Fragments of Time

Slap!

The force sent Ominis' head tilting to the side, a sharp sting blooming across his cheek. His breath hitched for a moment, but he remained still, fingers brushing the heated skin as he slowly turned back to face her. His mother—who had spent most of his life ignoring him—now stood before him, seething with rage, her breathing uneven, her frame trembling with fury.

"To think you would dare cast the Cruciatus Curse on your own brother! How _dare_ you!" she shrieked before striking him again, harder this time. His head snapped to the side, yet he neither winced nor recoiled.

For years, his mother had barely acknowledged his existence, treating him as nothing more than a stain upon the family—an embarrassment, a defect. She never once cared enough to scold him, let alone punish him. But now? Now that he had defied them, now that he had abandoned his role as the obedient, quiet son, she suddenly had something to say.

Her nails dug into his arm as she hissed, "Are you mute now as well!? What possible excuse do you have for disgracing this family—for humiliating us all for the sake of a filthy muggle-born?"

Ominis finally raised his head, unseen eyes locking onto her with a coldness that made her flinch ever so slightly. Before he could speak, another voice interrupted.

"Face it, mother," Marvolo drawled, stepping out from the shadows with a wicked smirk. "This is what happens when you allow him to consort with half-blood filth for too long. Next thing we know, he’ll be parading around with a house elf as his bride."

His laugh was sharp and cruel, cutting through the already tense air. Ominis felt his stomach coil in disgust.

A sudden bang! rang through the room as Lucian Gaunt slammed his cane against the marble floor. The sharp crack echoed like a gavel passing judgment, commanding absolute silence.

"Leave us."

His words were calm, yet they carried the weight of an unspoken threat.

Ominis stiffened. And so it begins.

Marvolo, however, balked. "But, Father! He cast the curse on me! I should be allowed to return the favour!"

Lucian’s head snapped toward his eldest son, and Marvolo—arrogant and self-assured just moments ago—visibly withered under the weight of their father’s stare. "You dare question me?"

Marvolo’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Their mother was quick to intervene, seizing her favoured son by the arm. "Come, let’s go."

"But Mother—!"

"Enough!" she snapped, dragging him toward the door. "Do not disobey your father!"

Marvolo huffed in frustration but ultimately said nothing, stomping out with their mother close behind. The heavy doors groaned shut behind them, sealing Ominis inside with the very man he feared most.

And then—stillness.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, pressing, suffocating. The air in the study grew heavy, like the very walls were closing in.

Ominis’ fingers tightened around his wand, instincts warning him of what was to come. Would it be another beating? More torture? Or something worse?

Lucian finally broke the silence. "Years ago, you refused to cast the Cruciatus Curse on a mere muggle—just like my sister did." His voice was eerily calm, almost amused. "And yet, tonight... you turned your wand on your own brother. The heir to the Gaunt family."

Ominis swallowed hard. His grip on his wand did not falter. His body braced for whatever came next.

Lucian stood, the chair groaning as he rose to his full, imposing height. "Even now," he mused, voice laced with a cruel sort of curiosity, "I can see it in you. You’re prepared to strike me down, aren’t you?"

Ominis flinched, but only slightly. He had had enough of this—of the mind games, of the endless cycle of cruelty and obedience. His patience had worn thin.

"If you’re going to attack me," he said coldly, "then do it."

Lucian tilted his head, intrigued. "Do you truly believe you could win?"

Ominis shook his head, shoulders squared. "Of course not, Father. But I am tired of this. Tired of it all."

For the second time that night, silence blanketed the room.

Then, to his utter surprise, Lucian began to laugh.

But it was not the laughter of amusement—it was something darker, something twisted. The sound slithered through the room like a serpent, curling around Ominis like a noose tightening around his throat.

Ominis stood frozen, his wand at the ready.

He had no plan. No way out.

But whatever was coming next, he knew one thing for certain—

He would not face it kneeling.

"You would throw your life away for some orphan girl?" Lucian mused, his voice edged with disbelief.

Ominis did not waver. "She would have done the same for me."

