Fragments of Time

Glasses clinked. Soft murmurs wove through the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the high-pitched tittering of the aristocracy. The grand hall was alive with conversation, but beneath the revelry, there was something darker.

The manor had stood for centuries, passed down through the bloodline of Salazar Slytherin himself. Its gothic opulence bordered on the macabre—dark oak bannisters, intricately carved with twisted depictions of tortured elves and writhing Muggles, overlooked a vast floor of emerald and black marble. The tiles, when viewed from above, formed the elegant, menacing figure of a basilisk.

Lining the walls, portraits of Gaunt ancestors loomed, their expressions severe, their painted eyes following the partygoers with disdainful scrutiny. The largest, naturally, belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself, his stern visage overseeing the gathering with an unrelenting gaze. Above, great black chandeliers bathed the room in an eerie green glow, making even the most lavish silks and jewels shimmer like cursed treasure.

Tables stretched along the hall, laden with the finest delicacies that galleons could buy, while guests—cloaked in wealth, arrogance, and ambition—drank, dined, and schemed beneath the great vaulted ceilings. At the far end of the hall, twin staircases spiralled upwards, their paths winding into the labyrinthine wings of the ancient castle. Already, some drunken guests had begun their reckless exploration, laughing as they disappeared into the many hidden corridors designed by Slytherin himself.

Ominis knew all of this, not because he had seen it, but because he had been told.

When he was young, the elves had described every detail to him, their hushed voices his only real comfort in a home that had never felt like one. Even now, despite his mastery over magic and his wand’s ability to map the world for him, the habit remained. The elves still whispered their observations to him, as if afraid he might be missing something.

But he missed nothing.

Now in his seventh and final year, Ominis Gaunt stood among the guests, no longer an afterthought, no longer just the blind boy. His name carried weight in the wizarding world—the hero of Hogwarts. The whispers of admiration had faded over time, but within the walls of his family’s estate, reverence had been replaced by something else.

Expectation.

For the first time, his father regarded him not as a weakling, but as a potential heir.

That shift in perception had not gone unnoticed by his elder brother.

Marvolo had once been untouchable—undisputed as the next head of the Gaunt family. But with their father’s growing approval of Ominis, that certainty had begun to erode. And as Marvolo’s position faltered, his cruelty escalated. The bullying had grown more violent over the years, each encounter more brutal than the last.

But Ominis fought back now.

That, more than anything, had impressed their father.

Ominis had realized long ago that if he became the next heir, he would have power. _Real_ power. Not just to shape his own destiny, but to alter someone else's.

To save her.

That thought kept him in line. It kept him attending these insufferable gatherings, shaking hands with men he despised, proving himself in ways that disgusted him.

But progress was slow. Too slow.

And time was not on his side.

Lucian Gaunt, for all his strength, was aging. His health had begun to wane over the past few winters, and Ominis could see the inevitable approaching. If his father died before naming him heir, if Marvolo claimed the title instead…

Then all of this would have been for nothing.

He clenched his jaw.

He needed to convince his father to choose him.

Before it was too late.

"I still don't understand why I need to be here… wearing these tight trousers with stockings!"

The sharp complaint sliced through Ominis’ thoughts, yanking him back to reality. He turned toward the voice’s source, lips curling into a smirk.

"Come now, Sebastian. This is a small price to pay to appease your sister."

Sebastian groaned, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair while clawing at the stiff necktie choking him. "She's the one who's been reading too many of those damned romance novels—thinking a pureblood masquerade party is romantic." He huffed, yanking at his sleeves as though that might loosen them.

Ominis chuckled. Sebastian Sallow and formal attire had always been a doomed pairing.

His friend was a restless soul, allergic to anything remotely restrictive—whether it be rules, social expectations, or, in this case, a properly tailored suit.

But unfortunately, Sebastian wasn’t wrong.

Pureblood gatherings weren’t the whimsical, candlelit affairs found in Anne’s novels. There was no magic in them—at least, not the kind that left one breathless. Their purpose was far simpler: an endless parade of posturing, where families flaunted their wealth and bloodlines, reminding one another of how pure they had remained.

Yet, Ominis had allowed the Sallow twins to attend this particular ball for one reason alone—because it wasn’t his father hosting it.

Had it been, there would have been no discussion.

But this was Marvolo’s event. And while Ominis had little faith in his elder brother’s character, he knew Marvolo had no issue with inviting guests—so long as they served his interests.

Ominis felt a twinge of pity for Anne. Rookwood had stolen her entire fifth year, forcing her to repeat it while her peers moved on. Though she bore no resentment, he still seethed at the injustice of it.

