Fragments of Time

There was a distinct swagger to Marvolo’s step, despite the dull pounding in his skull from the previous night's indulgences. Hungover but elated, he strode through the grand marble halls of the manor with the confidence befitting the Heir of the Gaunts—the Heir of Slytherin. His movements, though uneven, carried an air of lightness, as if he were walking on air. A smirk curled at his lips.

At last, he thought, Father has finally come to his senses and discarded that useless cripple. Now, he sees where his true legacy lies.

He had overheard the echoes of raised voices the night before, their anger reverberating through the vast corridors. Though he couldn’t grasp the full context, he knew it had been a heated exchange. Not that it had concerned him at the time—he had been far too deep in high-stakes baccarat and the smoky burn of top-shelf whiskey to care. Even now, the remnants of last night’s indulgence clung to him. He swallowed against the acrid taste of alcohol lingering in his throat, suppressing a burp as he reached his destination.

The doors to his father’s office loomed before him—imposing, heavy, a barrier between power and those unworthy of it. But not him. He was meant to be here. Straightening his cravat, he lifted his hand to knock—

Click.

The door swung open before he could make contact. Marvolo’s smirk widened. Of course. Father was expecting him.

Inside, at the far end of the opulent office, Lucian Gaunt sat behind his great oak desk, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose as he reviewed a stack of papers. His father’s presence was as commanding as ever—composed, meticulous. His slicked-back hair, a rare imperfection in its unfortunate shade of blond, was the only trait he shared with that blind disappointment of a brother.

Marvolo waited, silent but inwardly buzzing with anticipation. He knew better than to speak first. Years of discipline had ingrained that much. So he stood, poised, while Lucian finished reading, the only sound in the room the quiet rustle of parchment. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, each tick of the grandfather clock needling his already throbbing head.

Finally, Lucian lifted his gaze. Without a word, he gestured toward the chair across from him. An invitation—no, a summons.

Suppressing his grin, Marvolo stepped forward, his boots sinking into the thick velvet carpet, and took his seat. He had so much to say—so many plans, ideas to elevate their family to new heights. Business ventures, connections, power plays that would ensure the Gaunts’ prominence for generations.

Father will love it, he thought smugly.

But as he settled into his chair, he couldn’t shake the prickling sensation crawling up his spine—the feeling that, somehow, something wasn’t quite right.

With a measured sigh, Lucian removed his spectacles, allowing them to hover in the air before gliding smoothly into their ornate case with practiced precision. He laced his fingers together, resting them atop his pristine mahogany desk, his piercing gaze settling on Marvolo with an expression as impassive as stone. His voice, smooth yet edged with something unreadable, cut through the heavy silence.

"I see you have business with me, my son."

Marvolo straightened, his earlier excitement swelling as he swiftly cast aside any lingering unease. This was his moment—his chance to prove himself. With a flourish, he retrieved his wand from his breast pocket and gave it a flick, summoning a neatly stacked bundle of parchment. The crisp contracts he had signed on his father’s behalf floated through the air before landing gracefully on the desk, perfectly aligned before Lucian.

"As you can see, Father, I have been rather busy forging new alliances," he announced proudly, barely containing his glee. "And I am delighted to present a lucrative business venture—one that will propel the Gaunt name to even greater prominence. My associate is a trusted wizard of impeccable bloodline, a pureblood like us, but from the New World—America!"

He expected intrigue, perhaps even a flicker of approval. Instead, Lucian remained eerily still, his face betraying nothing. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool, detached—dissecting.

"And tell me, Marvolo," he drawled, "what exactly is the nature of this endeavour? And which family have you so wisely chosen to entangle us with?"

Marvolo puffed his chest with pride, a gleam of self-satisfaction in his eyes as he presented his latest scheme, watching—no, waiting—for his father’s approval. This was it. This was the moment Lucian Gaunt would finally see him for what he was: a cunning, forward-thinking heir worthy of the family name.