His father hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration. "I must admit, son—" he dragged out the word with such venom that Ominis flinched, "—I am somewhat impressed. The Cruciatus Curse, cast with such conviction… and on your first attempt, no less."

Ominis clenched his jaw, unable to meet his father’s gaze. He wished he could argue, wished he could say that he had faltered, that he had hesitated—but he hadn’t. The moment the spell left his lips, it had been effortless, fuelled by a rage he had spent years suppressing.

And that terrified him.

Lucian tapped his cane against the floor, and in an instant, a house elf materialized with a muffled crack!

At its feet lay a large package, crudely tied with a filthy cloth. But it was moving. Writhing, struggling—muffled sounds of distress leaking from within.

Ominis’ stomach turned.

No. He knew exactly what this was.

"What... what do you intend to do?" His voice came out hoarse, but firm.

Lucian ignored him, making a slight gesture with his hand. The house elf bowed and yanked the bindings loose. The cloth fell away, revealing a man—his face streaked with dirt and dried blood, eyes wild with terror.

"Please!" the man sobbed, scrambling weakly, his limbs too battered to flee. "Please, spare me! I have a family—_"

Lucian stepped forward, his towering presence silencing the man’s pleas in an instant. He didn’t look at the muggle, only at Ominis.

"Go on, son," he said smoothly, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Cast the Killing Curse."

The room seemed to shrink around him.

Ominis staggered back a step, heart hammering against his ribs. "What? No!" he spat. "What are you asking of me!?"

Lucian merely smiled.

"Prove your loyalty to me, son."

Ominis felt his breath hitch. "What!?" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why? Why now?"

Lucian sneered, his satisfaction dripping like venom. "Loyalty opens doors, son." He was toying with him now, dangling the one thing Ominis wanted most—shamelessly presenting it like prey caught in a hunter’s snare.

And Ominis understood.

This wasn’t just about punishment. His father saw something in him. Potential. Something he wanted to mould, manipulate, control.

A chill ran down his spine.

He took a slow, unsteady step toward the trembling muggle. His fingers twitched around his wand. His pulse pounded in his ears.

Could he do this?

Would he really go this far to save her?

If Theowen found out, would she look at him differently? Would she fear him?

"Do you not want to save her, son?" Lucian’s voice slithered through the air, wrapping around him like a noose.

A vision flashed in Ominis’ mind. Theowen, slapped across the face. The way she had been dragged, manhandled, tortured by his own brother.

He had sworn he would save her.

He had sworn he would do whatever it took.

And now, the opportunity lay before him. His father had unknowingly placed the key in his hands. Would he take it?

His fingers curled tighter around his wand.

He turned to face Lucian one last time. "You shall keep your word?"

Lucian’s lips curled into something resembling a smirk. "What do you take me for?"

A liar. A trickster. A cruel, wretched man.

But Ominis had been cornered. His family had backed him to the very edge of the cliff, and there was no way out.

So he stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the man on the floor.

The muggle sobbed, shaking his head violently. "Please... please, no!"

Ominis' throat felt dry. "I'm sorry."

The man’s screams crescendoed into sheer terror as Ominis raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

Silence.

"Don’t think yourself so highly just because you’ve gussied up to some higher-ups and now you’re back at Hogwarts," Elladora sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. Then, under her breath, she muttered, "_Of all the men you could throw yourself at, you had to pick the blind one._"

Theowen’s fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her school uniform, her knuckles paling under the pressure. The weight of Elladora’s words sat heavy on her shoulders, but she refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

The carriage swayed slightly as it soared through the night sky, pulled by the skeletal figures of Thestrals. Theowen barely spared them a glance—she had seen enough death to be more than familiar with them. Still, she couldn't ignore the irony of the stark contrast between her two arrivals at Hogwarts. The first time, she had been welcomed with warmth, riding alongside the kind-hearted Professor Fig, filled with wonder and cautious excitement.

Now, she sat caged beside a woman who embodied everything she despised.

