What Remains
Theowen exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still pressing on her chest. Never in her life did she imagine things would unfold this way—nor had she planned for them to. Her only goal had been simple: to stop Sebastian from using Dark Magic, to protect Ominis from a path he was never meant to walk. With Anne now cured, there should be no reason for her brother to continue down that road.
And yet, a darker thought tugged at her—what if it wasn’t Sebastian, but Ominis who had turned to the Dark Arts… to earn his father’s approval?
Before she could spiral further, the grinding sound of stone shifting pulled her back. The enchanted gargoyle had returned to its original position, swallowing the spiral staircase that led to the Headmaster’s office. She looked up, dread creeping across her face as her eyes met Elladora’s.
Waiting near the exit to the trophy room, Elladora stood with her arms crossed, her expression twisted in familiar disdain and barely contained fury.
“You’re far too jolly for someone who just had a chat with the Head of the Gaunt family,” Elladora spat venomously. “What dirty trick did you pull this time?”
Theowen sighed, barely hiding her exhaustion. She didn’t have the strength to entertain Elladora’s dramatics—her stomach growled, reminding her that lunch was long overdue. Without replying, she moved to walk past her, expecting the usual snide remarks to follow as they returned to the Great Hall.
Instead, a sharp pain shot through her scalp. Elladora had grabbed a fistful of her golden hair and yanked her back.
“You wench! First, you steal my precious niece’s fiancé—humiliating her! The shame you’ve brought to my family… from a filthy, disgusting mudblood! And now you dare strut around like you belong here? You dare—”
Before she could finish, Theowen grabbed Elladora’s wrist, her grip like iron, her gaze cold and unwavering.
“Let go,” she said, voice dangerously calm.
They stood locked in a stalemate. Theowen didn’t want to reveal her newly forged deal with Lucian Gaunt—not yet—but if Elladora pushed her any further, she’d have no choice.
“I said… let go. I won’t ask again.”
Elladora sneered. “By what authority? I’m still your handler—”
“Not for long.”
Elladora’s expression faltered. “What?!”
“If you lay another hand on me,” Theowen said, voice steely, “you’ll have to answer to Lucian Gaunt. I am now officially his future daughter-in-law.”
Elladora froze. Her grip wavered.
“Lies!” she hissed. “That cannot be!”
“Then by all means,” Theowen shot back, voice sharp and mocking, “march right back up those stairs and ask him yourself.”
Elladora looked toward the now-closed entrance to the Headmaster’s office. Her face paled. Slowly, reluctantly, she released her hold. Both women stepped back, breath heavy, tension crackling between them like charged air before a storm.
Without another word, Elladora huffed and stormed ahead, heels clacking sharply as she descended the steps back toward the Trophy Room.
Coward, Theowen thought, watching the woman’s retreating figure with cool detachment.
She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame the disheveled strands Elladora had yanked. The ache still lingered on her scalp, but she ignored it. With a deep breath, she straightened her posture, smoothed the front of her robes, and followed after her.
For once, she hoped the castle’s Great Hall would offer a moment of peace—and maybe, just maybe, something hot to eat.
But peace was not in her stars—not today. Instead, she walked straight into a grand banquet, the Great Hall transformed with floating silk banners and gilded centerpieces to welcome the honoured guests of the Triwizard Tournament: Durmstrang Institute and Beauxbatons Academy.
With everything that had unfolded, Theowen had nearly forgotten the tournament altogether—forgotten the arrival of the foreign students and their esteemed Headmasters. The hall rang with cheer and applause as the Hogwarts students greeted their guests with uncharacteristic warmth and fanfare.
Just like in her past life, they were the same faces, the same champions. She already knew who would be chosen. She already knew how it would end.
Slipping into her usual seat at the far end of the Slytherin table, closest to the Headmaster’s dais, she kept her gaze low. Across from her, Elladora sat silently, her presence as stiff and bitter as ever.
The tournament meant little to Theowen now. Her mind swam with secrets, with deals made in hushed tones, with fears she could not name aloud. The tasks ahead for the champions seemed, at least in this lifetime, milder—tamed, as if someone had softened the tournament’s edges. Unlike the blood-stained past that saw death with each trial, this version was more spectacle than sacrifice.
Not much was truly known about the personalities of the champions from the visiting schools—at least not yet. Hogwarts had its stories, of course, but for the Durmstrangs and the Beauxbatons, all that floated through the halls were whispers and speculation.
From the Durmstrang Institute, their chosen champion was Viktor Karsanov, a tall and austere young man hailing from an old and reclusive pureblood family in Prussia. With sharp, symmetrical features and steely grey eyes that seemed to peer straight through anyone, Viktor was the sort who only made himself visible when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, he preferred to remain on the periphery—quiet, distant, and observing. There was an eerie calm about him, a stillness that unsettled many students who crossed his path. Whispers claimed he was emotionless, a weapon shaped by Durmstrang itself.
