Fragments of Time

Footsteps echoed through the vast corridors of Hogwarts as Theowen walked alongside her ever-present jailer, Elladora. The towering stone walls, lined with flickering torches and moving portraits, bore silent witness to her reluctant march. Only moments ago, she had been in Charms class, where she was at least granted a fleeting sense of normalcy—practicing spells under Professor Ronen’s watchful eye, alongside her classmate Natty. Though stripped of her own wand, she had been begrudgingly lent a charmed dummy wand, allowing her to participate in lessons, albeit under strict conditions.

That fragile illusion of routine had been shattered the instant Elladora burst into the classroom. With the full weight of the Headmaster’s authority behind her, there had been no room for argument. Even Professor Ronen, though visibly displeased, had little choice but to step aside when Elladora announced that Theowen was being summoned—by the Headmaster himself.

And so, here she was, whisked away without explanation, her fate hanging in the balance as they navigated the labyrinthine halls of the castle. The winding path led them toward the famous Grand Staircase, where they were forced to pause every so often, waiting for the enchanted staircases to shift and align with their intended destination. Each step felt heavier than the last, a growing sense of unease curling in Theowen’s stomach. Whatever awaited her beyond these stairs, she knew one thing for certain—nothing good ever came from a summons like this.

With every step upward, Theowen became more certain of their destination—Elladora was leading her straight to the Headmaster’s office. The realization sent a chill down her spine. Whatever awaited her beyond those doors, it was bound to be unpleasant.

She couldn’t help but wonder what had shifted within the Black family. Elladora’s relentless cruelty had been a constant in her life—predictable, unwavering—until recently. Then, without warning, it had been reined in altogether. The sudden restraint wasn’t out of kindness; no, something—or someone—had forced her into submission.

Theowen suspected the influence of a higher power, someone strong enough to hold sway over even the Headmaster. Few in the British wizarding world could rein in Phineas Nigellus Black. The list of possibilities was small, but her mind clung stubbornly to one name.

Ominis.

The thought filled her with cautious hope, though she dared not let it grow. Hope, after all, was a dangerous thing—because the greater the hope, the sharper the disappointment when it was inevitably crushed.

As they reached the very top of the stairs, Theowen followed Elladora through the gleaming corridors of the trophy room, their footsteps echoing softly against polished marble. At the far end, an imposing iron gate loomed before them, guarding the ascent to the Headmaster’s office. The gate groaned open as they approached, granting them passage up the spiralling tower.

At the summit stood a grand, enchanted gargoyle plated in gold, sculpted into the shape of a griffin poised for battle. Its wings stretched wide, its maw frozen in a perpetual snarl. Despite the weight of uncertainty settling in her chest, Theowen remained eerily composed—she already knew the way. In another lifetime, she had navigated this path alone, sneaking into the office to complete Niamh Fitzgerald’s trial.

Elladora leaned in and whispered the password, “Toujours Pur.”

The moment the words left her lips, the statue shifted, stone grinding against stone as the spiral staircase unfurled before them. Theowen swallowed against the nerves tightening in her throat. Why had the Headmaster summoned her? What could possibly warrant such an audience?

As they ascended, voices drifted from above—two men engaged in a quiet but firm exchange. One voice was unmistakable—Phineas Nigellus Black, the ever-despotic Headmaster of Hogwarts. But the second voice… unfamiliar. Smooth, measured, with a weight of authority beneath its controlled tone.

When they reached the threshold of the office, Theowen was greeted by a sight she remembered all too well. Time had done nothing to alter its grandeur—silver trinkets and enchanted baubles adorned every available surface, their metallic gleam catching the dim candlelight. Dark green banners draped over the walls, an unmistakable tribute to Slytherin’s legacy.

She took a step forward, only to be halted by Elladora’s outstretched arm. The expression on the older witch’s face twisted with disdain as she pulled Theowen back sharply.

It was then Theowen understood.

The conversation wasn’t over. She had not yet been summoned.

At the heart of the office, a conjured tea table stood between the Headmaster and his guest. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could sense his presence—the easy confidence in his posture, the way Black, despite his usual arrogance, treated him with uncharacteristic deference. Whoever he was, he held influence. Power.

And, Theowen realised with a slow, creeping unease—he was the true reason she had been called here.

She could only see him from behind at first, but the sight of his sandy, dark-blonde hair stirred something unsettlingly familiar in her. The man’s voice—a rich baritone laced with sharp articulation and a posh, aristocratic accent—only confirmed her suspicions. There was no doubt. This was Ominis’s father. The resemblance was undeniable.

Though she had never met him in her previous life, the likeness now stood stark before her. By the time she had reunited with the older Ominis, his father had long since passed, and the Gaunt legacy had already been sullied by Marvolo’s reckless ambition. Yet here he was—alive, composed, and terrifyingly real.