Elladora’s presence was a cold, suffocating force. Theowen knew exactly why she was here—Headmaster Black’s petty vengeance had seen to it. It wasn’t enough for him to have her power stripped, her wand confiscated, and her freedom stolen. No, he had to ensure she remained under his thumb. And so, Professor Sharp had been transferred mere months after she had been taken by the Ministry, conveniently replaced by none other than Elladora Black. A cruel joke, served with a silver spoon.

The past years had been hell.

Her connection to Ancient Magic had been sealed away by the Keepers. Her body had been subjected to endless prodding and experimentations, first by the Blacks, then by the Ministry, all in their attempts to decipher the mysteries she carried. She had been treated less like a person and more like a specimen to be studied, a tool to be broken and reforged to their liking. And yet, in the darkest moments of her suffering, she had found something—someone—to cling to.

The entity within her.

It was the only thing that had kept her sane.

Trapped as she was, she had somehow forged a bond with the being inside her. Where others saw madness when she spoke to it, she found solace. And in turn, the entity pitied her. It reached out in her dreams, replaying the few happy memories she had left, giving her warmth where none existed. Even in the waking world, it appeared in her reflection, watching over her with glowing crimson eyes that only she could see.

"I understand, Ms. Black," Theowen murmured, her voice measured.

Elladora scoffed, but she wasn’t finished. "Don’t think you’re safe just because you’re returning as a student. You’re still nothing more than a caged beast. One mistake, and you’ll be out of that uniform before you can even blink."

Theowen didn’t respond this time. She simply turned toward the window, gazing at her own reflection.

The being stared back at her, its eyes burning with silent fury.

And for a moment, Theowen saw herself as she truly was. The girl who had once arrived at Hogwarts with bright lilac eyes and rosy cheeks was long gone. In her place was a pale, hollowed-out shadow, her skin sickly and her fingers rough from years of servitude. The Blacks had used her like a personal house-elf, and the Ministry had treated her like an experiment. The only time she had seen the outside world was when they needed something from her—another test, another examination, another cruel display of power.

The entity inside her seethed, the edges of its form flickering like embers.

She silenced it.

Not for herself, but for him.

Ominis had already suffered enough. In this life, he was better off than he had been before, and she would not—could not—jeopardize that for him.

No matter the cost.

"You're being foolish, Theowen..." The entity’s voice curled through her mind like smoke, laced with quiet disapproval.

Theowen didn’t respond, but the entity could feel her resolve. She refused to discuss it further.

Her breath hitched slightly when she caught sight of the castle in the distance. Hogwarts. The towering silhouette against the evening sky was a sight she had longed to see again, a reminder of the life that had been stolen from her. Relief washed over her—however brief—at the familiar vista.

The carriage descended smoothly, landing at the very entrance she had left behind so long ago. The moment it came to a halt, Elladora stepped out first, her every movement deliberate as she straightened the fabric of her crimson velvet dress, an ostentatious display of wealth and status.

"Lift my bags and don't tarry behind," she commanded, her voice dripping with expectation.

Theowen silently obeyed, lifting the heavy luggage without protest. Though she could have easily unsummoned her own belongings with a simple spell, she knew Elladora relished moments like these—small acts of cruelty, flexing her power where she could.

A pair of house-elves appeared at the entrance, their large, weary eyes darting toward the luggage, ready to assist.

"Don't you dare interfere, slave!" Elladora snapped, her voice laced with venom.

The elves flinched, bowing quickly before scurrying away.

Theowen, already carrying the burden of Elladora’s excess, merely tightened her grip and trudged forward. The castle doors loomed ahead, and with each step, she felt the weight of eyes on her.

Though most students were already gathered in the Great Hall for dinner, a few lingered in the corridors. Whispers followed her, hushed voices spreading like wildfire, their curiosity and judgment palpable in the air. She ignored them.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat when she spotted a familiar figure waiting near the entrance.

Professor Weasley.

The Headmistress stood firm, her expression composed but disapproving as her sharp gaze flickered toward Elladora. She knows.

"Ms. Black," Professor Weasley’s voice was calm but tinged with an unmistakable warning. "I do not believe this is appropriate behaviour toward a student."