His Headmaster, Oskar Drachenwald, was the complete opposite. A towering man with a squared jaw, storm-grey hair, and a booming voice that never quite settled into a whisper, Drachenwald was infamous for his ruthlessly competitive nature. Clad in robes that mimicked military uniform, every inch of him radiated discipline and strategy. He could be seen laughing with professors one moment and pressing them for tournament details the next. Unlike Viktor, Drachenwald was everywhere—charming, scheming, and always calculating the next move that might give his champion the edge.
Beauxbatons, on the other hand, had sent forth a vision of ice and ambition: Seraphine Vaillancourt. A striking beauty with pale porcelain skin, silvery-blonde hair like moonlight, and piercing icy blue eyes, Seraphine came from the prestigious Vaillancourt lineage in France. Regal in posture and razor-sharp in wit, she was known for her unyielding ambition and her willingness to burn bridges—even familial ones—if they stood in her way. She made no secret of her goal: to carve her name into magical history and be remembered above all others. Students were warned not to mistake her elegance for softness—she was a frost-tipped blade.
Her Headmistress, Léontine Delaruelle, was a vision in her own right—graceful, commanding, and unbending. With golden-blonde hair pinned into intricate coils and deep violet eyes that held both warmth and warning, Léontine was often described as a queen in all but title. Though her voice was calm and her manner refined, her reputation for discipline was legendary. She kept Seraphine’s wilder impulses in check—or at least tried to. It was no secret among the faculty and a few eavesdropping students that the two women clashed behind closed doors—sometimes in heated argument, other times in magic-charged silence.
Hogwarts, on the other hand, had as its champion none other than Natsai Onai. It was almost expected that the Goblet would choose a Gryffindor—brave, righteous, and pure of heart—and Natsai embodied all those traits. Known throughout the school for her unwavering sense of justice and quiet strength, she had always been someone others looked up to, not just in her own house but beyond it.
However, her selection did not come without controversy. Natsai was, after all, a transfer student—one who hadn’t been raised within the castle walls like many of her peers. Whispers of doubt rippled through the school, questioning whether she truly represented Hogwarts. But despite the initial debate, the Goblet had spoken, and as the trials progressed, even the harshest critics found themselves silenced by her tenacity and grace under pressure. It turned out, she was the perfect fit after all.
Though Hogwarts did not win the tournament this time, it was a historic year—for it marked the first time Durmstrang emerged victorious. After years of standing in Beauxbatons’ shadow, they had finally stolen the spotlight, and Viktor Karsanov’s performance throughout the trials made him an instant name within the global Wizarding world.
As for Seraphine and Natsai, their journeys didn’t end with the tournament either. Each of them would go on to shape magical history in their own unique ways. But that, as they say, is a story for another time.
As the Hall buzzed with applause and admiration for the visiting students, Theowen remained quiet in her seat at the end of the Slytherin table. She watched them—Natsai, Viktor, Seraphine—all so poised, powerful, and seemingly untouched by the weight of what loomed beneath the surface. They were the faces of the tournament, the ones who would dazzle the world. And yet, Theowen couldn’t shake the tight coil of unease building in her chest.
Something was wrong.
She wasn’t meant to be part of this—not in this way. In her past life, the Triwizard Tournament had passed like a distant storm, something she observed with little consequence. But this time, it felt different. Too familiar. Too close. There was a gnawing whisper at the back of her mind, cold and certain.
She would not just be a spectator.
Not this time.
But she silenced the sinking feeling for now, pushing it down into the quiet corners of her mind. Today, she had won a small but meaningful victory—one she dared to treasure. She and Ominis were finally engaged. No longer would they have to hide stolen glances or suppressed affections. No longer would she be beneath Elladora’s tyrannical heel. For now—at least for a year—she was free.
Her hands curled into fists atop the table, not out of joy, but from the shadow of what still lay ahead. The task Lucian had given her was monumental—perhaps even impossible. How could she restore sight to someone who had never known it? Who wasn’t meant to have it to begin with?
Dark thoughts began to pool in her mind, swirling with doubt and dread… until she looked up and saw him.
Ominis.
He sat a few places away, his posture relaxed, his expression calm. Though his eyes could not see, he was facing directly toward her—his unseen gaze steady. A soft, knowing smile curved his lips.
She smiled back.
He knew. His wand must’ve sensed the shift in her magic, her mood, her thoughts. And in return, he gave her reassurance, comfort in the midst of the storm.
