trying to dispel the thought. There are more important things to worry about—Sebastian's letter, Anne's health, the secrets you now carry. Still, your heart refuses to listen to reason.

Perhaps you should talk to Sebastian about it. He knows Ominis better than anyone, after all. He is his closest friend.

The thought lingers as you continue down the hall, your steps growing quieter, the castle around you holding its breath.

Your thoughts are interrupted as you finally reach the concealed entrance to the Undercroft. The familiar tick of the old grandfather clock echoes softly down the corridor. You draw your wand and trace the air in front of it, the faint shimmer of enchantment blooming across the surface. The door creaks open, revealing the narrow stairway that descends into shadow.

You step inside.

The cool air of the Undercroft greets you, quiet and still. The faint light from a few enchanted lanterns glows across the stone walls, and there—standing near the centre of the room—is Sebastian.

He turns as you approach, his expression tense, though there's relief in his voice when he speaks. "I... I'm assuming you received my owl."

"Yes," you reply softly. "And I'm here to speak to you, Sebastian."

He exhales, shoulders easing slightly. "What you did for Anne, it's one of the two things that can currently heal her. The relic, it's the other. It's the key to reversing the curse."

You hesitate. "But Sebastian, remember what your uncle said? He warned us that if he hears of any more Dark Magic, he'll go straight to Headmaster Black."

Sebastian's jaw tightens. "I can't lose Anne. Please, just ignore my uncle. He won't find out."

You sigh, rubbing your temple. You don't want to argue with him, not again. "Fine. But I'm not casting any more spells on Anne until I understand what I'm dealing with. I need to know more first."

He nods quickly, almost too quickly. "And I respect that decision. Truly, I do. But for now, I should send the crest to Anne. She'll know that means we need to meet."

You frown. "I'm afraid I don't follow. What crest?"

"Nothing! just a thought," he says, brushing it off. But his eyes flicker, and you can see the sadness behind them. "Now I'm more determined than ever to uncover the relic's power."

You take a step closer. "Sebastian, what did you mean when you said you'd send Anne a crest so that she'd know to meet you?"

He pauses, his voice softer when he speaks again. "It... well, we'd just lost our parents. We were packing to go live with Solomon, and we couldn't take everything. Anne was carefully sorting through her things—a box of family keepsakes, old photographs, bits of jewellery. She had this one thing she loved most. A handmade crest."

He swallows, looking down at his hands. "Before we left, she pressed it into my palm and said, 'This will keep you safe.' It doesn't hold any enchantments, but I've kept it with me ever since. If I send it to her now, she'll know. She'll understand that I need to see her."

You feel a pang of sympathy. The idea is touching, yet dangerous. "Be careful, Sebastian. If your uncle finds out, he could intercept it. We'd be expelled."

Sebastian gives a half-hearted smile. "Even if Ominis is upset with us, he'd never side with Solomon. He has no love for his own family. If we truly needed help, he'd use those old Gaunt connections of his to reach the Headmaster. He'd do it for you, certainly..."

You blink, taken aback. "For me?"

"Of course," he says simply, as though it's obvious. "He'd do anything to keep you safe."

"Keep me safe...?" you repeat, blinking in confusion. "I'm sorry, I'm not catching on."

Sebastian gives a short laugh, though there's no mockery in it,only the exasperated fondness of someone pointing out what should be obvious. "Ominis," he says simply. "

He's been different since you came to Hogwarts. At first, I thought you irritated him—no offence—but now I realise it's the opposite."

You tilt your head slightly, still unsure what he means. "Different how?"

"He's always been a bit distant with people," Sebastian explains, pacing slowly as he talks. "Polite, yes, but careful. He doesn't let anyone close, not even me sometimes. But with you..." He pauses, a small smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "He's more alive. He listens when you speak. He smiles more. Merlin, he even laughs."

You feel warmth rising in your cheeks, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel. "I hadn't noticed," you say quietly, though you had—every fleeting smile, every small tilt of his head when you entered the room.

Sebastian studies you for a moment, his tone softening. "The other week, in the common room, Jovian Rosier and his goons were talking about you." His jaw tightens slightly at the memory. "They were being cruel, as usual. I was about to hex them myself when Ominis beat me to it. Before I could even reach for my wand, he'd jinxed them so their legs went weak and they couldn't walk straight for the rest of the evening."

Your eyes widen slightly. "He... did that?"

Sebastian nods. "He looked furious. Said nothing, of course, just turned and left. But I've never seen him that angry before."

"He defended me..." you whisper, almost to yourself. You can feel the heat spreading across your face, a helpless smile tugging at your lips as you lower your gaze to the floor.

Sebastian catches the look and grins faintly. "He's practically devoted to you. You've seen the way he is, haven't you? Protective. If he thinks you're in danger, he'll move faster than anyone else in the room. It's almost instinctive."

Your stomach twists, unsure whether it's from embarrassment or something softer. "He's... kind. I care for him too," you admit carefully. "But I didn't realise it was so noticeable."

"Oh, it's noticeable," Sebastian says with a grin. "To everyone except him, apparently." He leans back slightly, studying you with a knowing look. "Honestly, I think he really does have feelings for you. He just doesn't know how to admit it."

You look up, startled. "You think so?"

"I'd bet my wand on it," Sebastian replies without hesitation. "The way he listens to you, the way his whole face changes when you're around—it's painfully obvious. If he were anyone else, I'd tease him about it daily."

You smile despite yourself, though your heart beats a little faster. "Maybe I should speak to you about it more often," you say lightly. "You are his bosom friend, after all."

Sebastian laughs quietly, the tension between you easing for a moment. "I know him well enough to know he's in love."

You shake your head with a soft laugh. "I still doubt it."