"The Wilkinson family has carved out quite the empire in the Americas, father," he declared, his voice brimming with confidence. "Their connections run deep—from the highest echelons of MACUSA to the most elusive traders lurking in the underground markets. Through our partnership, we will establish an exclusive trade in rare magical beasts—creatures coveted by collectors, potion masters, and... let’s just say, ambitious wizards looking for unorthodox pets."

With a flourish, he tapped the parchment before him, allowing the elegant script to catch the light. "Dragons, Thunderbirds, Graphorns—even the occasional Nundu if the price is right," he continued, his grin widening as he spoke. "With our name behind it, we could monopolize the entire trade. No other family in Britain would dare to compete. Imagine it, father—our influence stretching across continents. We wouldn’t just be known as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight." He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if unveiling a well-guarded secret. "We would be untouchable."

A triumphant silence followed. Marvolo could practically taste his father’s admiration, the weight of his brilliance settling over the room like a victorious fog.

But then—nothing.

The air grew thick, the flickering glow of the fireplace casting long, eerie shadows over Lucian Gaunt’s face. His expression remained unreadable, fingers still steepled before him, his presence as unnervingly composed as ever.

And then, finally, his father spoke.

"How ambitious of you," Lucian murmured, voice calm, almost bored. "But tell me, my son—what do you suppose the Ministry will think of this brilliant endeavour?"

Marvolo blinked, momentarily thrown off course. "The Ministry?" he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "They don’t need to know the full extent of our dealings. With the right... incentive, we can ensure their silence. And besides, these are beasts from the Americas—their laws differ from ours. What jurisdiction does the British Ministry have over what happens across the sea?"

Silence.

His father sighed—a long, drawn-out exhalation that made Marvolo's stomach twist.

"Oh, Marvolo," Lucian drawled, shaking his head ever so slightly. "You truly have disappointed me. Greatly."

Marvolo stiffened, his face heating with indignation. "What do you mean, fa—"

Before he could finish, Lucian flicked his wand. A heavy stack of papers materialized in the air before slamming onto the desk with a resounding thud.

"Read it."

The command was delivered coolly, yet it rang with the weight of an order that could not be disobeyed.

Marvolo hesitated before standing from his seat, reaching toward the first parchment with slightly clammy fingers. His eyes skimmed the lines—and his breath caught.

Casinos. Debts. Mountains of them.

His gaze darted to the next page. More bills. Lavish spending sprees in the most exclusive districts of London. Expensive tailors. Imported liquor from the finest distilleries in Europe. Payments to brothels under different aliases—some blatantly carrying his own name.

The blood drained from Marvolo’s face. His hands trembled as he sifted through the damning evidence of his indulgences, his mind racing for an explanation—any explanation. Finally, he forced himself to look up at his father.

Lucian hadn’t moved. His expression was eerily neutral, betraying neither anger nor amusement.

"F-father," Marvolo stammered, his throat suddenly dry. "I can explain—"

Lucian tilted his head ever so slightly, his cold gaze piercing straight through him.

"I have always known of your... tendencies," he mused, almost contemplatively. "Your mother, soft as she was, let you indulge in them far too long. I, however, allowed it because I believed—hoped—you would eventually wake up. That, at some point, you would realize the weight of the Gaunt name and rise to the responsibility I placed upon you."

Lucian’s voice never rose, never sharpened with anger—but Marvolo wished it had. The eerie calm, the quiet certainty of his father’s disappointment was so much worse.

"And now..." Lucian continued, standing from his chair with a grace that made Marvolo’s stomach churn, "you come before me, flaunting your latest act of brilliance, believing yourself to be a visionary, while failing to realize that you have been played for a fool."

With a flick of his wand, Lucian lifted the contract Marvolo had presented him, holding it aloft for only a moment—before sending it hurtling into the fireplace. The parchment curled and blackened, flames licking hungrily at the ink until there was nothing left but smouldering ashes.

Marvolo’s breath hitched.