And for now—for this fleeting, fragile moment—it was enough.
His palms were slick with sweat, and he wiped them hastily against the sides of his pristine school jacket, muttering a quiet curse under his breath. The fabric, pressed to perfection, now bore faint traces of his nervous fidgeting. Again, he ran his fingers through his hair, then adjusted the collar of his uniform—again.
He couldn’t stop pacing, moving in tight circles as though motion might calm the storm inside him. His nerves frayed at the edges, but beneath the unease, excitement pulsed. He was going to see her—truly see her—if only in the manner their circumstances allowed.
No more stolen moments in shadowed alcoves. No more whispered exchanges behind closed doors. This time, it would be formal. Acknowledged. Allowed.
It wasn’t ideal—far from it.
He still loathed the arrangement. The deception of it. The fact that he had bartered his blindness as something to be “cured” just to secure a future with her. Lucian had twisted it into a contract. A condition. And Ominis despised how readily his father had found a way to make affection transactional.
Still, for now, he would take what he could.
He would cling to this fragile window of freedom—however temporary, however conditional—and cherish every moment of it. Deep down, a part of him feared that Lucian might revoke it all at a whim. That this was too good to last.
But the Room of Requirement had opened once more, not for secrecy or rebellion, but for something sanctioned. Supported, even.
An official space for Theowen’s experiments. For her research into restoring his sight.
He wasn’t naïve enough to believe in miracles. But he believed in her.
And for now… that was enough.
As he waited for her arrival, Ominis focused on conjuring the familiar. He tried, as best he could, to recreate the home from her future—a future that, in another lifetime, they had shared in the heart of London. His memories of it were fragmented, more sensation than clarity, borrowed from the brief visions granted by the strange entity that dwelled within her.
Still, he tried.
He imagined the scent of cedarwood and warm parchment, the low hum of the enchanted fireplace, the soft texture of the armchair she favoured. He shaped the Room of Requirement around those recollections—imperfect, but filled with intention.
Then, a sharp clack echoed from the far end of the room—the sound of the door unlocking.
Footsteps followed, crisp against the marble flooring. Two sets. Heels tapping in tandem, striking like a countdown.
Ominis inhaled sharply as her presence stirred the air. His heart lifted, but just as quickly sank when he realised—she wasn’t alone.
He heard it then: a breath drawn in quietly, as if she were trying not to be heard. Theowen. He would have known the sound of her breath in a storm.
Every instinct in him screamed to reach for her—to close the space between them and wrap her in his arms—but he stopped himself. The other presence soured the moment.
Elladora.
Her arrival was like a chill crawling across the room.
The tension between them had always been a brittle thread, made worse by the fact that he was engaged to her niece. But that wasn’t the only reason. Ominis hadn’t forgotten—not the potion, not the attempt to rob him of his will. And though the Black family had spun a thousand excuses, he had always suspected the true mind behind the scheme was Elladora herself.
Still, he straightened and offered a polite bow when he sensed their greetings—Theowen’s soft and steady, Elladora’s clipped and cold.
He kept his expression composed, though his fingers twitched at his sides. He would not let her presence ruin this. Not today.
“You are excused,” Ominis said coolly, his tone calm but unmistakably dismissive.
The statement landed like a thunderclap, silencing the room for a beat. Both women stared at him—Theowen in quiet surprise, Elladora with visible offence.
“I beg your pardon?” Elladora demanded, voice laced with disbelief. She quickly recovered, drawing herself up in that haughty way she always did. “Mr Gaunt, may I remind you that it is highly inappropriate to remain unchaperoned—especially when the person in question is a convicted criminal.”
“Be that as it may,” Ominis replied evenly, taking a few measured steps forward, “she is now my betrothed, and she has been tasked—formally and directly—with conducting research on behalf of my family.”
Elladora’s brows arched. “Betrothed?” she repeated, voice sharp. “And yet no formal announcement has been made. And what research, exactly, requires the use of this room?”
Her tone dripped with suspicion, though it was clear she already had opinions of her own.
“The announcement has not been made—yet,” Ominis said through clenched teeth. “And as for the research… that is none of your concern.”
Elladora blinked, visibly taken aback. No one had ever spoken to her so curtly—certainly not someone within her own social circle.
“Need I remind you, Mr Gaunt,” she began icily, “that I am also a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I expect to be treated with the respect befitting my station.”
Ominis’s brow furrowed, his temper rising like a slow, controlled burn.
“And need I remind you,” he countered, voice low and dangerous, “that both your brother and your niece conspired to drug me with a love potion?”
Elladora stumbled a step back, the colour draining from her face. She opened her mouth to speak, but Ominis didn’t give her the chance.