"Well that's where you're wrong. You're supposed to be the clairvoyant!" Teases Sebastian affectionately.

The air between you settles into something lighter, more familiar, though your thoughts still flicker to Ominis, his careful words, his gentle touch when you'd last spoken. The memory lingers longer than it should.

Sebastian straightened his cloak, glancing toward the door of the Undercroft. "Come on, we mustn't be late for Professor Hecat's lesson. She's teaching us the Patronus Charm."

You had almost forgotten. Last week, Professor Hecat had assigned homework on the charm, its history, its purpose, and the creatures it could repel. You remembered her exact words: A Patronus is light made manifest, a guardian born from joy itself. You also remembered the shiver that ran down your spine when you read about Dementors and Lethifolds.

As you stepped out into the corridor, you felt a faint chill. The memory of Azkaban crept into your mind once again, the darkness, the echoing screams, the way the air had felt so cold it could splinter bone. You forced the image away and followed Sebastian.

He walked beside you, his tone light and teasing. "You know, an animal is supposed to appear when you cast a full Patronus. They say the creature that manifests is a reflection of your inner self."

You looked at him curiously. "I wonder what mine would be. Hopefully not a worm or a fly."

Sebastian laughed softly. "You are far too dramatic for something so dull. Perhaps a phoenix or a cat. Something mysterious."

You smiled faintly. "That would be a corporal Patronus, correct? There are corporal and non-corporal kinds. You need a happy memory to summon one."

"Quite right you are," Sebastian said with a grin. "Someone has been reading ahead."

You followed him up the winding staircase toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower. The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall arched windows, casting ribbons of pale gold over the stone floor. The distant toll of the bell echoed through the corridor, mingling with the murmur of other students on their way to class.

When you entered the room, it was quieter than usual. The desks had been pushed back, leaving an open space in the centre of the floor. Professor Hecat stood near her office door, her posture firm and commanding, hands clasped behind her back. Her sharp eyes lifted as you and Sebastian entered, and though her mouth remained stern, there was the faintest glimmer of approval in her gaze.

"Ah," she said, her voice brisk and clear. "Just in time. I trust you both are prepared."

Sebastian straightened beside you, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You and Sebastian joined the crowd of students gathered in a wide semicircle before Professor Hecat. The air in the room was cool and faintly humming with anticipation. Wands were already drawn, and the soft scrape of shoes against the floor echoed faintly as everyone shifted to make space.

Your gaze wandered through the group until it found a familiar head of neatly combed blond hair. Ominis stood a little apart from the others, his wand loosely in hand, his face calm but alert as if listening to something far beyond the chatter around him.

You stepped closer, quietly taking your place beside him.

"Good day to you," he said softly, turning his head slightly toward you. His voice was low, a gentle warmth in the words.

You smiled to yourself, deciding to tease him just a little. "How did you know it was me, Ominis?"

A faint curve touched his lips, the kind of smile that was almost imperceptible unless one was looking for it. "Your perfume," he murmured. "It's quite a unique scent. I could recognise it anywhere."

The simple remark sent a warmth to your cheeks. You glanced away quickly, hoping he would not notice. "I see... I shall have to remember that," you said softly.

"Do not change it on my account," he replied. "It rather suits you."

Before you could respond, Professor Hecat's voice cut sharply through the quiet. "Wands ready! You will all attempt the Patronus Charm under guidance. Remember, this is not a spell of brute strength, but one of purity and will."

You felt your heartbeat quicken. Around you, students straightened, wands lifted, a faint crackle of anticipation filling the air. But you could still feel the lingering heat of Ominis's words, like sunlight that refused to fade.

Professor Hecat paced before the rows of students, her sharp eyes scanning the group. "Now then," she said briskly, "before we begin, who among you can tell me what a Patronus actually is?"

Several hands hesitated in the air before Garreth Weasley's shot up, a broad grin on his face. "It's a kind of shield charm, Professor. Like Protego, but shinier!"

A few students stifled laughter, and Hecat arched a brow, unimpressed. "A shield charm, is it? I see someone did not do their homework." Her tone was dry enough to draw another ripple of amusement from the class. "A Patronus is not a mere barrier, Mr. Weasley, nor is it for show. It is a form of pure, protective magic born from positive emotion. It repels creatures of despair and darkness—namely Dementors and, on rarer occasions, Lethifolds."

Her expression softened only slightly as she continued, "A well-formed Patronus can take two shapes. The non-corporeal form, a beam or wisp of light, offers limited protection. The corporeal form, however, manifests as an animal that embodies the caster's spirit. Few witches and wizards manage to achieve it."

She clasped her hands behind her back, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. "Now, I have been granted special permission by the Ministry to keep a Dementor for instructional use."

A murmur swept through the students, half disbelief, half dread.

"You will not be in danger," she assured, though her tone held a touch of mischief. "It is secured and under full supervision. Still, you will soon understand why the Patronus Charm is not to be trifled with."

With a flick of her wand, she unlocked a tall iron-bound closet at the side of the room. The air changed at once. A creeping chill spread outward, dimming the lanterns and filling the room with a heaviness that clung to every breath. The door creaked open slowly.

From within emerged a cloaked figure, gliding soundlessly forward. Its presence drained all warmth from the air, its skeletal hand curling beneath the folds of its robes. A low, rattling breath echoed from the hollow of its hood.

Several students gasped, one even stumbled back.

Professor Hecat, however, remained perfectly composed. "Observe carefully," she said, her voice steady despite the frost in the air. "Expecto Patronum!"

Her wand swept through the air with perfect precision, and from its tip burst a radiant silver light that filled the room like dawn breaking through storm clouds. From that brilliance emerged the graceful form of a lynx, its spectral fur gleaming as it bounded forward, circling the Dementor with a fierce, protective elegance.

