Fragments of Time

The soft rustle of parchment filled the Transfiguration classroom, punctuated by the occasional clink of wood on stone as enchanted chess pieces twitched and shuffled across desks. The scent of chalk dust and warm candle wax lingered in the air, mingling with the underlying hum of magical tension that always came with Professor Weasley’s lessons.

Sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, catching the flecks of dust suspended midair like stilled snowfall. Each student had been provided a miniature chessboard and a single enchanted King piece, carved in ornate ivory. The goal, as Professor Weasley had announced at the start of class, was simple in theory—much harder in practice.

“Today,” Professor Weasley said, striding between rows of desks with her usual blend of grace and quiet command, “you’ll be refining the fundamentals of object transfiguration—by converting your chess Kings into their Rook counterparts. Ideally, something symbolically equivalent. Think ravens, towers, or even a sentry. Structure and presence are key.”

She paused near the front, wand in hand, and tapped her own chess piece. With a brief flash and a soft _crack_, the small King reshaped into a tall, intricately carved rook tower, then shimmered once more—transforming into a regal raven perched proudly at the edge of her desk.

“Precision matters,” she added, eyes scanning the room over the top of her spectacles. “Partial transfigurations will earn a deduction. I don’t want any headless birds or twitching statues. If your object looks like it’s reconsidering existence, start over.”

A few nervous laughs rippled through the room as wands were raised.

Ominis sat near the middle, his chess piece motionless in front of him. His wand rested on the desk, untouched. Though his expression remained composed, his mind was far from focused on ravens or transfiguration theory.

Beside him, Sebastian flicked his wand at his King. It reshaped awkwardly into a column before splintering back with a frustrated snap.

“Damnit all,” Sebastian muttered under his breath.

Though his voice was low, it wasn’t low enough.

Professor Weasley’s gaze snapped in his direction. “Try again, Mr Sallow. It’s all about intent,” she said pointedly, her tone still calm but firm. Then, narrowing her eyes, she added with sharp precision, “One more dirty word out of your mouth and I’ll be deducting points from Slytherin.”

Sebastian flinched under her stare, straightening at once. “Apologies, Professor. It won’t happen again.”

Her expression softened at his response, and she gave a curt nod before her attention turned to the student beside him.

Ominis sat still, perfectly composed, a neat raven perched contentedly on his shoulder—transfigured from his chess piece with quiet ease. The bird gave a soft croak and tilted its head, as if listening in on the lesson.

“Very fast and adept, Mr Gaunt,” Professor Weasley noted, clearly impressed. “Ten points to Slytherin for completing the task on your first attempt.”

She gestured toward Sebastian’s still-intact King piece. “Do help your friend, Mr Sallow. Give him some pointers.”

Sebastian grumbled something inaudible under his breath.

Ominis fought the urge to smile. “Very well, Professor,” he replied smoothly.

Satisfied, Professor Weasley moved on to the opposite side of the classroom, pausing at a desk where a half-transfigured rook looked suspiciously like it was trying to climb off the table.

Once Professor Weasley moved out of earshot, Sebastian let out a quiet sigh and retrieved his wand from the floor.

“Honestly,” he muttered, glancing at the raven now comfortably nestled on Ominis’s shoulder. “Do you ever struggle with anything?”

“Plenty of things,” Ominis said mildly, turning his head in Sebastian’s direction. “It’s called studying, Sebastian. You should try it sometime.”

Sebastian grumbled under his breath, knowing full well he hadn’t been concentrating on his studies lately. He’d been too caught up in the excitement of the Triwizard Tournament to focus on much else.

Ominis reached out, gently adjusting the angle of Sebastian’s wand hand.

“You’re being too aggressive,” he said. “Transfiguration isn’t about force—it’s about precision. Shape, intent, symbolism.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not trying to duel it, Ominis. Just turn it into a bird.”

