Fragments of Time

"So, which herb are you looking for again?" Ominis asked, standing beside Anne as they browsed the shelves of Mulligrubs Materia Medica, one of the most renowned herbal shops in Diagon Alley. The air was thick with the scent of dried lavender, earthy roots, and crushed leaves, a stark contrast to the crisp autumn breeze filtering in from outside.

"Wormwood," Anne replied hesitantly, her fingers grazing a row of neatly labelled jars.

Ominis tilted his head, clearly puzzled. "You came all the way to Diagon Alley for something as common as wormwood? The Hogwarts greenhouses should have plenty. I’m sure Professor Garlick would gladly give you some from her own stock if you asked."

Anne forced a small chuckle, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble the professor. Besides, I needed some fresh air after being cooped up in Hogwarts for so long."

Ominis smirked slightly, crossing his arms. "Tired of Hogwarts already? That’s surprising, considering how eager you were to be discharged from bedrest after Theowen lifted your curse."

Anne stiffened, her smile faltering ever so slightly at the mention of Theowen. The name stirred something in her—a tangled mix of gratitude and guilt. She had never properly thanked her for what she had done, for giving her life back. And yet, there was another emotion buried beneath it, one she had long ignored.

She hesitated before asking, "H-How is she, by the way?"

Ominis's expression immediately darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. Worry etched across his face, and Anne could tell that even now, Theowen never strayed far from his thoughts. "She’s… better," he answered curtly, his tone carefully measured, as if withholding the true weight of the situation.

Anne forced a reassuring smile, though she knew he would sense the hesitation in her voice. "Glad to hear she’s 'better'."

She looked away, her gaze trailing over the shelves, but her mind was elsewhere. That familiar gnawing feeling crept back, the one she had buried for so long. She had always known—had always felt something for Ominis, though she had pushed it aside for years. It had seemed foolish, impossible. He was engaged, from a family far above her own, and she had resigned herself to never entertaining such thoughts.

But after she had been saved—after Theowen had left—something changed. As her body healed, so did that feeling, slowly blooming back to life.

After picking up the herb she needed, Anne approached the shopkeeper, paid for her purchase, and carefully tucked the small parcel into her satchel. With a satisfied smile, she turned back to Ominis.

"Shall we head out? I was thinking of getting some fresh tea from Rosa Lee’s," she suggested, her voice light with anticipation.

Ominis nodded, always happy to accompany an old friend. "Lead the way."

As they strolled side by side, Anne felt a warmth creeping up her neck, a blush threatening to spread every time she stole a glance at him. Though he was blind, it hardly diminished his striking features. The Gaunt family's sharp elegance was unmistakable, their looks nearly legendary—his older brother, after all, was infamous for his effortless charm. But while Marvolo wielded his allure recklessly, Ominis had an almost unintentional magnetism, made even more alluring by the quiet confidence in his posture and the way his presence seemed to command a room.

Seeing him out of his usual uniform and instead in a well-tailored casual suit made him look even more distinguished. Anne found herself staring a little too long, only snapping out of it when Ominis suddenly spoke.

"Is there something on my face?" His head tilted slightly in curiosity.

Anne's eyes widened in horror. Had he sensed her staring? "N-No! I just thought I saw someone I knew behind you," she blurted out hastily.

Ominis paused for a moment, as if contemplating her answer, before nodding. "Ah."

Though he accepted her excuse, he wasn’t entirely convinced. His wand told him enough—her focus had been on him, not someone in the crowd. And it wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her acting strangely in recent years.

They continued their outing, Anne leading Ominis through shop after shop, occasionally indulging in sweets and small trinkets. Ominis, ever patient, accompanied her without complaint, his usual stoic demeanour softening whenever she excitedly picked up an item. The warm glow of Diagon Alley’s lamps flickered as the afternoon wore on, and the street began to grow more crowded, witches and wizards bustling about, enjoying their weekend.

"Ah, that’s right! How about stopping by the Second-Hand Bookshop next?" Anne suggested, already planning their next stop.

But when she turned to face Ominis, her heart nearly stopped—he was gone.

Her breath hitched as she spun around frantically, scanning the sea of cloaks and hurried footsteps. The once charming, bustling street now felt suffocating, the crowd a wall between her and her missing companion.

"Ominis?" she called out, her voice laced with urgency.

But it was useless. He had vanished.

A distinct sound slithered through the air, a soft hissing that sent a shiver down Ominis’s spine. It echoed down the narrow alleyway, winding through the cracks of the city like a whisper meant only for him. It was unmistakable. Parseltongue.

The voice was pleading—urgent yet eerily familiar. Something, or someone, was calling to him, begging to be saved, to be returned to its rightful owner. It beckoned him forward, tugging at something deep within his core.

Ominis hesitated for only a moment before following the whispers, his fingers tightening around his wand. He would have to apologize to Anne later.