The Dementor recoiled, retreating toward the open closet before vanishing inside with a hollow hiss. The door slammed shut on its own, the lock clicking into place. Warmth slowly returned to the room, the light of the lynx fading into nothing.

Professor Hecat turned to face the class once more. "That," she said simply, "is what mastery looks like."

Her sharp gaze settled on the group. "Watch my stance and wand movement carefully. The charm is not about power, but memory. A single happy thought, strong and sincere, will do more than all the spellwork in the world."

She lowered her wand slightly, allowing the students a moment to absorb her words. The room was still heavy with the echo of the Dementor's presence, the air thick with that strange, lingering cold. Even so, her tone remained steady, carrying a rare touch of warmth.

"And, well," she continued, glancing toward the now-locked closet, "unfortunately I have not received permission for you all to practise against a real Dementor." A faint, almost mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "The Ministry insists on their precious safety regulations. A pity. Nothing sharpens the mind like imminent peril."

A nervous laugh rippled through the class.

"Instead," she went on briskly, "you'll practise the form and feeling of the spell. Split into pairs, focus on your happiest memory, and concentrate on the light it brings. It may take time, but persistence will reward you."

She clapped her hands once. "Off you go then—groups of two."

The sound of movement filled the room as students began to shuffle and turn to one another, murmuring as they chose their partners.

Your mind wandered for a brief moment, tracing idle thoughts of asking Ominis to be your partner, though uncertainty kept you still. Before you could summon the courage, his calm voice reached your ears.

"Shall we practise together?" he asked, turning his head toward you.

Your heart gave a small flutter. "I—yes, of course!" you replied, perhaps a touch too eagerly.

A faint smile crossed his lips, subtle but unmistakable, and he inclined his head in quiet approval.

As you moved to stand beside him, you caught sight of Sebastian across the room. He was watching the two of you with that familiar, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth before he turned to join Amit.

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile of your own. Typical Sebastian.

You raise your wand, fingers tightening around the handle. The words of Professor Hecat still echoed faintly in your mind. A single happy thought, strong and sincere...

You try once, twice, murmuring the incantation under your breath, but all that forms is a faint wisp of silver smoke that fades almost immediately. The spell is trickier than you imagined. Around you, the air hums with half-formed Patronuses—ghostly outlines of animals that flicker and vanish before they can take shape.

You inhale slowly and close your eyes.

Focus.

Your thoughts drift, wandering through fragments of memory: laughter over breakfast with Poppy, quiet evenings in the Hufflepuff common room, the thrill of flying beneath a pale dawn sky. Yet none of it feels quite right. The warmth you need is deeper, more elusive.

Then you find it.

The memory unfurls in your mind like light through water—Ominis beside you in the library, his hand brushing yours as he reached to steady a book you nearly dropped. The faint scent of old parchment and his cologne lingering in the air. The small, unguarded smile that curved his lips when Hades had leapt onto the table, curling across both your laps as if he owned the place. The quiet sound of Ominis' laughter—rare, genuine, and soft enough to melt the chill from the world.

Your chest fills with warmth.

You breathe out. "Expecto Patronum."

Light bursts from the tip of your wand, blinding and pure. Gasps echo through the room as the silver radiance takes shape—first a shimmer, then form, then life. A unicorn steps gracefully from the light, its mane flowing like liquid moonlight, its hooves barely touching the floor as it circles you once in silent reverence.

You stare in awe, the corners of your lips lifting in quiet disbelief. You had done it. Truly done it.

Professor Hecat's sharp voice broke through the murmurs. "Impressive work! A full corporeal Patronus. Quite rare at your age."

Several heads had turned now, students whispering and pointing at the ethereal creature that still lingered near you.

Ominis tilted his head toward the sound, his tone touched with wonder. "You managed it. That's remarkable. What was it—what animal answered your call?"

You smile softly, watching as the unicorn dissolves into drifting light. "A... a unicorn."

There's a brief silence, then Ominis exhales slowly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Fitting," he murmurs. "Rare, pure, and beautiful. It suits you perfectly."

Your heart skips a beat, though you try to hide it.

When he lifts his wand to try for himself, his hand trembles slightly. The first attempt yields only a spark, then a faint mist that fades into nothing. His jaw tightens. "Ridiculous. I cannot cast it," he mutters under his breath, frustration edging his voice.

You step closer, your voice calm and gentle. "Try again, Ominis. I believe you can do this."

He sighs quietly, shoulders stiff, before taking another breath. It's not easy for him—most of his memories are shadows tinged with sorrow, fragments of a childhood spent in silence and control. He searches desperately for something brighter.

At first he finds Sebastian's laughter, the wild chaos of their school days—but it flickers and fades, not enough. Then, unexpectedly, another image rises. The Founders' Ball. The soft rustle of music. Your gloved hands resting in his as you danced. Your nervous breath when your foot caught his. His quiet laugh as he steadied you, one hand at your waist, the warmth of you lingering in his memory long after the song had ended.

He clings to that.

"Expecto Patronum."

Silver light bursts from his wand, smooth and serene. The shape unfolds—wings, long and graceful. A swan, its feathers gleaming like starlight, glides around the room in a slow, elegant circle before fading into the air.

You can't help but smile. "A swan," you whisper. "It's beautiful, Ominis."

He lowers his wand, breath unsteady but a faint pride softening his voice. "Perhaps it's not so impossible after all."

For a moment, you simply stand there together amid the lingering light, two shining souls reflected in silver.

Ominis lets out a quiet breath, lowering his wand. The faint trace of a smile flickers across his face, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I expected a snake," he admits softly. "That's what every member of my family has produced—if they could conjure a Patronus at all. It's practically a family emblem. Cold, proud, venomous."