So when Anne overheard talk of the masquerade and begged to attend, he had relented.

Besides, Marvolo had extended a peculiar challenge to his guests this evening—one of his little games.

Each attendee was to bring something “interesting.” Something no amount of Galleons could buy.

The Sallow twins had no qualms about being Ominis’ interesting item for the evening—especially Anne. If anything, she was delighted by the idea, eager for any excuse to attend.

And speak of the devil.

She stumbled up to them, breathless, likely fresh from another waltz with some enamoured gentleman. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with exhilaration—so full of life that it was almost impossible to believe she had once been cursed.

Ominis couldn't help but smile.

It was a stark contrast from the frail girl who once struggled to even walk.

"Why are you two moping in the corner?" Anne demanded, grabbing them both by the arms. "Come dance with me!"

Sebastian immediately wrenched himself free.

"Nope. Absolutely not. I’ve done more than enough for you tonight, Anne. I am not dancing."

Anne huffed, blowing raspberries at him. "Ugh, you’re such a bore."

Then, without missing a beat, she turned to Ominis, tugging at his arm with an excited glee.

"Come on, Ominis! Dance with me. Pleaase?"

He sighed.

It was the least he could do—after all, Anne had willingly played the role of his _showpiece_ for the evening.

With a resigned chuckle, he allowed himself to be pulled toward the dance floor.

Though he was unseeing, Ominis moved effortlessly across the dance floor, leading Anne through the waltz with practiced ease. Years of formal events had ingrained the steps into his very being—it was instinctual, second nature.

For a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in the rhythm.

But then—something shifted.

A scent, a presence—an unmistakable flicker of magic in the air. It was faint, yet achingly familiar, stirring something long dormant within him.

His body tensed.

His head snapped toward its source, searching blindly yet knowing it was there.

"Ominis?" Anne’s voice wavered slightly, startled by his sudden change in demeanour. "What's wrong?"

He barely registered her words.

"Sorry," he murmured absently, already pulling away. The moment he sensed it again—stronger this time—his feet carried him forward, almost of their own accord.

With his wand raised, he navigated swiftly through the corridors, chasing the faint magical thread that beckoned him. Hallway after hallway blurred past him until, at last, the path ended—

In the gardens.

The air shifted ever so slightly as Ominis stepped forward, the warmth brushing against his skin like a whispered memory.

Beneath his feet, there was no crunch of snow—only the soft give of fresh grass. The scent of roses drifted through the air, weaving with the distant sound of water trickling from a nearby fountain.

Then—a rustle of fabric. A sigh.

"These damned shoes..."

His heart jolted. His stomach knotted.

He took another step, the presence before him so achingly familiar that it nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

It couldn’t be...

His lips parted, voice barely above a whisper. "Theowen?"

Silence.

Then—movement. He could hear her turn toward him, could feel her momentary stillness, her hesitation.

She was stunned.

"Ominis?" Her voice broke on his name, thick with disbelief, tangled in emotions he couldn't yet name.

It wasn’t how he had envisioned their reunion.

Not like this.

Not when he was still powerless to save her.

"W-why are you here? What are you doing here?"

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, sharper than he intended. He winced at his own tone.

Theowen pushed herself up, attempting to step toward him—only to let out a sharp yelp of pain.

Ominis didn't hesitate. In an instant, he was kneeling before her, his hands instinctively reaching out. His fingers brushed against her ankle, and he felt it—the warmth of fresh blood, the tell-tale opening of a gash.

"U-uhm, I'm fine—"

She barely had the chance to finish before he murmured "Episkey."

A gentle warmth radiated from his wand as her wound closed, leaving only the faintest tingle of residual magic. He guided her back to the fountain’s edge and, without thinking, took her hands in his.

His fingers engulfed hers completely.

She felt smaller now—more fragile than he remembered. Or maybe… maybe it was because he had changed.

"Why are you here, Theowen?" This time, his voice was steadier, though colder than he meant it to be.

Silence stretched between them. He could feel her hesitation in the way her fingers twitched in his grasp.

"I—I thought you weren’t here. Marvolo—"

His expression hardened.

"Marvolo?" His tone was sharp now, laced with contempt. "Did he involve you in this—?" His breath caught. A terrible realization struck him.

His grip on her hands tightened.

"Are you Marvolo’s ‘item’ for tonight?"

She flinched. Then, after a long pause, gave a small, defeated nod.

"He told me you never attend these parties... so I relented."

Ominis was silent for a moment, trying to process her words. She knew. She knew what Marvolo had put him through. So why—?

"I—I had no choice, Ominis." Her voice was barely a whisper. "My... handler—"

His head snapped toward her.