The conversation between the two men came to an abrupt halt as the elder Gaunt tilted his head ever so slightly, acknowledging her presence with the barest motion. At that, the Headmaster gestured for both Theowen and Elladora to step forward.

They obeyed in silence, the weight of the room pressing heavier with each footfall. When Theowen finally came close enough to see the man’s face, she nearly gasped.

The resemblance to Ominis was chilling—sharp nose, strong jawline, and an almost ethereal bone structure carved from centuries of pure-blooded lineage. But where Ominis bore a gentle melancholy in his features, his father exuded severity, aged and hardened by power. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was suffocating.

Then she met his gaze.

Emerald green, impossibly bright—his eyes were piercing, unnaturally so. They seemed to look through her rather than at her, as though stripping her bare of every secret. Theowen felt the air freeze in her lungs.

And for a fleeting moment, she wondered—had Ominis not been born blind, would his eyes have burned the same way?

Theowen quickly realized her mistake—she had been staring for far too long. Heat crept up her neck as she bowed swiftly in greeting, mirroring Elladora’s gesture beside her.

“This is her—the criminal,” Elladora sneered, her voice dripping with contempt as she introduced Theowen with far too much enthusiasm.
  
Lucian Gaunt barely spared her a glance. “We have been… indirectly acquainted, yes,” he said smoothly, dismissing the comment before it could fester into something more. His voice was controlled, refined, as if he had already deemed the subject unworthy of further discussion.

Then, without a single word spoken aloud, he shifted his gaze toward the Headmaster. It was subtle—just a flicker of his sharp emerald eyes—but it carried an unspoken command. Phineas Nigellus Black, ever the politician, understood immediately.

“Come along now, dear sister,” Phineas said with a theatrical sigh, stepping forward to grasp Elladora’s arm.

Elladora stiffened, visibly affronted. “But—”

“Not here, not now,” Phineas murmured under his breath, cutting her off before she could protest further.

Elladora opened her mouth, but then she hesitated. For all her sadistic bravado, even she knew better than to openly defy someone like Lucian Gaunt. With a final scowl shot in Theowen’s direction, she turned on her heel and allowed herself to be led away, her brother following close behind.

As they stepped beyond the threshold, the enchanted griffin statue spiralled back down, sealing off the staircase and leaving Theowen truly alone with the head of the Gaunt family.

“I suppose introductions are unnecessary,” Lucian began, his voice low and precise as he gestured to the chair opposite him. “Considering how swiftly you recognised me.”

Theowen dipped her head again in apology, her posture respectful. “Forgive my rudeness, sir. It’s just… the resemblance is rather striking.”

At that, Lucian paused. A subtle silence fell between them—brief but noticeable. Theowen caught it, the smallest shift in the air, and wondered if her observation had touched a nerve. Perhaps the idea of being likened to his youngest son was not a sentiment he appreciated.

She made her way to the chair, smoothing her robes before sitting down across from him. She tried to quiet the unease growing inside her. This was the man responsible for so much of Ominis’s pain—his cold hand behind years of torment. And now, here he was, calm and unreadable, his face carved from stone, betraying nothing.

Lucian lifted his teacup, taking a deliberate sip before speaking again. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.”

Theowen blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the admission. That was the last thing she had expected to hear. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You see,” Lucian began, his tone as smooth as silk, “some—like your escort earlier—have painted you as a criminal.”

Theowen flinched at the word, the label that had clung to her like a curse since the incident.

“Others,” he continued, “as an opportunist.”

Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt. The sting of those titles never dulled, no matter how many times she heard them whispered behind her back or spat with venom. She drew in a slow breath, then looked up at him with measured resolve.

“And what do you see me as, sir?” she asked quietly.

Lucian tilted his head, almost amused. “Me?” he echoed, reclining slightly in his chair. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling as if in idle thought. “I admit, I’ve conducted a rather… thorough investigation into your background.”

Theowen’s breath caught. A warning chill crept down her spine, though she couldn’t say why.

“No parents. No known family. Nothing,” he said flatly. “You appeared at an orphanage in London without explanation—abandoned on its doorstep as an infant. A ghost in the system.”

She bit her lower lip, the familiar ache of that story pressing at the edges of her chest. She had heard it before, from the nuns who raised her, who offered her warmth and shelter on that stormy night. But hearing it from him, so cold and clinical, made it feel like a weapon rather than a history.

“What intrigued me,” Lucian continued, his voice growing quieter, more calculated, “was not your sob story. No, those are a dime a dozen. It was what came after. The events leading to the… incident.”

There it was. The cold splash of dread, like ice water down her spine. Her pulse quickened.