“Would you prefer to rehash it with my father?” he continued, taking a deliberate step forward. “Or shall we send word to The Daily Prophet? I imagine they’d love a fresh scandal involving the Black family—especially one so... creative.”
“I will not say it again,” Ominis repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “Leave us.”
There was a pause—just long enough to make the air crackle with tension. He could sense her hesitation, could almost feel the weight of Elladora’s pride battling her fear. But she must have realised then: this was not a bluff. His words weren’t a threat.
They were a promise.
Eventually, he heard the reluctant click of heels against stone, slow at first, then faster—until the sound faded entirely.
Only once the door clicked shut did he release the breath he’d been holding. And before he could process the silence, she was there.
Theowen threw her arms around him, her warmth enveloping him like the first ray of sun after a bitter winter. The scent of her—lavender and parchment, with the faintest trace of ink—flooded his senses. It stunned him. For a brief second, he didn’t move, overwhelmed by the shock of her nearness.
Then, slowly, he returned the embrace.
His hands found the curve of her back, pulling her closer as he buried his face in her hair. He breathed her in like he might forget how, should he let go. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to.
When they finally pulled apart—just slightly, reluctantly—he felt the subtle shift of her weight, the delicate lift of her heels. Her breath grazed his cheek before her lips brushed his—soft, tentative, like the ghost of a memory.
Then she kissed him fully.
At first, it was slow, unhurried. The kind of kiss that spoke of longing left to simmer far too long. His hands slid up her arms, then to her jaw, fingers trembling slightly as he cupped her face with reverence.
She sighed against his mouth, the sound sending a shiver down his spine.
The pace deepened—gentle turned desperate, soft turned insistent. Months—years, even—of restraint unravelled with every touch. His fingers wove into her hair, hers curled into the fabric of his robes. She angled her head, and he met her halfway, each kiss more urgent than the last.
There was nothing tentative now. The kiss grew heated, breathless. She pressed into him, and he held her like she might vanish. Like this moment might shatter if he loosened his grip even slightly.
It was everything he had imagined in stolen dreams and never dared to reach for. It was real.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads touching, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them, he couldn’t help but whisper, voice hoarse—
“At last.”
He heard Theowen’s soft giggle, the sound laced with wonder and quiet disbelief, as if the moment itself might disappear if acknowledged too loudly. She remained in his arms, her touch featherlight as she reached up to caress his face. He stilled as her fingers traced the constellation of moles along his cheek—each movement gentle, deliberate. As though she were memorising him.
But even in the softness of their reunion, something shifted.
He could feel it—just beneath the surface. A tension. A flicker of worry, faint but present, tightening the air around her like a coiled thread.
His brow furrowed.
“What is it?” he asked, voice low with concern.
She reached up, her fingers brushing along his cheek, then higher—toward his closed eyes. He didn’t resist. Instead, he surrendered to her touch, letting his lids fall shut as she traced the gentle crease above them, her fingertips trembling ever so slightly.
Then, in a whisper, barely audible between them:
“Do you truly want this?”
His heart sank.
He pulled back—not sharply, but just enough to escape the weight of her question. Just enough to protect them both from the crack it threatened to open.
“Of course I do,” he said quickly, pulling her into him again, trying to tether the moment, trying to smother her doubt with closeness.
But she didn’t yield.
Her hand came to rest against his chest, firm but not unkind, holding him at a distance. Her eyes searched him, her voice soft but resolute.
“You’re lying.”
He offered her a faint smile, shaking his head with quiet insistence. “I wasn’t lying.”
But Theowen didn’t move. She didn’t soften.
She knew him too well—far too well for his comfort. The intimacy of her insight, born from a life he hadn’t lived, grated against him. It was as though she saw through him, past this version of himself, and straight into someone he wasn’t sure he could be.
It irked him.
She pushed him away, turning her back as her voice sharpened.
“The Ominis I knew would never see himself as someone to be fixed.”
The words struck deeper than she could’ve known.
He didn’t understand why it angered him so much—only that it did. Her truth twisted something inside him. His fist clenched at his side, jaw tightening.
“He and I are not the same,” he bit out, the heat rising in his chest. “That version of him—he’s dead.”
The silence that followed was thunderous.
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Not entirely—but enough to feel a cold wash of shame. A part of him hated that he meant it. That some dark, jealous fragment of him had been gnawing at that truth since the moment she’d returned.
He sensed the sharp movement as she turned back toward him—her anger now crackling like a storm.
“How dare you say that?” she snapped, stepping closer, voice rising with each word. “Is that what you’ve been thinking this whole time? That the man I loved—the man I chose—is just gone?”
Ominis turned away, jaw clenched, trying to contain the storm rising within him.