You turn toward him, still half-glowing in the afterlight of your unicorn. "Then perhaps the magic decided otherwise. A swan suits you far better."

He tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing in faint amusement. "A swan? Dignified but temperamental?"

You laugh under your breath. "They're actually fiercely territorial. Beautiful creatures, but if you so much as look at their nest the wrong way, they'll chase you halfway across a lake. They've even broken people's arms before."

That draws a genuine, startled laugh from him—one that makes your chest tighten pleasantly. "Merlin, that sounds about right," he says. "Perhaps the spell knows me better than I do."

You smile faintly, watching the last shimmer of silver vanish into the air. "It doesn't just show what you are, Ominis. It shows what you could be. Something graceful, protective... not a serpent lurking in the dark."

He turns his face toward you, and for a moment his expression softens completely. "You think me graceful?"

The question makes you stumble for words. "I think you're... more than you give yourself credit for," you manage quietly.

He hums in thought, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Then perhaps I should stop underestimating myself."

"Perhaps you should," you say, smiling up at him.

For a moment, neither of you move. The classroom hums with half-finished Patronuses, but to you, everything feels still—the glow fading, the air quiet except for the sound of your joined breaths.

Sebastian came bounding back across the room, his wand still faintly glowing. His grin was wide, triumphant. "Well, that was a success. I managed it! Mine's a dog—a mountain dog, I think."

Ominis turned toward the sound of his voice, his tone immediately dry. "How fitting. Loyal and loud."

Sebastian laughed. "Loud perhaps, but loyal absolutely. Dogs are a man's best friend, after all."

Ominis made a quiet scoffing sound, his lips twitching. "I suppose it suits you," he murmured. "Boundless enthusiasm, easily distracted by attention."

Sebastian ignored the jab, still in good spirits. His grin softened slightly as he turned to you. "But yours," he said, gesturing vaguely toward where the unicorn had disappeared, "yours was extraordinary. I've never seen one like it before. Beautiful work."

"Thank you," you said, still flushed with pride. "I didn't expect it to appear at all."

"The unicorn suits you," Sebastian continued. "Rare, radiant, difficult to catch. Rather poetic, don't you think?"

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. "You always have a way with words, Sebastian."

He shrugged, then looked at Ominis with a glint of mischief. "And you, my friend. A swan! How very elegant. Did you know they often have a mate for life? Rather adorable, actually."

Ominis's expression faltered, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. "I highly doubt my Patronus has any interest in romance, Sebastian," he said coolly.

Sebastian smirked. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it's a sign. Someone might be the reason it appeared at all."

Ominis's jaw tightened just slightly, and you caught the faintest flicker of a smile threatening to betray him. "You really do talk too much," he said, voice low but amused.

Sebastian laughed again, utterly pleased with himself, and for a moment the tension between the three of you eased entirely—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Professor Hecat clapped her hands once, sharply. "Excellent work, all of you! You've exceeded my expectations."

The silvery traces of the Patronuses faded one by one, but the warmth that lingered between you, Ominis, and Sebastian remained long after the light had gone.

Sebastian stretched his arms above his head, grinning as though the entire lesson had been nothing more than a warm-up. "I say we head to the Three Broomsticks. After all that spellwork, I could use something sweet. Butterbeer's on me."

Ominis gave a small sigh, though you caught the faint trace of amusement in his voice. "You'll say that until the bill arrives."

Sebastian only laughed, already making for the stairs that led out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts Tower. You followed beside Ominis, the air in the corridors growing cooler as you descended toward the castle's great doors.

When you stepped outside, the chill of late winter bit at your skin. Frost still clung to the grass, and the sky was a pale grey that promised snow before nightfall. You shivered, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself.

Ominis slowed beside you, turning his head slightly in your direction. "Here," he said quietly, slipping his scarf from around his neck and holding it out. The wool was soft and a deep shade of green, hand-knitted and faintly frayed at the edges. "Take this."

You blinked. "Are you sure? You'll be cold."

"I'm fine," he said simply. "Take it. I'd rather not have you catching cold."

You hesitated, then accepted it with a small smile. "Thank you."

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. "It suits you better anyway."

You wrapped the scarf carefully around your neck. It smelled faintly of him—something musky and warm, with notes of bergamot and evening primrose. The scent was subtle but unmistakable, and you found yourself smiling without meaning to.

Sebastian, walking a few paces ahead, glanced back over his shoulder. "You two coming, or shall I order three butterbeers and drink them myself?"

You laughed softly. "We're coming."

The three of you followed the path down toward Hogsmeade, the castle shrinking slowly behind you. The air grew sharper the closer you got to the village, the wind carrying the scent of woodsmoke and distant pastries. Snow began to fall in small, quiet flurries, settling in Ominis's pale hair and the folds of your cloak.

After fifteen minutes of walking, the crooked roofs of Hogsmeade appeared ahead, their chimneys sending curls of smoke into the sky. Lanterns flickered along the cobbled streets, their light spilling across the snow.

Sebastian quickened his pace. "Ah, there it is," he said cheerfully as the familiar sign of the Three Broomsticks swung in the wind. "Warm fire, good company, and Sirona's best butterbeer. Perfect way end to the day."

You followed him through the door, the scent of honey, spice, and firewood washing over you as the warmth of the inn embraced you. Ominis stood close beside you, his sleeve brushing yours, and for a moment you felt that quiet comfort again—the kind that only came when he was near.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, and the familiar hum of laughter and conversation filled the air. The Three Broomsticks was warm and golden, its hearth crackling with life, casting flickering light across the polished tables and amber bottles that lined the shelves. The scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon lingered in the air, mingling with the sweetness of butterbeer.