"You did not even bother to verify whether you had truly signed with the Wilkinsons," Lucian continued, his voice as sharp as the crack of a whip. "I have already investigated those _grifters_ and dealt with them. Had this deal gone through, you—in all your glorious wisdom—would have led this family straight into financial ruin. Tell me, Marvolo, what would you have done when your so-called partners bled us dry? When the Ministry came knocking, questioning why the Gaunt name was attached to smuggling?"

Marvolo’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

His legs felt weak, his carefully curated confidence crumbling into dust. No. No, this can’t be happening.

Instinctively, he dropped to his knees. His pride—his arrogance—meant nothing now. The only thing that mattered was salvaging what little he could from his father’s wrath.

"F-father, please!" he choked out, eyes wild with desperation. "Forgive me... just this once!"

Lucian exhaled through his nose, staring down at his son in silence.

Marvolo could not tell if that was a sign of mercy—or a death sentence.

Lucian Gaunt watched his son with cold detachment, his face betraying neither rage nor satisfaction as Marvolo crumbled before him. The proud, swaggering heir—the self-proclaimed mastermind of the family's next great venture—now knelt like a cowering child, stripped of all bravado.

"Forgive you?" Lucian echoed, his voice dangerously soft. He stepped around the desk with deliberate slowness, each measured footfall echoing in the vast study. "Tell me, Marvolo, what exactly should I forgive?"

Marvolo swallowed thickly, his palms damp as they pressed against the rich carpet. "I—I only wanted to bring honour to our name—t-to expand our influence! I didn’t know—"

"You didn’t know?" Lucian's words sliced through his stammering like a blade. He loomed over his son, his presence suffocating. "You mean to tell me that you entered into a venture—one involving international law, illicit trade, and creatures that could bring the Ministry down upon our heads—without even the foresight to verify your partners?"

Marvolo flinched as Lucian waved his hand, and the stack of damning documents rose into the air, circling like vultures above him. Debts upon debts. Scandalous expenses. A ledger of his disgrace.

"You waltz into my study, hungover from yet another night of debauchery, parading your idiocy as ambition," Lucian continued, voice never once rising, yet every word striking like a lash. "And you expect me to applaud you?"

Marvolo felt his breath quicken. His mind scrambled for an excuse, an explanation—anything that would lessen the weight of his father’s fury. But there was nothing. No clever words, no business deal to salvage. He had been played for a fool.

Lucian’s wand twitched, and the papers ignited mid-air, curling into ash before drifting onto Marvolo’s shoulders like the remnants of a funeral pyre.

"Your ignorance would have bankrupted this family. Your recklessness has made you a liability." He tilted his head slightly, his icy gaze drilling into Marvolo's very soul. "And tell me, son... what use do I have for a liability?"

Marvolo’s breath hitched, terror tightening around his throat like an iron vice. He bowed his head lower, his body trembling. "P-please, Father," he whispered hoarsely. "Give me a chance to make this right."

Lucian exhaled, long and slow, as if weighing his next words with meticulous precision. Then, with a flick of his wand, the last of the burning parchment scattered into glowing embers, fading into nothingness upon the marble floor. He did not look at Marvolo as he turned back to his desk, settling into his chair with the kind of indifference one might show an inconsequential matter—something already dismissed.

"Asking for redemption is a wasted effort for a man who has already disgraced himself beyond repair," Lucian said at last, his voice devoid of warmth. His emerald eyes flicked toward Marvolo, sharp as a blade. "You are unworthy of the Gaunt name."

Marvolo's breath hitched. No. No, this cannot be happening.

"N-no, Father, I beg of you—!" He lurched forward, desperation clawing at his throat, but the sheer weight of Lucian’s glare rooted him in place.

"Silence."

The single word cut through the room like the snap of a whip.

Marvolo swallowed hard, instinctively shrinking back as his father’s piercing gaze bore into him, a silent yet crushing command to stay quiet.

Lucian leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable once more. "Your mother has pleaded for your place in this family," he continued, voice slow and deliberate. "Begged, even. It was her one request—that I not cast you out into the streets like the vermin you are."