With his heightened sense of hearing guiding him, he navigated through winding alleyways and shadowed backstreets, places he had never dared to explore. The further he went, the more the air changed—thick with an unnatural stillness, as if the very magic in the air was holding its breath.

When he finally stopped, realization struck him like a blow to the chest. He had unknowingly wandered into Knockturn Alley.

The slums of the British wizarding world. A place of secrets and shadows, where whispers of dark magic clung to the air like smoke. Here, one could buy—or hire—things that skirted the edges of legality, the kind of power best left undisturbed.

Ominis swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his family name in a place like this. His father, his brothers—they had likely walked these very streets before him. And now, so had he.

His wand vibrated softly in his palm, whispering the carved letters of the sign before him.

Borgin & Burkes.

A deep frown settled on his face. He had heard of this place—a den of cursed objects and sinister dealings, infamous for its collection of dark artifacts. Why here?

The bell above the door let out a hollow chime as he pushed it open. A thick musty scent hit him immediately, the smell of aged parchment, melted wax, and something distinctly metallic—like old blood and rusted chains.

Somewhere in the depths of the shop, the hissing voice called to him again.

Ominis took a step forward, drawn deeper into the shop, when a gruff voice interrupted his path.

"Can I help you?"

He snapped his head in the direction of the speaker, his wand sensing a middle-aged man standing behind a decrepit counter. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old parchment, and there was an unsettling stillness in the space—as if the very walls were listening.

Before Ominis could respond, recognition sparked in the man’s voice.

"Well, if it isn’t the younger Mr. Gaunt. What a surprise to see you here."

Ominis’s brow arched. He knows me?

"You know of me?"

The man gave a low chuckle. "Who doesn’t? Your face was plastered all over the Daily Prophet after Ranrok was offed. Made quite the name for yourself, didn’t you?"

Ominis’s lips thinned. So that’s why. He had never sought fame, nor the attention that came with it. Still, he gave a curt nod, choosing not to entertain the man further.

Just then, the hissing grew louder. It pulsed through his skull, sharp and insistent, making him wince. The voice—pleading, desperate—was becoming unbearable.

"May I have a look around?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

The shopkeeper gestured grandly. "By all means, sir. Take your time."

There was something in his tone that made Ominis uneasy. Excitement, perhaps? Anticipation? He could only imagine what the man thought—that the heir of Slytherin himself had walked into Borgin & Burkes, drawn by the allure of cursed objects and dark magic.

Ominis exhaled sharply, considering leaving altogether. This place was a breeding ground for malevolence, filled with artifacts steeped in suffering and forbidden spells. He had no interest in such things.

But the voice.

It pleaded.

Begged.

Save me... return me... bring me back to my master...

His fingers curled around his wand.

Damn it.

With a reluctant sigh, he pressed forward.

The air grew heavier as he moved deeper into the labyrinth of relics, his wand guiding him carefully through narrow aisles crammed with precariously stacked artifacts. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the wooden floorboards, and the occasional whisper of cursed objects stirred at the edges of his hearing.

Finally, he stopped.

His wand pulsed as it traced the contours of a small object perched upon a dusty pedestal.

A serpent.

A miniature, coiled snake—its form sleek and delicate, yet something about it thrummed with an unsettling energy.

And then, it spoke.

"Return me."

The whisper coiled around Ominis like a snake itself, slithering into his ears with an eerie insistence.

Cautiously, he brought his wand closer, trying to inspect the object. But before he could react, the miniature serpent moved.

With unnatural speed, it lunged from its pedestal, slithering up his wand and twisting itself tightly around his wrist. The metal felt impossibly cold against his skin, yet it pulsed with a strange warmth—almost as if it were alive.

Ominis’s breath hitched. A curse. A cursed object had just latched onto him.

He clenched his teeth, trying to keep his panic in check as he turned on his heel and made his way back to the counter. His grip on his wand tightened as he all but demanded, “Take this off. Now.”

The shopkeeper, unbothered, tilted his head. “Pardon, sir?”

“This—this bracelet! It latched onto me before I even touched it!” Ominis’s voice was laced with barely contained horror. He could feel the serpent pulsing, adjusting its hold as if testing him.

Through his wand, he sensed Borgin’s expression shift—perplexed, then amused.

“What of it, sir?” The man smirked, a slow, greasy smile audible in his tone. “It’s taken a liking to you, it seems. That’ll be sixty thousand Galleons. Oh, the irony.”

Ominis’s mouth fell open. “Sixty thou—” He cut himself off before giving Borgin the satisfaction of hearing his outrage. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing his voice into cold neutrality.

"Sir—"

"Ah, Mr. Borgin," the man corrected smugly.

Ominis barely restrained a sneer. "Mr. Borgin. At least tell me this—who sold it to you?"