"Handler?" The word tasted wrong on his tongue.

"What happened to Professor Sharp?"

She hesitated again. Why was she hesitating?

"You didn’t know?" Her voice held genuine surprise. "I thought you did. My new handler was personally recommended by the Headmaster..."

A chill settled in Ominis's bones.

This was worse than he thought.

Ominis clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. He had always seen Headmaster Black as an incompetent fool—but never had he considered that even a fool could scheme so insidiously.

His grip on Theowen’s hands tightened with resolve. "I'll fix this. I'll get you out of there."

Through his wand, he sensed her expression shift—soft, wistful. Then, a sad smile.

"I'll always wait for you," she murmured.

Ominis hesitated, his fingers loosening their hold before he reached up, uncertain. She understood immediately, leaning in to close the distance.

Slowly, carefully, his hands found her. He brushed through her hair first, committing its texture to memory. Then, he traced the delicate curve of her brow, the slope of her nose, the flutter of her lashes beneath his fingertips. Her lips parted slightly as he ghosted his touch over them, his breath hitching at the warmth.

His hands moved lower. She tilted her head back instinctively, granting him silent permission to continue. He followed the shape of her jaw, the dip of her collarbones—until his fingers skimmed lower, just brushing—

She yelped softly.

Ominis jolted, snatching his hands back as if burned.

"I-I'm sorry. That was improper of me."

"No, no..." she reassured, her voice gentler now, "you just caught me by surprise, that's all."

Heat flared in his cheeks. She wasn’t the same girl he had once known. Theowen was a woman now—he could tell from the way her features had matured, how her form had changed. And yet, his heart ached for something more than just what his hands could tell him. He longed to see her. To truly see her—just as he had when they shared memories, when he had spoken to the entity sealed within her.

A sudden warmth enveloped him.

She had thrown her arms around him, clinging tightly as she buried her face against him, breathing him in.

"Oh, how I've missed you..."

Ominis stilled for a moment, caught off guard. Then, slowly, he let himself relax, arms wrapping around her as he pulled her closer. He held her tightly—tighter than he had ever dared before.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. "Whatever for?"

His frown deepened. "Even though I’m in a much better position now than I was years ago… I’m still powerless. All I can do is tell you to wait."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head.

"That’s already more than enough for me."

"It isn't for me," Ominis muttered, his voice tight with frustration. His jaw clenched, and his grip on his own knees tensed as if trying to steady himself against the weight of his own helplessness.

Theowen’s fingers brushed against his cheek, her touch featherlight, soothing. "All good things come with patience," she whispered, her tone gentle yet firm, like an anchor against the storm brewing inside him.

Ominis forced a smile—small, strained, a poor imitation of reassurance. He knew she meant well, that she was trying to comfort him, but how could he explain? How could he tell her that patience wasn't enough? That every moment she spent in someone else’s control felt like another failure shackling itself around his throat?

Dark thoughts slithered at the edges of his mind, ones he despised himself for even considering. Would things have been easier if she had never altered the timeline? If she had allowed fate to take its course—if she had let the Sallow twins be sacrificed and left herself unburdened by the consequences?

The mere thought made his stomach churn.

No. He refused to entertain such a notion. He would never trade one life for another.

He wished, more than anything, that time would stop in this moment—that the world beyond the garden would cease to exist, leaving only the warmth of Theowen’s presence, the soft sound of her breath mingling with his own.

His fingers ghosted over her arm, tracing upward until his touch found her jaw. His breath hitched. She was so close now—he could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath trembled slightly, matching the unsteady rhythm of his own.

Slowly, he leaned in, tilting his head toward hers, reaching blindly for her lips—

A sharp, shrill voice shattered the moment like glass.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing!?"

Theowen flinched violently, pushing Ominis away as if burned. His head snapped in the direction of the voice, his senses sharpening as the presence of another loomed over them.

"Flaunting yourself with a man the moment I take my eyes off you?"

The voice was thick with venom, dripping with unrestrained contempt. Ominis could hear the sneer in her tone even before she fully stepped into view.

Theowen’s shoulders tensed beside him, her breath now ragged for a very different reason.

The figure moved closer, and Ominis felt a cold, familiar chill slither down his spine. He didn’t need to see her to recognize the sheer malice she radiated.

Then she stopped. A pause. A flicker of hesitation.

"Young Master Gaunt," she cooed, her voice suddenly silk-smooth, slathered in false pleasantries. "What a surprise to see you here."

Ominis' fingers curled into fists. That voice. Where had he—?

Then it clicked.

Elladora Black.