Marvolo’s chest constricted, a shuddering breath of relief escaping him. He wasn’t being disowned. He could still fix this. He could still—

"But," Lucian said smoothly, "you will be heir no longer."

The words struck harder than any hex.

Marvolo felt as though the air had been sucked from his lungs. His body locked in place, rigid, his mind scrambling to process what had just been said.

"N-no!" he choked out, his voice shaking with sheer disbelief. "You can't!"

Then the true horror dawned on him. His blood ran cold.

"It can't be!" His voice rose, near hysterical. "You mean to name that cripple as heir!?"

Lucian said nothing. He merely observed Marvolo with a detached, almost clinical disinterest, as though he were an insect squirming under his boot. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he waved him off dismissively.

"My decision is final," he said, turning his gaze back to his papers as if Marvolo no longer existed. "The formal announcement will be made at the next gathering of the families."

Marvolo stood frozen. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, his entire world tilting, crumbling. He felt as though his very soul was being torn from him.

His brother. That pathetic, useless cripple. The one he had scorned, mocked, disregarded as nothing more than an unfortunate blemish upon the family’s legacy. Him? Taking his place?

The mere thought was enough to make bile rise in his throat.

Marvolo turned, his movements stiff, mechanical, like a man trapped in a nightmare he could not wake from. He barely registered his own steps as he walked toward the doors. He wanted to argue. To rage. To fight. But he knew better. One word out of place and his father might revoke his name entirely.

The heavy doors shut behind him with a resounding thud.

The silence in the hall was suffocating. His breaths came fast, uneven. His hands trembled—first with shock, then with fury. No.

No, this wasn’t over.

His father might have cast him aside. His pathetic excuse of a brother might have stolen what was rightfully his. But Marvolo would set things right. He had to.

One way or another, he would reclaim what was his.

No matter the cost.

"Thank you, Professor Garlick. I'll make sure to return these by the end of the week," Ominis said with a polite smile as he carefully took the stack of heavy tomes the professor had lent him for his research. It was part of the Sub-Aquatic Botanical series, a collection detailing rare water-dwelling magical plants. He had deliberately borrowed Professor Garlick’s personal copies, knowing that her meticulous handwritten notes in the margins would prove invaluable to his research.

Among the assigned readings, one particular plant stood out—Gillyweed. The professor had tasked him with writing an eleven-inch parchment on its medicinal properties and various applications, particularly how its effects extended beyond just underwater breathing. Used in certain healing potions, Gillyweed had been studied for its potential in treating respiratory ailments, aiding wizards with conditions that affected their ability to breathe properly.

"Not a problem! Always happy to help a blooming student eager to delve into the depths of botany!" Professor Garlick said cheerfully, her warm voice carrying a natural enthusiasm. She waved him off with a bright smile, the scent of fresh herbs and soil lingering in the air as Ominis carefully balanced the tomes in his arms.

With a polite nod of gratitude, he turned on his heel and left the greenhouse, stepping out into the crisp Hogwarts air. The distant chatter of students filled the courtyard, but Ominis paid little mind as he navigated the familiar path toward his next class, his thoughts already drifting toward the long parchment he had to write.

As Ominis ascended the stairs leading back to the Central Hall, the air was still and quiet, save for the distant murmur of students going about their day. Just as he reached for the doors, unseen hands seized him with brutal force, yanking him backward. Before he could react, his back slammed against the cold stone wall, the impact forcing the air from his lungs in a painful gasp. His senses reeled, but years of instinct and caution honed by his upbringing kicked in—he braced himself, ready to retaliate. Who would dare lay hands on him? And in Hogwarts, no less? A Gaunt was not to be handled so carelessly.

Then the scent hit him—thick, pungent, unmistakable. Stale whiskey and expensive cologne, the distinct stench of indulgence and poor restraint. His stomach twisted, and his grip tightened into fists.