Borgin hummed, clearly enjoying this little game. “That information is confidential... Though, of course, I could be persuaded—”

"Sixty-five thousand Galleons," Ominis said flatly.

"Seventy," Borgin countered smoothly.

Ominis’s fingers twitched. "Done."

A soft whoosh as Borgin lazily summoned a heavy ledger with his wand. The air was thick with the scent of ink and old parchment as he flipped through the pages, taking his time. Then, with a satisfied nod, he ran a finger along the text and smirked.

"Ah, just as I thought. The seller was none other than your dear elder brother, Sir Marvolo Gaunt."

Ominis stiffened.

His brother?

A heavy weight settled in his chest as he felt the cursed bracelet constrict ever so slightly. Why in Merlin’s name would Marvolo sell a Gaunt family artifact? Their parents would never allow such a thing—especially if the relic was this... sentient.

His mind raced. This wasn’t just any cursed object. If it spoke in Parseltongue, then it was tied to their bloodline—an heirloom. But why sell it? Why now?

Something wasn’t right.

Wordlessly, Ominis flicked his wand, summoning his Gringotts-issued check book. The waxed parchment was crisp beneath his fingertips as he scrawled out the agreed sum, the quill scratching lightly against the paper.

He tore the check from the book, handing it over without another word.

Borgin, ever the opportunist, accepted it with greedy fingers. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir."

Ominis barely heard him.

As he stepped out of the cursed shop and into the dimly lit alleyway, the serpent on his wrist gave one final, lingering whisper.

"Home... Take me home..."

"Thank you for coming all this way, Mr. Gaunt," Headmaster Black greeted smoothly, offering a smile that barely masked the weight of expectation in the air.

Ominis could feel it the moment he stepped into the Black Estate—the _tension_, thick and suffocating. He returned the Headmaster’s pleasantries with a stiff smile. "It's no trouble at all, Headmaster."

"Please, call me Phineas," Black insisted, his tone warm—too warm. "We are about to be family, after all."

Ominis barely kept his expression neutral. I'd rather not.

The ease with which the Headmaster ignored the past—the things he had done—was nothing short of baffling. Ominis hadn't forgotten. He would never forget. But for now, he played the part, offering nothing more than another stiff nod.

He had already counted how many courses this dinner would last. How long he would have to endure. The moment the final dish was cleared, he would excuse himself, step out of this suffocating manor, and return to Hogwarts without so much as a backward glance.

Today had been far too eventful for his liking.

After the unsettling encounter at Borgin & Burkes, he had spent what little time he had left searching for Anne back in Diagon Alley, but she was nowhere to be found. With his schedule pressing down on him, he had no choice but to put it off, vowing to find her later and apologise.

Instead, he made a brief detour to Gringotts. He needed answers.

The cursed bracelet still coiled tightly around his wrist, its presence a constant, eerie weight. He had to confirm if it was truly missing from the Gaunt vault—if his brother had actually stolen and sold a family heirloom.

And sure enough, his suspicions were correct.

The relic had belonged to the Gaunts, locked away for generations. But then why had Marvolo given it up? What possible reason could he have had?

Yet what troubled Ominis most wasn’t that it had been taken.

It was that—no matter what he tried—the serpent refused to uncoil.

It remained fused to his wrist, clinging to him as if it had chosen him. As if it were waiting.

For what, he had no idea.

And that alone was enough to unsettle him.

"I thank you again for coming all this way," Belvina said sweetly, her voice carrying an unnatural warmth that only added to Ominis’s discomfort.

He resisted the urge to fidget, unwilling to put her on the spot. Instead, he kept his response polite but clipped. "The pleasure is all mine."

A lie.

The uncomfortable atmosphere lingered. Both father and daughter made repeated attempts at small talk, their words carefully chosen, but Ominis only gave prompt, indifferent responses. He hoped they would take the hint—that they would let the evening pass quickly so he could leave. But despite their efforts at normalcy, something about the air felt… off.

Then, with a sharp crack, the house-elf, Scrope, apparated into the dining room.

Ominis immediately sensed the shift at the head of the table—Phineas Black was about to reprimand the poor elf, no doubt for the abrupt intrusion. But before he could speak, Belvina subtly interceded.

"Father," she said lightly.

That single word was enough to make Phineas pause, his irritation faltering. Then, with an awkward attempt at composure, he cleared his throat.

"Ah… just in time, Scrope…"

The house-elf stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. Hesitantly, he bowed. "Y-yes, master. The starter is served."

With a snap of his fingers, plates of elegantly prepared Seafood Bisque materialized before them, the rich aroma filling the room.

The moment the scent hit Ominis, his stomach lurched.

He barely masked the reaction, fighting the overwhelming nausea that clawed its way up his throat. It wasn’t that he had never eaten Seafood Bisque before—he had, plenty of times—but this dish… this scent…

It was wrong.