But Theowen didn’t relent.
“There was never another man,” she said, her voice breaking through the anger like a blade. “There’s only ever been you.”
That stopped him.
She stepped even closer, trembling now—not from rage, but from the ache of being misunderstood. “You keep trying to separate yourself from him—as if that version of you lived in some unreachable place. But you _are_ him. You were always him. Whether in that future… or here.”
But the words, meant to comfort, only twisted the knife in deeper.
Ominis snapped, unable to hold it in any longer.
“Don’t you dare tell me who I am!” he shouted, fists clenched at his sides. “You lived that life—I didn’t. I didn’t get the memories. I didn’t get the years, or the choice, or you.”
His voice cracked, something bitter and hollow seeping through. “You grieve for a version of me that I’ll never become. How am I supposed to compete with a ghost?”
“Never become?” Theowen echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words hung between them like a spell gone wrong. Ominis flinched the moment he heard her say it—realising, too late, that he’d let something slip. Something he had vowed never to reveal.
He could sense her stepping closer, her presence softening as she reached out to him. Fingers brushed his cheek, gentle, searching.
“Ominis,” she murmured, “what happened? What did you—no, what did your father make you do?”
His stomach twisted.
The question cut deeper than he expected. He could almost hear the pin drop in his mind, the silence roaring in the space between heartbeats. He hated it—how transparent he’d become. How easily she could read him.
He jerked away from her touch, stepping back quickly, like her hand had burned him.
“Nothing,” he said sharply.
“No,” Theowen said, her voice trembling now but firm. “It’s not nothing.”
She took a step forward, desperation creeping into her tone.
“Something’s haunting you, Ominis. I can feel it. And it’s changing you. I’m worried—really worried.”
Ominis turned on her, his voice suddenly loud and sharp.
“Enough!”
Theowen froze, startled by the force of it.
“You won’t understand, Theowen,” he said, his tone rough, nearly breaking. “I’m not the same man—the same ideal—you once knew.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he pressed on, unable to stop himself. The words had lodged too long in his throat, festering in silence.
“He was better than me,” he said, voice dropping to a fractured whisper. “I… I’m not—”
The last word caught.
He couldn't say it—not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. And admitting it felt like tearing open something too long held shut.
But then she was in his arms.
He hadn’t even heard her move. One moment he was spiralling, the next, she was holding him—tight, grounding him. He felt her trembling against him, and then something warm soaked into the crook of his neck.
Tears.
Her tears.
“You’re wrong,” she whimpered, her voice thick with emotion.
He stood there, stunned, as her grip only tightened.
“No matter what you’ve done… no matter what you’ve become,” she whispered fiercely, “I will always love you.”
Her words hung in the air like magic, not loud or dramatic, but binding—ancient and steady, like a vow whispered in the space between heartbeats.
Ominis said nothing.
He couldn’t. His throat had closed around the lump that had been forming for days, weeks—years, maybe. He let himself sink into her warmth, arms sliding around her without thought, as though they’d always belonged there.
There were no more outbursts. No more confessions or retorts. Just the quiet sound of her breathing against his chest, uneven and trembling. The weight of her pressed against him, grounding him. The faint scent of her hair filling his senses again, anchoring him in a moment he never thought he’d have.
He didn’t deserve her. He knew that.
But for now, she was here.
And that was enough.
They stood there, holding each other in silence, surrounded by the soft hum of the enchanted room—the crackling of the fireplace, the whisper of old magic in the walls, and the fragile, precious stillness that came only after the storm.
Theowen drew back just enough to press a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips—gentle, anchoring. Then she cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks with quiet reverence. He leaned into her touch instinctively, as though the warmth of her skin could drive back every shadow.
“I went against time itself to get you back,” she whispered. “Nothing… and I mean nothing will ever take you from me again.”
His breath caught.
The words settled over him like a spell—fierce, unbreakable. It made his earlier outburst feel hollow, childish even, though he knew the pain behind it had been real. Still, her conviction shook him. Grounded him. He didn’t deserve her—but he also couldn’t let go.
He heard her voice again, soft but insistent.
“Tell me. Please.”
He hesitated.
But something in her tone—gentle, open, safe—broke the last bit of resistance in him. He gave a long, weary sigh and nodded, then took her hand in his.
They sank into the cushions together. He didn’t release her hand—just turned it over in his own, caressing the lines of her palm as though they could keep him steady.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“He made me—no…” his voice faltered, brittle with shame, “I killed someone.”
The words sat heavily in the air, like something solid and unmovable. He couldn’t take them back—not now. He wouldn’t.
He dared not look at her face, afraid of what he might find there: fear, revulsion, disappointment. But none of it came.