“Then stop treating it like a threat,” Ominis quipped. “Think. What does the rook represent? What form suits that meaning? Let the spell guide the transition.”

Sebastian frowned, focused now. He narrowed his eyes at the chess piece and gave his wand a calculated flick.

A soft crack echoed—the King piece shuddered, collapsed inward, and reformed into a squat tower. Then it rippled upward into a stubby-feathered raven with awkwardly oversized wings. It immediately keeled over.

Sebastian stared at it flatly.

“So,” he said dryly, “mine’s had a rough flight in from Scotland.”

Ominis gave a soft laugh. “Not bad. It’s hideous, but at least it’s breathing.”

Sebastian smirked despite himself, letting the stubby raven hop unsteadily across his quill case.

“You’re actually a decent teacher, Ominis. Ever thought about becoming a professor?”

Ominis’s unseen eyes widened slightly at the suggestion. The thought had never occurred to him. It wasn’t the kind of ambition his father would ever take seriously—he could already hear the sneer in Lucian’s voice at the idea of a Gaunt lecturing teenagers.

He shrugged, tone casual. “Honestly… I’ve never given it much thought.”

Sebastian didn’t press. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed lazily, watching his crooked raven wobble in a small circle on the desk. For a few long seconds, neither of them spoke.

The classroom noise faded into background murmur—the flick of wandwork, the soft groans of partial transfigurations, and Professor Weasley’s voice gently correcting a Hufflepuff near the front.

It felt… normal.

Like it used to.

Sebastian glanced sideways. Ominis was still calm, hands resting on his desk, his own raven preening neatly atop his shoulder.

The quiet between them was no longer awkward. It was the quiet of shared space, of familiarity slowly stitching itself back together.

Then, at last, Ominis spoke—quietly, carefully.

“Sebastian…”

"Hm?” Sebastian replied, still half-watching his raven stumble along the edge of his parchment.

Ominis lowered his voice, barely above a whisper. There was no hesitation, no buildup—he went straight for the jugular.

“I need your help to break into the Forbidden Section.”

Sebastian blinked.

His wand faltered just slightly—and in that instant, his misshapen raven gave a twitch, let out a startled croak, and immediately shimmered back into the original rook-shaped chess piece.

The thud it made as it landed on the desk was small, but heavy.

Sebastian turned to him fully now, brows raised, voice hushed but urgent.

“You what?”

Ominis didn’t flinch. He simply leaned in and repeated in a low whisper, “I need your help to break into—”

Sebastian cut him off with a sharp hiss. “I heard you the first time! My question is why?! Why me?!”

Ominis was momentarily taken aback—not by the outrage, but by the question.

“Is it not obvious?” he said plainly. “When it comes to sneaking into places we’re not meant to be, you’re the expert.”

Sebastian scowled. “I was caught, remember? No thanks to your girlfriend, who snuck up and Stupefied me—and left me there, out of bounds, past curfew.”

“Fiancée,” Ominis corrected, as if it were just a minor detail.

“What?!”

This time Sebastian’s voice cracked loud enough to turn heads.

The entire class jolted. A few students dropped their wands, one girl’s half-transfigured rook let out a confused chirp before rolling off her desk.

And then came the voice—booming, unimpressed, unmistakable.

“Mr Sallow!” Professor Weasley barked from the front of the room.

Sebastian flinched, realising his blunder just as Professor Weasley stormed over to their table.

“Is there anything you’d like to share with the class, Mr Sallow?” she asked, voice sharp enough to cut through stone.

“N-no, Professor,” Sebastian stammered. “I’m sorry for the disruption.”

“This is a warning,” she said sternly. “One more outburst and it’s detention. And twenty points from Slytherin—for the disruption.”

With a final disapproving glance, she turned on her heel and strode off toward a group of Ravenclaws whose rook was steadily melting into their inkwell.