Sickly sweet.

Unbearably cloying.

Before he could even process it further, he felt it—the sudden constriction around his wrist.

The bracelet.

It tightened like a vice, its presence no longer just a weight against his skin but a warning.

Something was very, very wrong.

"Is something wrong?" Belvina asked, her voice laced with concern. Ominis could feel the tension in the air, the slight shift in her tone betraying something beneath the surface—worry, or perhaps something else.

He quickly snatched the cloth napkin from his lap, covering his nose as he fought back the sickening wave of nausea. "D-did you put something in the food?"

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

Ominis didn’t need sight to know the effect his question had. He _felt_ it—the way the room stiffened, the sharp hitch in Belvina’s breath, the sudden drop in the Headmaster’s usually poised demeanour. It was as if he had struck something raw, something neither of them had expected him to catch onto.

His stomach twisted. Goosebumps prickled along his arms. His mind raced.

They did something to the food.

He knew it. His gut told him so, and the cursed bracelet constricting against his wrist only confirmed his suspicions. But accusing them outright—publicly—was dangerous. The Blacks and Gaunts were both ancient, powerful families. To make such an accusation without undeniable proof would ignite a feud that could not easily be undone.

Or… perhaps, a feud was exactly what he needed.

Could he use this to his advantage? Could this be the key to breaking the engagement once and for all?

But first, he had to be sure.

"W-whatever do you mean?" Belvina questioned, her voice carefully measured, but not enough to hide the flicker of fear beneath it.

That fear was all the confirmation Ominis needed.

Ominis moved without hesitation, pushing his chair back as he stood abruptly. The sudden action sent a ripple of shock through the room.

"Mr. Gaunt?" Headmaster Black questioned, his voice laced with confusion at the blatant disregard for decorum.

With his wand guiding him, Ominis stepped away from his seat, moving with deliberate purpose toward Belvina. The rustling of fabric and the sharp intake of breath told him she had instinctively recoiled as he leaned in close.

"M-Mr. Gaunt? This is highly inappropriate!" she protested, her voice quivering.

But Ominis didn’t care. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the dish set before her. As expected—nothing. No sickly sweet aroma. No trace of whatever foul addition had tainted his own plate.

Straightening, he turned on his heel and made his way back to his side of the table. But he did not sit.

"Apologies for my actions," he said coolly. "I needed to confirm something."

The silence in the room was suffocating. He felt it—the way Belvina shifted uncomfortably, the way Headmaster Black gripped the armrest of his chair just a fraction tighter.

The Headmaster was the first to recover, letting out a forced chuckle. "Whatever do you mean, Mr. Gaunt? Is Seafood Bisque not to your liking?"

Ominis arched a brow. "Oh, it is one of my favourite dishes. However, I do not appreciate unwarranted additions to my meal."

Belvina let out a small gasp. "A-Addition?" she stammered, struggling to keep up the façade.

Ominis sighed, exasperation creeping into his tone. "Still playing dumb, are we?" He tapped a finger against the table, as if weighing his options. "I’ll give you one chance. Tell the truth now, or by tomorrow morning, your names will be on the front page of the Daily Prophet."

A tiny, strangled noise escaped Belvina. She was cracking, Ominis could hear it. But before she could speak, Headmaster Black stepped in.

"Are you threatening us, Mr. Gaunt?"

Ominis didn’t answer. He had made his decision. Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the door.

His pace was steady, unhurried. He wanted them to feel the weight of his silence, the inevitability of their downfall.

"No one will ever believe you!" Headmaster Black shouted after him, but Ominis remained unfazed, his steps never faltering.

The moment he neared the doorway, however, the Headmaster lost his composure entirely.

"You think you Gaunts can do whatever you want just because you’re the Heirs of Slytherin?" Black seethed, his voice raw with fury. "We Blacks have stood just as long! We, too, are members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight! It is only right for the blood to remain pure—by any means necessary!"

Ominis stopped. Slowly, he turned his unseen gaze toward where the Headmaster stood, his expression unreadable.

"Even to the point of drugging me with Amortentia?"

The Headmaster’s breath hitched. The room, once filled with tension, was now drowning in it.

"H-how?" Black choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ominis shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "It was merely an educated guess," he mused. "But your reaction just confirmed it."

Silence.

Then, the Headmaster sank into his chair as if the weight of his own actions had finally crashed down on him. Across the table, Belvina let out a strangled sob, her world crumbling before her eyes.

Ominis exhaled, shaking his head slightly. He had no interest in their regret—only in severing whatever remaining ties he had with the Black family.

"Have a good evening," he said flatly, before striding out of the dining room.

As he walked through the grand halls of the Black Manor, the sound of shattering plates and furious shouting echoed behind him.

Good riddance.