Only silence.
She didn’t pull her hand away. Didn’t flinch.
She simply sat with him, her presence unwavering, her fingers warm in his, steady and patient. The silence wasn’t empty—it was expectant. Not demanding, but open. Willing.
He felt it in the way her thumb moved slowly across his knuckles. In the way she didn’t press him with questions. She was giving him space—to speak, or not. To tell it how he needed.
So he continued.
His voice was quiet. Fragile. But honest.
“It was a Muggle,” Ominis confessed, voice barely above a whisper. “I cast the Killing Curse.”
The words slipped into the air like poison—undeniable and irreversible.
His chest tightened. The silence that followed felt endless. He braced himself for the worst—for her to pull away, to slap him, to speak his name like a stranger’s. For disappointment to settle on her face like dust.
He expected her to leave.
But she didn’t.
Instead, he felt her fingers tighten around his, not in fear, not in anger—but with a quiet, steady strength.
An invitation.
A plea to continue.
Ominis swallowed, the edges of his shame cutting sharper now, but her presence lent him courage.
“It was a test,” he murmured. “To prove my loyalty to my father.”
He paused, his voice faltering as the memory clawed its way to the surface.
“That night… I—there’s no excuse. I did what I did. And I’ve never forgiven myself for it.”
His jaw clenched, pain creeping into every word.
“He begged me,” he said, almost choking on it. “Said he had a family. I heard it in his voice. I felt it… and still I—” He stopped himself, breath shuddering.
“It doesn't change that I did it.”
He could feel himself slowly unravelling, piece by piece. The shame, the guilt—it hadn’t vanished, but speaking it aloud lessened the weight just enough for him to breathe again. A wound still raw, but no longer hidden.
The silence between them was no longer cold—it felt like shelter.
Then, gently, Theowen leaned forward. Her voice was quiet but unwavering.
“I stand by what I said, Ominis. I’m not going anywhere.”
His brow furrowed, disbelief flickering across his face.
“I’m a murderer, Theowen,” he said hoarsely. “I practiced the Dark Arts. I’m not him anymore.”
She exhaled, the sound full of pain and love in equal measure.
“Regardless of what you’ve done,” she said softly, “you’re still him. Nothing will change that.”
Her hand found his again, grounding him.
“Your father forced your hand. That blood isn’t yours to carry alone.”
Her words settled between them like a balm, but it didn’t soothe the wound entirely.
Ominis shook his head, a bitter sound escaping his throat—part scoff, part anguish.
“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured, eyes lowered. “As if I can just fold the guilt away, pretend that I’m still that boy you once knew.”
He turned slightly from her, as though unable to bear the warmth in her eyes.
“I killed a man,” he said, more sharply this time. “That changes people, Theowen. You speak of fate and love like they can overwrite what I’ve done, but they can’t. I crossed a line—and I did it with intent.”
He fell silent for a breath, jaw clenched.
“I don’t get to be him anymore. Not when he never had blood on his hands.”
The silence that followed his words was sharp.
But then Theowen’s eyes flared—not with pity, but with rising anger.
She leaned forward, her voice low and steady, but burning beneath the surface.
“I have blood on my hands, Ominis.”
He looked up, startled.
“Many have died because of my magic. Many were hurt just by being close to me. I made choices—terrible ones. I tried to fix things, and still people suffered for it. Time punished them through me.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped his.
“I am more of a murderer than you are, Ominis. And if you believe for even a second that what you did makes you unworthy of love, then what does that make me?”
She pulled him closer again, her voice fierce now, breaking with emotion.
“You don’t get to stand there and cast yourself out like you’re some irredeemable monster—not while I’m here, loving you, bleeding for you. We live with what we’ve done. Together. Or not at all.”
Ominis stared at her, stunned into silence.
Her words hung between them like fire—raw, scorching, undeniable. She wasn’t just speaking to him; she was baring herself. And in that moment, she wasn’t some saviour from another life or a vision of the past. She was real, fractured and furious and still choosing him.
His mouth parted, but nothing came. No defence. No retreat.
Only breath—shallow, shaken.
“I never asked you to bleed for me,” he said at last, voice low, trembling. “I never wanted that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she shot back. “I chose to. Just like I’m choosing you now.”
He turned away, jaw tight, eyes stinging. Her presence was too much—too bright against the dark he’d tried so hard to live inside. But her grip on his hands refused to loosen, refused to let him retreat into that silence again.
“You don’t get to run from this,” she whispered fiercely. “Not from me.”
“I’m terrified,” Ominis said quietly, “that he’s slowly changing me. Morphing me into him.”
Theowen said nothing—only waited, letting the words come without resistance.