His mind filled in the blanks before she even had the chance to introduce herself.

Younger sister of Headmaster Black. A woman whose reputation was just as foul as her brother’s, if not worse. A staunch blood purist, cruel to her very core—she was notorious for beheading house elves once they were deemed too old to carry a tea tray properly. A sick, twisted excuse for a witch.

"I am this Muggle-born's handler," she added with a sickeningly sweet curtsy.

Ominis felt his teeth grind together at the word—handler. As if Theowen were some sort of unruly beast in need of taming rather than a person in need of saving.

He opened his mouth to respond, but Elladora—like all Blacks—had no interest in letting anyone else speak when she could make a show of her authority.

"May I ask," she continued, her voice lilting with condescending curiosity, "why the young master is alone with such a tramp in the middle of the night without a chaperone?"

The insult barely registered in Ominis' mind before the next words left her mouth, twisting the knife deeper into his ribs.

"If I recall correctly, you are engaged to be married to my niece—my sweet, darling Belvina."

Ominis barely had time to react before Theowen stepped forward, her voice measured but firm. "My apologies, Ms. Black, I merely happened upon Ominis—"

The sharp crack of a slap echoed through the garden, cutting her off mid-sentence.

Ominis stiffened in horror.

Theowen gasped, stumbling back slightly as she clutched her cheek, a red imprint already blooming against her skin.

"How dare a low-born Muggle address one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in such a manner!" Elladora hissed, her voice laced with venom. "It is ‘Master Gaunt’ for the likes of you!"

Ominis reacted on pure instinct, grabbing Theowen and pulling her behind him, shielding her from further harm. His heart pounded furiously in his chest, his breathing ragged with barely restrained anger.

"Ms. Black!" His voice was sharp, edged with uncharacteristic authority. "I do not believe you are behaving in an appropriate manner!"

Elladora turned on him, clearly displeased at his interference. Her lips curled in disdain. "With all due respect, Mr. Gaunt," she sneered, the false politeness barely masking her contempt, "I am this Muggle’s handler. I am under strict orders to ensure she does not escape or—" her gaze flickered toward Theowen with thinly veiled disgust, "—misbehave. For her to dally with someone of your standing, someone who is engaged, no less, is highly improper. I am merely doing my duty to protect the honour of our two respective houses."

Ominis clenched his fists, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. "But still—"

"Ominis! There you are!"

A familiar voice rang out, abruptly cutting through the suffocating tension.

Sebastian.

Ominis exhaled sharply as he heard the hurried steps of his best friend approaching. Anne was with him, both of them no doubt halting in their tracks the moment they saw Theowen.

But Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He strode forward, grasping Ominis’ arm with deliberate force.

"Unhand me, Sebastian!" Ominis snapped, trying to shake him off.

Sebastian leaned in, his voice dropping into a hushed warning. "It’s not wise to anger your father, Ominis. Not when you’re so close."

Ominis froze.

His stomach twisted at the words.

Sebastian tightened his grip, his tone low and urgent. "Do not let this ruin everything. Do not let Marvolo gain the upper hand."

Ominis’ breath came hard and fast. He could feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, feel the unbearable weight of frustration clawing at his insides. His hands trembled at his sides, his entire being screaming at him to do something.

And then, a whisper—soft, barely audible.

"I’m alright."

Theowen’s voice.

Ominis swallowed thickly, his throat tight with frustration and helplessness. But Sebastian was right. If he made a scene now, if he defied his father outright, it would only play into Marvolo’s hands.

And that was something he could not afford.

Sebastian, sensing his reluctant surrender, turned toward Elladora. "Ms. Black, my sincerest apologies for any misunderstandings, but Ominis is needed back at the banquet. The event is about to begin."

Elladora clicked her tongue in irritation but seemed to register the importance of the moment. With a huff, she seized Theowen roughly by the arm.

"My word! We best be going—come, girl!"

Theowen barely had time to shoot Ominis one last glance before Elladora dragged her away. As they reached the edge of the garden, she turned back briefly, dipping into a stiff, practiced curtsy.

"I shall take my leave, Mr. Gaunt."

Ominis didn’t respond. He remained rooted in place, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, his hands twitching with the need to act.

A gentle tug at his sleeve broke him from his spiralling thoughts.

"Ominis... we need to go," Anne said softly.

Ominis exhaled sharply, forcing himself to move, to walk forward. He knew that if Marvolo caught wind of this incident, he would waste no time in reporting it to their father.

And that was a risk Ominis could not take.

His steps were stiff, mechanical, his mind still trapped in the moment he had been forced to leave behind. The Sallow twins followed in silence, their presence a quiet reminder that, for now, he had to play the part.