"Ah, look who's wandered in from the cold!" came Sirona's warm, welcoming voice from behind the bar. She smiled as she caught sight of the three of you, her eyes kind beneath the soft glow of the lanterns. "You've all still got noses after walking through that frost? Merlin's beard, it's dreadful out there."

Sebastian grinned and leaned against the counter with his usual charm. "Barely, but we've survived.  Butterbeer, if you please."

Sirona chuckled, shaking her head as she reached for the mugs. "You again, Sallow. If you keep this up, I'll have to start charging you double for wearing down my patience."

"You wouldn't," he said with mock offence, but the grin on his face betrayed him.

"I might," she teased, then turned her attention to Ominis and you. "And for the two of you? Butterbeer as well?"

"Yes, please," you said, rubbing your gloved hands together to chase away the chill.

"Always a pleasure to serve good company," Sirona said warmly. She moved with effortless grace, pouring the frothy golden drinks into three heavy mugs. The steam that rose from them smelled of caramel and spice, comforting and nostalgic. "There we are, fresh from the cauldron. Sit near the fire before you all freeze solid."

You, Ominis, and Sebastian settled at a corner table by the hearth, grateful for the heat that chased away the last of the cold. The firelight softened Ominis' features, turning his fair hair to silver and tracing warm tones over the line of his jaw.

Sebastian was the first to speak, his tone lighter now that the weight of the past few days had eased. "You know, we should make this a proper habit. A visit to the Three Broomsticks every week, therapy in the form of butterbeer."

Ominis gave a quiet huff of amusement, his fingers brushing the rim of his mug. "You, of all people, could use therapy. I doubt butterbeer will suffice."

Sebastian feigned a wounded look. "I am deeply offended. Butterbeer heals all wounds."

"Except the ones caused by your own recklessness," Ominis replied smoothly, earning a soft laugh from you.

The sound made him pause, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly toward you, as though memorising the sound. The scarf around your neck still carried his scent, bergamot and primrose, delicate and familiar.

Sebastian leaned back, smirking. "If the two of you start whispering poetry, I will need something stronger than butterbeer."

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile. "You are insufferable."

"Accurate," Sebastian said cheerfully, raising his mug.

Before you could reply, your satchel twitched at your feet. It shifted once, then again, and a muffled chirp came from within.

Sebastian frowned. "Did your bag just move?"

You sighed, resigned. "Oh, that would be Hades. He has just woken up from his nap."

The bag wriggled once more before bursting open. A blur of dark fur leapt out and landed directly in Ominis' lap. The half-Kneazle blinked up at him with wide olive-green eyes before letting out a pleased trill and curling into a ball.

Ominis froze completely, hands half-raised in alarm. "What in Merlin's name?"

Sebastian snorted into his drink, barely keeping from laughing. "I think he has chosen you."

Sirona, overhearing the commotion, came over chuckling softly. "I'll fetch this gentleman something. One moment." She returned with a small saucer of warm milk and a few strips of dried eel. "For the handsome lad in your lap," she said with a wink.

Hades immediately perked up, sniffing the eel before beginning to eat with an eager rumble of purrs. Ominis hesitated, uncertain what to do, but his expression softened as Hades pressed his head into his stomach.

"Your cat is heavier than he looks," Ominis murmured.

"He is only half-Kneazle. Not fat, just fluffy."you said fondly. "He takes after the stubborn half."

Ominis chuckled quietly, his fingers brushing through the creature's thick black fur. "I see where he gets that from."

Sebastian smirked. "Look at you two. He never sits on my lap."

"Perhaps he has good taste," Ominis replied, which made you laugh.

Sebastian put a hand to his chest in mock offence. "I am wounded. Betrayed by cat and friend alike."

Hades purred louder as if in agreement, earning another soft smile from Ominis. "Your cat must be a drunk," he said after a moment. "He smells like butterbeer already."

You laughed quietly. "He is an excellent judge of character."

The three of you fell into easy conversation after that, the sound of the fire mingling with low laughter and the soft clink of mugs. Snow began to drift past the windows outside, catching in the glow of the lanterns.

You glanced out at it, a faint smile curving your lips. Ominis must have sensed your stillness because his hand brushed yours under the table, a quiet, hesitant touch that sent warmth blooming through you.

Sebastian noticed, of course, and grinned into his drink but said nothing for once. He only looked between you both with that familiar smirk that said he knew everything and would save it for teasing later.

The rest of the evening passed in the soft golden hush of firelight and laughter, the warmth of the pub wrapping around you like a spell. Hades purred contentedly, still in Ominis' lap, and for the first time in weeks, all was well.

When you finally stepped outside, the snow had stilled over the rooftops of Hogsmeade. Ominis offered his arm, the scarf he had given you still snug around your neck. Sebastian walked a few paces ahead, humming quietly to himself as the three of you made your way back to the castle beneath the winter stars.

For once, the night was peaceful.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Chapter Text

The dream began in silence. Yet again...

You were back in the catacombs, though something about them felt terribly wrong. The air was colder, the shadows darker, as if the walls themselves remembered what had happened there. Every step echoed faintly before the sound faded into nothing. It was as if the world had forgotten how to breathe.

You had walked these tunnels before, yet they no longer felt familiar. The air clung to your throat, damp and heavy with the scent of stone and decay. The walls closed in around you, and ahead, a faint light flickered.

Sebastian stood at the centre of the chamber. His wand was raised, his face drawn tight with anger and desperation. You could see his mouth moving, his voice shaping words you could not hear. The world had gone completely still.

No breath, no echo, no sound at all.

Then, without warning, a blinding green light burst from the tip of his wand. It cut through the darkness like lightning, swallowing everything in its path. You tried to call his name, but your voice was gone, trapped somewhere deep inside you.