“I can feel it,” he went on, voice thin, cracking at the edges. “This... darkness clawing its way up, little by little. And the worst part? The look in his eyes when he sees it. That twisted pride—like he finally has the son he always wanted.”
He exhaled sharply, as if the confession physically hurt to speak aloud.
“And then there’s this.”
He reached for his cuff, fingers trembling slightly as he unclasped it. The fabric fell away to reveal a bracelet—coiled, metallic, and chilling to look at. The surface shimmered like scaled obsidian, faintly pulsing with a dull green glow.
“This damn, accursed thing,” he muttered bitterly. “It refuses to let me go.”
Theowen leaned in, her breath catching at the sight of it. She reached out, hesitant at first, until her fingers brushed the cold metal. The moment she touched it, a jolt of magic crawled up her arm—dark, ancient, sentient. It was more than cursed. It was watching.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice hushed with awe and dread.
“Salazar Slytherin made it himself,” Ominis replied. “And apparently… it’s chosen me to be its master.”
“Master?” Theowen repeated, brow furrowing. “What does that mean?”
Ominis exhaled slowly. “As my father so helpfully explained—with barely any context—it means: Heir of Slytherin.”
She went still. He could almost hear the dots connecting in her mind.
“W-was that… was that the reason he named you heir instead of Marvolo?”
Ominis let out a low, venomous chuckle. “That was part of it. The bracelet chose me—and Lucian never ignores what magic deems sacred. But the rest?” He shook his head. “It had more to do with Marvolo’s own idiocy. Gambling debts, black-market dealings… he burned through half the family vault in less than a decade.”
“Ah,” Theowen replied, not surprised. She already knew of Marvolo’s habits—some things remained constant, even across timelines.
She leaned closer again, gaze fixed on the glinting artefact. “If this really is Salazar’s bracelet… what does it entail?”
Ominis tilted his head slightly, confused by the question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said carefully, “doesn’t it come with conditions? Curses? Blood pacts? I assume it’s more than just a symbol of lineage… it feels like dark magic.”
Ominis’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the artefact. It pulsed faintly against his skin—an almost imperceptible rhythm, like a second heartbeat.
“It does,” he said slowly. “I admit, it hasn’t done anything drastic… aside from, well—enhancing my senses.”
“Enhancing them?” Theowen asked, intrigued.
“Yes,” Ominis replied, a faint smile curling at his lips as he tilted his unseen gaze toward her. “It’s how I knew the food was drugged.”
Her brows lifted. “Is that also the reason your engagement was cancelled?”
He nodded. “Yes. Though that was just the excuse.”
There was a pause as he seemed to weigh his next words carefully. “What really swayed my father was… greed, as always. I used it against him—claimed that you had… hereditary power. That it would serve the Gaunt line.”
He inhaled sharply, as if regretting the admission even before it left his mouth.
“I may have implied,” he muttered, flushing, “that your abilities could be passed on to future children.”
The silence that followed was punctuated by Theowen’s wide-eyed stare. And then—
She laughed.
Not unkindly, but with genuine amusement, the sound light and disarming.
“Unfortunately,” she said through a grin, “I’m not so sure about that.”
Ominis’s head snapped toward her, startled. “You mean… you and I… in the future, we never…?”
She shook her head, a small, wistful smile touching her lips.
“More like we never had the chance to,” she said quietly. “We were only newlyweds when Sebastian…”
Her voice faltered. The shadow of that memory—of loss and unfinished beginnings—hovered between them.
But she took his hand gently, grounding them both in the present.
“Well,” she said, lifting her chin with quiet hope, “that was the past. And who knows what this future will bring?”
“That is… if you ‘fix’ me,” Ominis said, his voice darkening. The warmth between them faltered for a moment, as the unspoken weight returned.
The impossible task. The condition that bound them.
Theowen leaned in, her voice calm but firm. “Be honest with me, Ominis. Is this truly what you want?”
He bit his lip, hesitating—but only briefly. There was no point pretending.
“In all honesty… no,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve accepted what I am. My shortcomings.”
He paused, his expression tightening.
“I’ve been blind since birth, Theowen. Sight isn't something I lost—it's something I never had. To suddenly change that… it wouldn’t be a gift. It would be chaos. I’d have to relearn everything—how to read, how to cast, how to be.”
He swallowed, voice softening further.
“To change it now would feel like… like sullying my aunt’s memory. She taught me how to live without sight. To see in ways others never could. Undoing that—it would be like erasing her.”
Theowen exhaled slowly, relief softening her features. Finally, the truth had been named.
“Then what do you want to do?” she asked. “Your father did threaten to annul the engagement if I don’t restore your sight.”