“Your movements—clumsy at times, yes. But somehow… deliberate,” he said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Professor Fig. A trusted academic with impeccable loyalty. Yet his memories are fragmented—altered, even. Missing key details about the nature of your power. So precise, it almost felt… orchestrated.”

Lucian’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. It was the smile of a man who had peeled back layers others didn’t even know existed—a predator savouring the scent of fear.

“You calculated every step, didn’t you?” he said softly. “Even the ones you let others believe were accidents.”

Then, Lucian’s voice dropped menacingly low, his next words cutting through the quiet like a dagger:

“…It’s almost as if you were a Seer.”

Theowen’s stomach twisted.

A cold shiver crept down her spine, her throat tightening as if invisible hands were suddenly choking the air from her lungs. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her skirt beneath the desk, knuckles white. Seer—the word wasn’t just a guess. It was far too close.

Far too dangerous.

Her eyes flicked to Lucian, then quickly away. She didn’t dare hold his gaze. Not because he was intimidating—though he was—but because if she looked too long, she feared he’d see it. The truth. The impossible, fragile truth she carried like a curse etched into her very soul.

She wasn’t a Seer. She was something much worse.

A ghost of time. A thread ripped from one future and stitched into another.

“You…” she started, her voice faint, her mouth dry. “You give me far too much credit, sir.”

But even as she spoke, she could feel it: his eyes boring into her, not searching for answers—confirming what he already suspected.

And that terrified her.

“Well, no matter,” Lucian said suddenly, his tone dismissive and unreadable. The abrupt shift threw Theowen off balance. She blinked, confused—was that it?

Then he continued, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Your actions, surprisingly, haven’t sullied the legacy of my ancestor. In fact… I daresay I ought to offer my gratitude.”

“G-gratitude, sir?” Theowen asked, her voice uncertain, laced with suspicion.

Lucian smiled thinly, like a snake coiling lazily in the sun. “Well, are you not the real hero of Hogwarts? Vanquisher of goblins, protector of the weak.” He tilted his head slightly. “I always did wonder why you refused to defend yourself. Why you allowed them to drag your name through the dirt when you could have cleared it with a single word.”

Theowen said nothing. Her silence was safer than any answer she could give.

Lucian leaned forward slightly, voice lowering. “It made me curious. Were you truly enamoured with that… crippled son of mine?”

The insult hit like a slap.

Before she could stop herself, Theowen shot to her feet, fists clenched tightly at her sides, her voice sharp and unthinking: “He is no such thing!”

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. What did I just do?

But Lucian only sat back, satisfied, a glint of triumph in his eyes.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth. “There it is.”

“Is it love?” he teased, his voice a low, sinister purr. The words slithered into the air like a serpent testing the air for weakness.

Theowen’s face tightened, her jaw locking as she forced herself to stay composed. She didn’t respond—she wouldn’t. Slowly, with controlled grace, she sank back into her seat, never breaking eye contact.

Lucian, clearly enjoying the spectacle, leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Now, now, there’s no need to be so defensive,” he mused. “I’m just a father… curious about his son’s little beau.”

You don’t deserve to call yourself that, she thought bitterly, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Let him sneer. Let him prod and provoke. She would not give him another outburst—would not feed the fire he so obviously wanted.

She stayed silent. She didn’t care what he’d say next, what cruel games he played. She would not entertain him anymore.

“Regardless of the nature of your feelings toward him,” Lucian said coolly, “unfortunately, he has been completely enamoured by you. Almost… desperately so.”

Theowen stiffened, heart skipping. She hated how much the words pleased her—proof, however begrudgingly delivered, that Ominis hadn’t given up on her. Not in this life, either.

“He even managed to convince me to sever his engagement,” Lucian added, almost lazily.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with shock. Severed? She stared at him, and to her growing frustration, Lucian was grinning—pleased with himself like a puppeteer who just tugged the perfect string. He was baiting her, dangling exactly what she wanted in front of her face, and he knew it.

Frustration boiled in her chest. *Why is he doing this? What does he want?* She no longer had the patience to play his games.

“I fail to understand what exactly you want from me, sir,” she said firmly, tone edged with irritation. “If you do not state your business, I will assume it has concluded.”

Lucian laughed—a rich, condescending sound that echoed through the chamber like a predator humoured by its prey. He leaned forward, finally delivering the blow.

“My son wishes to marry you.”

Time seemed to stop. Theowen’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to react—whether to be joyful or cautious. In her past life, she never had the chance to meet Ominis’s family, let alone receive a proposal sanctioned by them. It all felt so foreign—so unreal.

“W-what?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“A Gaunt has asked for your hand,” Lucian repeated, his tone laced with challenge. “So tell me—what say you to that?”