A rush of power rose within you, violent and uncontrollable. It burst outward before you could stop it, the ground trembling beneath your feet. Sebastian was thrown back against the wall with a force that made your stomach twist.

The silence shattered.

A scream filled the air, raw and desperate. It took you a moment to realise it was your own. You ran to him, your hands shaking, the scent of blood heavy in the air. His wand lay nearby, the light fading from it.

Sebastian did not move.

You reached for him, your fingers brushing his sleeve, but before you could speak his name the world began to crumble. The stone walls blurred into shadow, the air grew weightless, and the floor fell away beneath you.

You woke with a violent gasp.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, and your nightclothes were damp with sweat. Moonlight spilled through the dormitory window, silver and cold against your skin. You pressed a trembling hand to your chest, trying to steady your breath.

It was only a dream.

But the flash of green still burned behind your eyes, and your hands still shook as if the power had never left you.

You broke.

The sobs came before you could stop them, deep and violent, tearing through your chest until you could hardly breathe. Every breath felt like it might shatter you from the inside. You clutched at the sheets, your body trembling as the tears poured freely down your face. It was too much to hold in.

Your wails echoed faintly in the quiet of the dormitory, until a soft weight shifted against your legs. Hades had stirred. The half-Kneazle crawled up from the foot of the bed and pressed his warm body against your chest, his olive-green eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

You gathered him into your arms without thinking. His fur was soft beneath your fingers, and the faint rhythmic sound of his purring filled the silence between your cries. It grounded you. It reminded you that you were still here, still alive, still far from whatever horror your mind had conjured.

You buried your face in his fur, your tears soaking into the dark strands as your sobs quietened into broken breaths. He purred louder in response, as if trying to drown out the memories themselves.

"Thank you," you whispered weakly, your voice hoarse. "It's all right. I'm fine now."

But you weren't. Not yet.

You held him closer, rocking slightly as the last of your panic attack faded, leaving you hollow and exhausted. Your head ached, your throat burned, and still the image of that green light lingered behind your eyes.

It had felt so real. Too real.

You turned your head toward the clock on your bedside table. The faint ticking filled the silence, its golden hands reading 5:12 a.m.

There was no point in trying to sleep again. The nightmare still clung to you, its shadow pressing against your chest, that horrible green light burned behind your eyes. You could still hear the echo of your own scream.

With a quiet sigh, you swung your legs out of bed. The floor was cold beneath your feet, and Hades stirred at the foot of the bed before hopping down with a soft mrrph. The noise broke the tension in your chest for a moment, and you let out a small, weary laugh.

"Good morning, troublemaker," you murmured, reaching to stroke his fur. He blinked up at you, his olive eyes curious, as if wondering why you were awake at such an hour.

You needed to act before fear could settle in. You crossed to your desk, pulled a small scrap of parchment from a stack, and dipped your quill into ink. Your hand trembled slightly as you wrote.

Ominis,
I know it's early, but I need to speak with you. Please meet me in the Undercroft as soon as you can. It's urgent.

You hesitated before signing it, staring at the words as though they could steady your heartbeat. When the ink dried, you rolled the parchment and tied it with a small silver thread.

Hades let out a small trill as you crossed to the window and opened it. The dawn air was sharp and cool. You whistled softly, and within moments Athena swooped down, landing neatly on the sill.

"Take this to Ominis Gaunt," you whispered, tying the note gently to its leg. "Please hurry."

She hooted once and took off into the pale morning sky, wings cutting through the mist. You watched until she vanished beyond the towers of the castle.

"Hopefully he's an early bird," you said aloud, attempting to sound lighter than you felt.

You turned back to Hades, who had already curled up on your bed again, tail flicking lazily. "Ominis is the only one I can trust with this," you said softly. "He'll believe me. He has to."

The cat blinked slowly, as if agreeing, and you sank into the chair by your desk, hands clasped together while you waited for a reply—your heart caught between dread and fragile hope.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The faint chime of a charm set upon Ominis' bedside clock broke the quiet of the dormitory. He groaned softly, rolling onto his back. Though he could not see the light filtering through the curtains like the others did, he knew the hour by instinct—the stillness in the air, the faint hum of the castle before it stirred awake.

"It cannot already be half past seven," he muttered, his voice rough with sleep.

Reaching out, his fingertips brushed along the cool brass of the clock until they found the raised Braille markings along the rim. Five... twenty? He frowned. The enchantment must have misfired again. Typical. He could fix it later.

For now, he was awake—and going back to sleep would only mean oversleeping until noon. Saturday mornings were his chance to rest, to stay buried beneath warm blankets without the rush of classes or the incessant chatter of Sebastian dragging him into trouble. Yet the momentary peace was short-lived.

A soft fluttering sound filled the air. Not the beating of wings—no owl could reach this deep into the Slytherin dorms—but the gentle hum of a delivery charm.

"Post at this hour?" Ominis murmured, sitting up. A folded envelope shimmered faintly in the air before settling neatly on the bedside table beside him. He reached for his wand, tapping it lightly against the parchment.

"Lumos scriptor," he whispered.

The wand glowed as it traced over the writing, speaking the words aloud in a calm, clear tone. The voice was familiar—yours. His brow furrowed, every trace of sleep vanishing.

Ominis,
I know it's early, but I need to speak with you. Please meet me in the Undercroft as soon as you can. It's urgent.

The charm faded, leaving the room in silence again.

He sat still for a heartbeat, processing the words. Urgent. Your tone in the letter—short, unsteady, written in haste—tightened something in his chest. He didn't hesitate.

Throwing off the covers, Ominis reached for his robes, moving with practiced ease as he dressed. He ran a hand through his hair, more to steady himself than for neatness, and took his wand again.