“Yes, well… my father and his ever-so-charming ways of manipulation,” Ominis replied with a bitter smile. “At least he gave us a year. I’ll try to find a solution—something. Even if it’s not the one he expects.”
“You know you’re not alone in this, Ominis,” Theowen said gently. “You don’t have to carry this burden by yourself.”
He turned toward her, his expression unreadable at first. Then, softly:
“Neither do you.”
The words caught her off guard.
“You don’t have to keep holding yourself back for my sake,” he continued. “I want you to fight back—especially against your jailer.”
Theowen opened her mouth, her voice faltering. “I… I couldn’t. If I do, what about you—?”
Before she could finish, he kissed her.
It was sudden, resolute—his answer spoken through touch. When he pulled away, her breath caught, eyes wide with stunned affection.
“I’m more than capable of taking care of myself,” he said, a playful flicker behind the seriousness. “I’ve gotten this far with nothing but my wits, haven’t I?”
Theowen let out a small, breathy laugh. “You’re right,” she said with a nod, the corners of her lips still lifted. But then her gaze flicked down to the bracelet coiled around his wrist, and her smile faded slightly. She reached toward it, fingers brushing its cold surface.
“Still… I’m worried about this,” she murmured. “It wouldn’t hurt to find out more about the artefact, would it?”
Ominis sighed, shoulders sinking. “I’ve tried. There’s no mention of it—not in my father’s personal library, not in the family’s private archives, and certainly not in any public record.”
Theowen bit her lip, thoughtful. “Have you checked the Restricted Section?”
A pause.
The air went still. He turned his head slightly, expression unreadable.
“Theowen,” he said flatly, “you can’t expect me to break the rules so wantonly.”
She gave him a look, part challenge, part fond exasperation. “Yes… but this is different. You need to know if this bracelet could harm you in the long run. It might be protecting you now, but—”
She leaned in, lowering her voice.
“—what happens if it starts demanding things from you? If it expects behaviour that even Salazar Slytherin himself would find abhorrent? What then?”
Ominis didn’t answer immediately.
The bracelet pulsed faintly against his skin, almost as if in response.
Ominis fell silent, Theowen’s words lingering in the air like smoke.
She was right—and that unsettled him more than anything. He’d never stopped to wonder what the bracelet might demand in return. The idea of it—of being slowly shaped into something ancient, dangerous, inhuman—left a bitter taste on his tongue.
But before he could respond, Theowen tilted her head thoughtfully.
“Very well. Not the Restricted Section,” she said, her tone suddenly lighter. “What about the Scriptorium?”
Ominis’s entire body went still.
His heart sank like stone in water.
“No,” he said at once, his voice flat, final. “I will never go back there again.”
Theowen exhaled quietly, her expression softening.
“Then… would you rather I go?”
“Absolutely not!” he shot back, sitting upright. “Out of the question. How would you even sneak out past the Headmaster’s sister?”
She only shrugged, nonchalant. “When there’s a will, there’s a way.”
He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face before pulling her closer. They settled back into the sofa, her body leaning into his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. He stroked her arm absentmindedly, sighing.
“I’ll go,” he murmured.
She glanced up at him. “Are you certain?”
He nodded slowly, jaw tight.
Then Theowen added, “Take Sebastian with you.”
Ominis blinked. “Sebastian? Why?”
“Why not?” she asked, feigning innocence. “He is your best friend—and if anyone knows how to break into the Restricted Section, it’s him.”
She nudged him playfully. “You need someone to watch your back, Ominis.”
Ominis tilted his head back against the sofa, his jaw tense in thought. He didn’t want to involve Sebastian—not after everything his friend had endured during their fifth year. Dragging him into this now felt like disturbing the normalcy of a student's life his friend is finally experiencing.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t like dragging him into this,” he muttered.
“You’re not dragging him,” Theowen said gently. “You’re asking for help. That’s different.”
He turned toward her, her head still nestled against his chest. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat calmed something restless in him. Her presence—unwavering, quiet—had a way of making even the impossible feel manageable.
She was right.
Again.
“I’ll ask him,” he said finally.
Theowen smiled, her fingers drifting to the edge of his cuff, idly tracing the fabric.
“He’ll say yes.”
Ominis let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, then tightened his hold around her, drawing her closer into the silence that followed.
No more questions. No more plans. Just the quiet sound of her breathing, the gentle weight of her against him, and the way their heartbeats seemed to fall into rhythm.
They said nothing else.
There was no need to.
In that moment, with her curled into his side and his arms wrapped around her, the world outside the Room of Requirement faded away. The fears, the artefact, the impossible expectations—they all melted into the stillness.
Just the two of them, wrapped in warmth and wordless understanding.
And for now, that was enough.