"Marvolo," he said flatly, his voice laced with a quiet, simmering irritation. His hands shot up, one gripping the wrist that had twisted into his collar. "It is highly inappropriate for an alumnus to be assaulting current students. Or have you completely lost what little dignity you had left?"

"Piss off!" Marvolo snarled, his voice slurred with fury. His grip tightened, fabric straining beneath his fingers. "What in Merlin’s name did you do, huh?"

Ominis furrowed his brows, feigning confusion. "Pardon?"

Marvolo shoved him harder against the wall. "What did you say to father!?"

Ominis stilled. At last, understanding settled over him like a thick fog. Ah. So it had happened.

His father had stripped Marvolo of his title.

It was the only explanation for his brother's reckless, public display of rage. Marvolo was never particularly cunning, but even he wasn’t foolish enough to cause a scene unless he was truly desperate. And desperate he was.

A slow, deliberate exhale left Ominis’s lips as he tightened his grip on Marvolo’s wrist. This is just the beginning, he realized.

Ominis barely had a moment to process before Marvolo’s grip tightened like a vice, yanking him forward before slamming him back against the cold stone wall once more. The impact rattled through his ribs, sending a dull ache down his spine, but he refused to falter. His expression remained schooled into careful indifference, his breath even. He would not give Marvolo the satisfaction of seeing him cower.

"Assaulting me in the middle of Hogwarts?" Ominis mused, his tone laced with dry amusement. "How utterly reckless. Have you truly lost all sense of self-preservation?"

"Don’t play coy with me, you little wretch!" Marvolo spat, the scent of stale whiskey thick on his breath. His fingers twisted cruelly in Ominis’s collar, knuckles white from the force of his grip. "What lies did you whisper into Father’s ear? What deceitful game are you playing?"

Ominis let out a small scoff. "Lies? Deceit?" His head tilted slightly, as if genuinely perplexed. "I believe those are more in your wheelhouse, brother."

Marvolo’s fury only burned hotter at Ominis’s unnerving calm. His grip twisted further, yanking Ominis closer until their faces were mere inches apart, his breath ragged with rage.

"You scheming little snake," Marvolo hissed. "Do you think this is over? Do you think I’ll just stand idly by while you steal my birth right?"

Ominis frowned, his patience wearing thin. "I stole nothing," he said coolly. "You lost it all on your own."

The words were a blade, slicing deeper than any hex. Marvolo's breath hitched, his entire body stiffening with barely contained fury. Ominis could feel it—the way his brother's muscles tensed, the volatile energy coiling beneath his skin, the urge to strike lingering in the air like static before a storm.

"Let. Me. Go." Ominis’s voice dropped, low and unyielding. It wasn’t a plea; it was a command.

For a fraction of a second, Marvolo hesitated. His grip twitched but did not loosen.

Ominis moved before he could think. His hand shot up, fingers locking around Marvolo’s wrist with a strength that startled even himself. A foreign power surged through him, something deep, raw, something that did not belong to him—yet it obeyed him.

With an effortless twist, he wrenched Marvolo’s grip away, tearing himself free with a force that sent his brother stumbling back. Marvolo barely managed to catch himself, eyes wild with shock.

"You forget, brother," Ominis murmured, his voice measured, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. Slowly, he unfastened his sleeve, revealing the artefact still latched onto his wrist, its presence undeniable, its power coiled beneath his skin like a serpent waiting to strike.

Marvolo’s breath hitched. His eyes widened in horror.

"H-how... How did you—"

"Stroke of luck, I suppose," Ominis taunted, lips curling into the barest ghost of a smirk.

Marvolo’s expression twisted, first with disbelief, then with something darker. "You think you’ve won." His voice was low, venomous. "But this isn’t over. You’ll regret this, Ominis. I swear it."

With a last glare, he turned on his heel, his steps uneven, his fury barely contained as he stalked away into the shadows of the hall.

Ominis listened to the echoes of his retreating footsteps, standing still even after they faded into silence. Then, at last, he exhaled, slow and deliberate.

Marvolo was desperate.

And desperation made him dangerous.

This was far from over.