Sebastian let out a groan, slumping back in his chair. “Brilliant. Way to get me in trouble. You two are a match made in heaven.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Ominis said, tone annoyingly smug.

“Fiancée?” Sebastian hissed under his breath, trying to recover from the public scolding. “Where did that come from? When? How? I feel like I’ve missed an entire semester.”

Ominis sighed, already weary of explaining. “I’ll tell you later. Right now—will you help me, or not?”

Sebastian folded his arms, still frowning. “Why do you even need to sneak into the Restricted Section? You’re practically on the Headmaster’s Christmas list. Just flash the Gaunt name and be done with it.”

Ominis scoffed under his breath. “Unfortunately, the Headmaster’s goodwill won’t be of much use for what I’m looking into. And the subject matter is… private.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed slightly, the familiar spark of curiosity now glinting behind them.

“Private?” he repeated, then leaned in just a fraction. “That’s suspicious.”

“It’s not something I can explain here, Sebastian,” Ominis said, doing his best to sound firm while looking visibly conflicted.

Sebastian frowned. “Ominis, I need you to be much more forthcoming than that if I’m risking detention for you.”

Ominis bit his lip, unsure of how to explain something he barely understood himself. “Well… let’s just say it has something to do with Salazar Slytherin—and I might be cursed by one of his artefacts.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened, the spark of another outburst already forming—but Ominis, sensing it, promptly elbowed him in the ribs before he could speak.

Sebastian let out a muffled yelp, clutching his side.

Professor Weasley glanced over sharply, eyes narrowing.

Sebastian forced a sheepish grin and immediately pretended to focus on his chess piece. The Professor eyed him for a moment longer, then turned her attention elsewhere.

“Right in the ribs, Ominis…,” Sebastian muttered, rubbing the spot.

“Sorry. You were about to get yourself dragged into detention—and I need you before that happens,” Ominis replied dryly.

“Wow,” Sebastian said, deadpan. “I feel so loved.”

But the sarcasm faded as his curiosity took over.

“So what you’re saying is… this has something to do with Salazar Slytherin himself?” he whispered. “Then the Forbidden Section won’t do you any good.”

Ominis’s heart sank. “Are you certain?”

Sebastian nodded. “Definitely. Ominis, most of the books in the Restricted Section are dangerous because they can physically harm us—not necessarily because of the depth of their content. Sure, there are the occasional volumes on the Dark Arts, but it’s mostly rudimentary stuff. Surface-level.”

Ominis slumped slightly, shoulders tense with frustration, the faint hope he’d been clinging to slipping from his grasp.

Sebastian glanced over and muttered, almost as an afterthought, “There’s the Scriptorium, though.”

Ominis immediately whipped his head toward him, eyes narrowing. “No. I will not go back there. Ever again.”

Sebastian raised his hands in mock surrender. “Well, you were the one asking about Salazar Slytherin. I gave you the logical answer.”

Ominis fell silent.

His mind churned, recoiling from the very thought. The Scriptorium—those cursed, suffocating corridors steeped in Salazar Slytherin’s twisted ideals. The place where his aunt had died… and where Theowen had screamed.

His fists clenched in his lap.

He had promised himself—never again. That he’d never set foot in that wretched place, never breathe in the same air that once demanded a price so cruel just to pass through its doors.

And yet…

He could feel the weight of the bracelet pressing coldly against his skin. Like it knew.

Then Sebastian, ever tone-deaf in moments that mattered, leaned closer and muttered, “All his lifetime research papers are there, if you ask me. Better that than risking detention in the Restricted Section for nothing. Besides, we already unlocked the direct entrance, so we don’t have to… you know… Crucio anybody else.”

The name—that spell—hit like a blade.

Ominis’s jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk.

“That wasn’t funny, Sebastian,” he said quietly.

Sebastian blinked, the grin falling from his face as he realised his mistake.

“I didn’t mean—”

Ominis exhaled slowly, cooling the fire behind his words. “I know. Water under the bridge.”