"Whatever it is," he muttered under his breath, "you will not face it alone."

He slipped quietly from his dormitory, guided by the faint echo of his own footsteps through the dungeons, and made his way toward the Undercroft—hoping he would not be too late.

It was early. Very early. The castle still slept in silence, the corridors faintly aglow with the dim blue shimmer of enchanted sconces. Ominis' footsteps were soft against the stone floor, the echo of each one trailing behind him like a ghost. The dungeons gave way to the upper corridors, colder and emptier at this hour, and he followed the familiar path toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower.

When he reached the old grandfather clock, he raised his wand. "Revelio." The secret door opened with a soft creak, revealing the quiet hollow of the Undercroft.

"Ominis," a voice whispered.

He turned immediately, relief washing through him at the sound.

"Thank you for coming," you said quietly. "And I am sorry if I woke you up..."

"It is quite all right," he replied gently, a faint smile touching his lips. "You did not wake me. My alarm clock decided to malfunction again. Silly old thing." He gave a small chuckle, though it faded quickly when he heard the unease in your breath.

You tried to laugh, but the sound was weak. The tremor in your voice gave you away, and Ominis could hear it—feel it, even—in the quiet between your words.

"What is the matter?" he asked softly, his tone shifting from amusement to concern. "Your owl seemed urgent, and now that I hear you... you sound shaken."

He took a cautious step closer, the faint scuff of his boots against the floor echoing in the stone chamber. His wand guided him to where you stood, the warmth of your presence grounding him. He hesitated, his hand half-raised, fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach for you but dared not.

"Ominis..." you whispered, your voice breaking.

The sound of it tightened something deep in his chest. He drew in a slow breath, steady but uncertain. "Tell me what has happened," he said softly. "Please."

You inhaled shakily, your breath catching before you managed to speak.

"I had a nightmare... a terrifying one."

Ominis' expression shifted at once. His head tilted slightly, his features softening with concern, but before he could speak you continued, your words spilling out in a trembling rush.

"It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt too real. It was a vision, I believe. It's the second time this has happened."

Your voice wavered as the memory resurfaced, sharp and vivid. "Ominis... it was awful. It's awful."

The tears came before you could stop them, hot and unrelenting. They streaked down your cheeks in silence until your breath hitched into a sob.

At once, Ominis moved closer. His face tightened with worry, but his movements remained slow, careful, as though afraid of startling you. He hesitated only a moment before reaching out. His fingers brushed against your sleeve before settling gently on your forearm. The touch was feather-light but grounding, warm and real.

"Please," he said quietly, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. "You can share this with me. Whatever it is, we'll try to understand it together."

The calm steadiness of his tone, the quiet conviction behind it, reminded you of a parent comforting a frightened child. And, truthfully, that was exactly how you felt—small, shaken, lost in something too vast to comprehend.

You leaned slightly toward his touch, grateful for the anchor he offered in that moment of chaos.

"Sebastian's going to use the Killing Curse."

The words tore from your throat before you could stop them. The air between you and Ominis seemed to freeze.

"He's going to use it on someone close to him," you continued, your voice shaking. "He's going to be driven to this... to something terrible."

Ominis' hand tightened slightly on your arm. His expression grew still, unreadable. "What do you mean?" he asked softly.

Your breath came unevenly as you tried to find the right words. "Ominis, it's because of the relic. I saw it. It's going to get destroyed and that will drive him mad."

As the words left your mouth, something flickered behind your eyes—flashes of the vision, jagged and raw.
Sebastian's voice shouting, his eyes wild with grief.
A flash of green.
A cry that still echoed inside you.

Visions.
They came like lightning, blinding and immediate, fragments of something you couldn't change.

And now you understood.

You clutched at Ominis' sleeve as if it might steady the spinning world. "I know why now," you whispered, the tears threatening to rise again. "Everything leads to this. If we don't stop him, he'll do it."

Ominis drew in a slow, steady breath, his fingers curling slightly as if anchoring himself. "Are you certain?" he asked, his tone careful, deliberate.

You stepped back at once, shaking your head. "You don't believe me..." The tremor in your voice betrayed the sting of disappointment that rushed through you.

"I do," Ominis interrupted quickly, his voice low but firm. He stepped closer, searching for your hand and finding it. His fingers closed gently around yours, grounding. "I believe every word you say, every vision you've had. I've seen enough of your gift to know better than to doubt it."

He hesitated, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. "It's just... a lot to take in. Sebastian, the relic, the Killing Curse—Merlin, it's all so much."

You swallowed hard, tears still clinging to your lashes. "I wouldn't say it if I wasn't sure," you whispered. "He's going to lose himself, Ominis. I saw it. The look on his face, the rage, the grief... he isn't himself anymore."

Ominis tilted his head, the smallest frown pulling at his lips. "Then we'll make certain it never comes to pass," he said quietly, with that calm, unshakeable conviction that had always made you feel safe. "We'll stop him before the relic takes him any further."

The way he said we steadied something deep inside you, even as fear still coiled tight in your chest.

The tears came before you could stop them. One moment you were trembling, the next your face was buried against Ominis' chest. His warmth hit you like a wave, steady and real, and you broke completely. You clutched at his shirt, sobs shaking your whole body as you tried to speak, but the words came out as nothing more than strangled sounds.

Ominis froze. For a moment, he didn't move at all, caught in quiet shock. Then, gently, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around you. His hold was careful at first, as if afraid you might pull away, but when you didn't, he drew you closer. His hand came to rest on the back of your head, the other pressing lightly between your shoulder blades.

"Easy now," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "You're all right. You're safe."