Elladora turned slightly, amusement curling at her lips as she regarded Theowen like a discarded rag. "Please, Professor. Have you forgotten what she has done? This muggle-born is nothing but a criminal."

The word struck like a slap.

Criminal.

A rush of memories surged forth, unbidden—flames engulfing the castle, the roar of her own voice twisted in fury, her body shifting into something monstrous. A dragon. A force of destruction.

She clenched her fists, willing herself back to the present.

"I understand your concerns, Ms. Black," Professor Weasley’s tone hardened, "but as long as she wears those robes, she is still a student of Hogwarts. And she will be treated as such."

The murmur of onlookers grew louder. Even some of the staff had paused, their eyes flickering between the two women.

Elladora’s jaw tightened, her fingers curling into fists before she exhaled sharply. "Very well," she conceded, and with a lazy snap of her fingers, the weight in Theowen’s arms vanished.

A small, involuntary sigh of relief left Theowen’s lips as the burden disappeared.

"Now, come," Professor Weasley instructed, "announcements have begun."

Theowen nodded stiffly and followed her into the Great Hall.

This was the moment she had been waiting for—the chance to reclaim her place.

But as she stepped through the grand doors, stomach knotted with unease, one thought clawed at her mind:

She wasn’t ready to face them.

Especially him.

As the great doors groaned open, the low hum of conversation in the Great Hall faltered. A tangible shift rippled through the students—benches creaking as bodies turned, curious eyes locking onto her the moment she stepped inside.

Theowen felt her heartbeat quicken, hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape. The weight of their stares pressed against her skin, suffocating. Her fingers dug into her arm, nails pressing deep enough to leave crescents in her flesh, a desperate attempt to ground herself.

Instinctively, her gaze flickered toward the Slytherin table.

And then she saw him.

Ominis.

His lips curled into a soft smile, one so warm and familiar that her breath hitched in her throat.

She looked away.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to steady, to quell the turmoil that threatened to drown her.

"Everyone, please welcome back a former student, Theowen Thorne," Professor Weasley’s voice rang out across the hall, filled with its usual warmth.

The silence stretched unbearably until, at last, her old friends began to clap. Slowly, hesitantly, the applause spread—scattered, polite, but devoid of cheers or excitement. It was not the grand return of a hero. It was the uneasy acknowledgment of a ghost.

Professor Weasley turned to her with an encouraging nod, gesturing toward the Slytherin table. "I believe you must be starving after such a long journey."

Theowen parted her lips to respond, grateful for the kindness, but the moment was stolen from her.

"Thank you for the kind gesture, Professor Weasley," Elladora’s saccharine voice cut in smoothly, her hand tightening ever so slightly around Theowen’s wrist. _"But I believe she is not hungry. Am I correct?"_

Theowen stiffened.

The daggers in Elladora’s stare were subtle yet piercing, an unspoken threat laced between her words. Theowen remained silent, refusing to answer—until she felt a sharp tug at the roots of her hair, quick and punishing.

"Yes," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Elladora’s smirk widened as if she had won something. "As you can see, we are both exhausted from our long and arduous journey. If you don’t mind, Professor, we would like to retire for the night. Perhaps you could point us to the common rooms?"

Professor Weasley’s pleasant expression faltered, her lips pressing into a thin line. The silent battle of wills between the two women did not go unnoticed by those paying attention.

But then, from the High Table, Headmaster Black shifted in his seat.

Theowen didn’t need to turn to feel his gaze. His mere presence was enough to force Professor Weasley’s hand.

"Very well," the Headmistress finally conceded, though her tone was clipped with barely restrained contempt. "Have a good night."

Elladora wasted no time. With a firm grip, she turned and led Theowen away, her pace brisk, her hold just tight enough to remind her of her place.

As they passed through the great doors, Theowen stole one last glance behind her.

Professor Weasley stood at the podium, watching with barely masked concern.

Theowen mustered a small smile—a quiet reassurance.

I’m alright.

Even if it was a lie.