For now.

When the trio returned to the banquet hall, Ominis was surprised to find that no one had been looking for him. It didn’t take long for him to realize why— the so-called show-and-tell had begun.

Guests took turns presenting their most prized possessions, each item accompanied by fantastical stories of its origins. Some were genuinely intriguing, artifacts infused with ancient magic or relics of forgotten eras. But most were the predictable flaunting of wealth—enchanted heirlooms, rare jewels, and enslaved house-elves forced to perform tricks for entertainment.

And, as expected, Marvolo was the centre of it all.

His presence dominated the room, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of admiration. A different witch clung to his side, his latest conquest. Though he, too, was engaged, it was of little consequence—Marvolo collected lovers like trophies, a new one on his arm nearly every week.

Ominis felt a twinge of pity for his brother’s betrothed, though he had no right to judge. He, too, had been neglectful of his engagement, his heart—and his thoughts—already belonging to another.

A sudden silence spread across the room, followed by a familiar sneer.

"Ah! My baby brother!"

Ominis flinched, suppressing the wave of disgust that rose at the sound of Marvolo’s voice. His elder brother had never been affectionate toward him, never brotherly in any sense of the word. And yet, he spoke with that same mocking lilt, laced with a false familiarity.

Ominis forced a tight-lipped smile, his movements measured as he stepped toward the makeshift stage, conjured by house-elves for the occasion.

"I’m eager to see what you’ve brought for our little show today," Marvolo drawled, his words honeyed with amusement.

Then, his gaze shifted.

Anne.

Ominis stiffened. He could feel the way his brother’s eyes lingered—could sense the way Marvolo studied her, his interest far from innocent.

Predatory.

An instinct Ominis barely recognized surged within him, and before he knew it, he had stepped between them, subtly shielding Anne from view.

Marvolo’s amusement flickered into irritation for the briefest of moments before he masked it, his smirk returning. He tilted his head, feigning curiosity.

"I’m surprised, little brother. Have you found a new muse to entertain yourself?"

Ominis refused to react. He would not give Marvolo the satisfaction. He ignored the taunt entirely, keeping his composure as he turned to address the guests instead.

"My interesting item for this evening," he announced smoothly, "is none other than the survivor of the 'unbreakable curse'."

A murmur spread through the crowd, followed by polite applause and hushed exclamations of intrigue. Ominis continued, detailing Anne’s tragic affliction and the arduous journey to break the curse that had nearly claimed her life.

For a moment, he felt something rare—pride. He was honouring a story of resilience, not cruelty.

But, of course, Marvolo would not allow him the spotlight for long.

"How fitting, little brother," Marvolo cut in, his tone dripping with faux admiration. "A fine choice. But it pales in comparison to what I have brought tonight."

The guests turned their attention to him eagerly, already whispering in speculation. Marvolo thrived on it, stretching the anticipation before finally delivering his grand reveal.

"I present to you all," he declared with a flourish, "the freak who broke the curse!"

A ripple of excitement spread through the hall as footsteps ascended the stage.

Ominis went rigid.

Then—the scent of blood.

It was faint, but unmistakable, weaving through the perfumed air. Fresh.

His fingers twitched at his sides as he clenched his fists, fighting the instinct to react, to move. His breath came uneven as the smell grew stronger, confirming what he dreaded.

Theowen.

He heard the faint rustle of fabric, then Marvolo’s sneering voice.

"Oh, don’t mind her being a little battered—she’s still a beauty, isn’t she?"

Ominis felt his nails dig into his palms. His body tensed with barely restrained fury.

A shuffle. Then—Marvolo’s hand grasping Theowen’s chin, tilting her face upward to showcase her like a prize.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause.

And then, before anyone could react—

Theowen bit him.

A sharp yelp rang through the air, followed by a hiss of pain.

For one glorious second, there was silence.

Then—

"CRUCIO!"

The room exploded with delighted laughter as Theowen crumpled to the stage floor, her body seizing under the curse.

But she did not scream.

She did not give them the satisfaction.

Ominis’ breath came in short, sharp bursts, his vision darkening with unbridled rage. He felt Anne clutch at his sleeve, a silent plea.

"Don’t," she whispered.

But he had already made up his mind.

Something inside him snapped.

Ominis wrenched himself free of Anne’s grip, and before he could even think—before he could weigh the consequences—his wand was raised.

"Crucio."

Gasps echoed through the hall as Marvolo’s triumphant laughter was cut short by a choked cry of agony.

For the first time in years, Ominis didn’t care about playing by the rules.

For the first time, he struck back.