She could feel it—this was a test. He was waiting for her to pounce, to confirm every nasty thing others had called her: a seductress, an opportunist. Someone who stole another woman’s fiancé for her own gain. She swallowed hard.

“I have no opinion on it,” she said carefully.

Lucian arched a brow, clearly taken aback. That wasn’t the answer he expected.

“Any girl in your position would leap at the chance,” he said. “I’ve heard you two were quite… close. Are you saying my son’s affections are one-sided?”

His concern wasn’t for Ominis, she knew that well enough—it was amusement, thinly veiled by feigned curiosity. Theowen met his eyes, voice calm.

“You misunderstand me. His feelings are not one-sided. Far from it.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“It’s simply not my decision to make,” she replied. “Such matters fall under the head of the Gaunt family.”

Lucian leaned back with a low, impressed chuckle that turned into a booming laugh. “My, my, girl. You exceed my expectations. Here I thought you’d lunge at the opportunity.”
  
Then, as quickly as his amusement came, it faded. His face darkened with seriousness as he spoke again.  

“Then let’s say I am the one giving permission. I now present you with the offer—an engagement to my son. Would you accept?”

Theowen responded without missing a beat, her voice calm and steady. “Then I would ask… what would you want in return?”

Lucian’s chuckle returned—low, knowing, like he’d been waiting for that exact question. “Ah, you are sharper than most. Good,” he said, steepling his fingers before continuing. “You see, I’m not merely severing his engagement. I’ve also made the decision to name Ominis as heir to the Gaunt legacy.”

Theowen’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened with shock. He did it, she thought, a flood of emotions surging through her—relief, pride… and a budding dread. What had Ominis done to earn this? What price had he paid behind closed doors for Lucian to cast aside Marvolo, his golden son, and choose the one he had tormented for years?

The fear slipped into her voice as she asked cautiously, “What does this have to do with me?”

Lucian’s emerald gaze sharpened. “Your powers,” he said plainly. “They are… unique. A form of magic that stands outside the natural order. A force with its own rules.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping.

“I want you to cure him.”

The words hit her like a slap.

“Cure?!” she echoed, recoiling. “W-what? Cure?! But… there’s nothing wrong with him!”

Her voice shook with disbelief—defensive, indignant. The idea that Ominis needed to be fixed, that his blindness was something to be undone—it made her stomach turn.

“My son would beg to differ,” Lucian said coolly. “This was his idea, after all.”

Theowen froze. Her blood turned to ice.

No…

Her thoughts reeled, unable to reconcile the Ominis she knew with the man Lucian claimed. The Ominis she loved had never once viewed his blindness as something broken. He had never craved pity—let alone a cure. He was proud, strong, resolute.

“You lie,” she whispered, her voice gaining strength. “Ominis would never say such a thing.”

Lucian’s smirk deepened, shark-like. “Believe what you will. It’s irrelevant to me. All I care about is that the next Head of House Gaunt is not…incomplete.”

Her nails dug into her palms. Agreeing meant acknowledging Ominis as something to be fixed. As if who he was—as he is—wasn’t enough. But the worst part wasn’t the insult. It was the creeping doubt: What if it’s true? What if Ominis asked for this?

And then—another terrifying truth bloomed.

“What if I fail?” she asked, her voice low, trembling beneath the weight of what was being asked of her.

Lucian’s smile vanished.

His face darkened, turning grave and cold. “Then see that you don’t.”

His voice held no room for negotiation, no mercy.

“I’ll permit your engagement,” he continued. “But marriage? That will have to wait.”

He leaned forward, his emerald eyes gleaming with finality.

“You’ll have one year. Cure him—or the engagement is null.”

Theowen sat still, her body frozen while her mind whirled in chaos.

A year. One year to achieve the impossible.

She wasn’t even sure such a thing could be done. Curing blindness—especially one congenital, one that Ominis had lived with all his life—wasn’t just a medical miracle. It was meddling with fate, with the very fabric of how magic defined itself. And even if her powers, her strange gift tethered to time and something far older, could accomplish it—should they?

Was she meant to alter Ominis in such a way?

Would he even remain the same?

Her chest tightened. She thought of his soft voice in the dark, of how he could read her without needing eyes. Of how he never made her feel seen because of sight, but because of understanding.

And yet… this was the only path forward now. Lucian had made that painfully clear. And if what he said was true—if Ominis himself had asked—then how could she refuse him that choice?

If there was even a chance… just a chance that she could help him the way he had always helped her…

Lucian’s voice cut through her silence like a blade.

“So,” he asked, his tone low and commanding, “do you accept?”

Theowen exhaled slowly, her gaze lifting to meet his. There was no trace of fear left in her now. Only resolve.

She swallowed her dread, straightened her back, and gave her answer.

“I accept.”