The reassurance only made you cry harder. You hadn't been held like this in so long — soft, protective, wordless. Every breath felt like something inside you unravelling. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt, slow and calm against your own racing one.

He whispered again, "Whatever this vision means, we'll face it together. I promise."

Your sobs eased into quiet, trembling breaths. His scent — faint bergamot, a trace of evening primrose filled your senses, grounding you in the moment. He felt like safety, like home.

Ominis Gaunt felt like someone you could love.

No, not could.

You do love him.

"I— I lo—" The words caught halfway in your throat before you stopped yourself. You froze, your heart hammering, breath shallow.

You said nothing more, only clung to him in silence, praying he hadn't heard.

You pull back slowly, wiping at your eyes, but the tears keep coming. You can't stop shaking. The weight of the vision, the fear, the exhaustion — it all sits heavy on your chest. Ominis' hand remains on your arm, his thumb tracing small circles as if to steady you.

You can't bear the silence. You need to breathe, to think of something else before you crumble completely.

So you take a shuddering breath and whisper, "You know... Hades tried to steal my toast this morning."

Ominis tilts his head, confused. "Your... toast?"

You sniff, your voice wobbling as you try to sound serious. "Yes. I told him if he keeps it up, I'll have to start calling him Breades."

There's a beat of silence before Ominis lets out a sound that shocks even him — a real laugh. Not the quiet, polite one he gives in class or at Sebastian's antics, but a full, unrestrained laugh that echoes off the stone walls.

He brings a hand to his mouth, still chuckling. "Only you could tell a joke that dreadful at a time like this. It's so awful it's brilliant."

You stare at him for a second before you start laughing too — half from the absurdity, half from the relief. The sound comes out wet and uneven, your cheeks still streaked with tears, but it's genuine. You can't stop, and neither can he.

The two of you are just sitting there in the cold Undercroft, laughing over the world's worst cat pun, tears of grief and laughter mingling until you can't tell which are which.

When you finally manage to breathe again, Ominis is still smiling faintly, a soft, golden smile that reaches his clouded eyes. He looks so unguarded, so gentle, that it makes your heart twist painfully in your chest.

He's beautiful, you think. So beautiful it hurts.

And that realisation makes your eyes fill again, though this time, the tears fall quietly — not from fear, but from something far deeper.

The two of you take a few minutes to calm down, the last traces of laughter and tears still clinging to your breath. The air in the Undercroft feels lighter now, though a quiet exhaustion has settled over you both. Ominis stands first, straightening his robes with a practiced hand, then turns toward you.

"Let's get breakfast," he says softly. "We'll be the first ones there, I imagine. Sebastian would never dream of being awake this early on a Saturday morning."

You manage a small, genuine smile, your tears finally dry. "You're right. He'd probably hex his alarm before letting it wake him."

Ominis chuckles faintly, offering you his arm. You take it without hesitation, letting his steadiness guide you as the two of you leave the Undercroft. The castle is still quiet, only the distant hum of magic and the echo of your footsteps filling the corridors. The early morning air is cool, and you feel yourself breathing easier for the first time since waking.

As you walk, your voice softens. "He's not evil, Ominis. It's the world that would make him that way..."

He slows his pace, his expression thoughtful. "I agree with you," he says at last. "He isn't evil. But desperation has a way of twisting good intentions. That's what worries me."

You nod quietly. "Me too."

A beat of silence passes before Ominis inhales deeply, his tone gentler now. "But enough talk of that. We need breakfast." He offers a faint smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to ease the tension between you.

You glance up at him, your voice soft. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Don't you ever apologise to me," he says firmly, his tone quiet but unwavering. "Not for trusting me."

Something warm flickers in your chest at that. You smile, grateful beyond words, and squeeze his arm lightly as you reach the doors of the Great Hall.

The vast room is nearly empty when you enter, sunlight just beginning to filter through the high windows. The enchanted ceiling glows faintly with dawn's first light, and the long tables are untouched. You really are the first ones there.

For a moment, it feels like the entire world has stilled — just you, Ominis, and the soft promise of a new morning.

You sit beside him at the Slytherin table, the long stretch of polished wood gleaming under the dim morning light. The hall is silent but for the soft clink of cutlery and the faint rustle of house-elves preparing the other tables. It feels strange to be here without the usual chatter of students, but peaceful all the same.

Ominis reaches for the platter of food and quietly fills his plate with eggs and sausage. The scent of warm butter and toast drifts through the air, and for a moment, the world outside this quiet morning feels far away. You stir your tea absentmindedly, your thoughts still heavy with everything that has happened.

"I forgot to give you back your scarf," you say suddenly, glancing down at the soft knit still looped around your neck.

He takes a small bite, swallows, and replies without hesitation. "You can keep that."

You blink, surprised. "Are you sure?"

He gives a faint smile, his voice calm and steady. "I'm certain. Mother sends me knitwear every week. Poor woman has nothing else to do." His tone carries a quiet affection beneath the dry humour, his relationship with his mother is complicated but he can't bring himself to truly hate her. She's a victim of his father just as much as he is.

Part of you feels guilty for keeping something of his, yet the larger part of you feels strangely comforted by it. The scarf still carries his faint scent, that familiar trace of bergamot and something darker beneath it. You smile into your teacup as you sip your tea.

"It'll keep you warm," he says, his voice lower now. "You so often forget to wrap up during the cold."

The way he says it — thoughtful, almost chiding — makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

You sit in companionable silence for a while longer. The light outside brightens, spilling gold across the stone floor, and the first echoes of waking students begin to stir in the corridors beyond. But for now, it is only the two of you, sharing warmth and quiet in the stillness of dawn.

The world feels softer in these moments. Safe. Almost as though, for a little while, nothing could touch you at all.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───