Sebastian said nothing more, falling into silence as he turned his focus back to his half-finished Transfiguration task, clearly deciding not to push his luck any further.

Ominis, meanwhile, remained still—wand untouched, raven unmoving on his shoulder—as a darker thought gnawed at the edge of his mind.

Since when have I become so easily angered?

He hadn’t raised his voice like that in years. But lately… the smallest things sent his blood rushing, his thoughts spiralling. His restraint—once his pride—now slipped through his fingers like water.

He glanced down at the bracelet, its cold presence pressing tightly against his wrist.

Could it be the artefact?

Is it already changing me from the inside out?

Ominis stared down at his desk, weighing the silence like a scale.

Then, at last, he muttered, “I can’t believe I’m saying this… but you’re right, Sebastian.”

Sebastian glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Am I?” he asked, before quickly clearing his throat and correcting himself with mock confidence. “I mean—of course I am.”

Ominis’s head tilted slightly, suspicion creeping across his face.

“Sebastian…” he said slowly, “you’re not still dabbling in the Dark Arts, are you?”

Sebastian blinked, startled by the sudden question. But he met Ominis’s unseen gaze and shook his head firmly, voice low and sincere.

“No. I swear—I haven’t touched it. Not since Anne was cured.”

Ominis let out a quiet breath, something between relief and weariness loosening his shoulders.

“Good.”

Ominis could feel it—the subtle shift in Sebastian’s mood. That barely-contained energy. He was practically buzzing, clearly excited at the prospect of returning to the Scriptorium—though this time, they’d be searching for answers, not unlocking ancient cruelty.

“So…” Sebastian began, voice low with curiosity, “what exactly is this thing that cursed you?”

Ominis hesitated, caught off guard. He wasn’t entirely sure how to answer—he didn’t understand it himself, not fully.

Thankfully, before he had to find the words, Professor Weasley’s voice rang out across the classroom.

“All right, that’ll be all for today. Class is dismissed!”

Chairs scraped. Ink bottles clinked shut. The usual flurry of post-lesson movement filled the room as students packed their bags with all the urgency of those eager to squeeze what little free time they had before their next class.

Ominis used the moment to his advantage, hastily gathering his things.

“Sorry, Sebastian,” he said quickly, slipping his books into his bag. “I’ve got to get to next period. I’ll see you tonight.”

Without waiting for a response, he rose and blended into the crowd of departing students, his robes sweeping behind him.

As he reached the doorway, he almost let out a quiet chuckle when he heard Sebastian’s unmistakable voice behind him.

“Oh, come on—you can’t just drop a curse bomb and leave!”

Ominis kept walking, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

The dungeon corridor was unusually still.

Lit only by the low flicker of enchanted torches mounted along the rough stone walls, the narrow hallway that ran beneath the Slytherin common room felt colder at night—quieter too. The sort of silence that had weight to it, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Ominis stood just past the familiar curve of the corridor, near the section where the stone snaked into serpentine engravings—easily overlooked by students too hurried or disinterested to notice. But to him, the wall might as well have been a scar on the castle itself.

So close to the common room. Too close.

He’d lived most of his life pacing past this corridor, never realising what hid behind it. It almost felt absurd—how the entrance to one of the most dangerous secrets of the school lay practically next door to Slytherin’s hearth. But of course, Salazar would have wanted it that way. Accessible only to his own, veiled just enough for only the worthy to find it.

It made sneaking out easier, at least.

Ominis shifted his weight slightly, gloved fingers brushing the cool stone at his side. The bracelet on his wrist sat heavy beneath the fabric of his sleeve, its presence like a second pulse against his skin.

He was early.

He didn’t mind. He preferred the solitude, especially here.

Still, his nerves were sharper than he’d admit—even to himself.

Hurry up, Sebastian, he thought. The longer I stand here, the more this place tries to talk me out of it.

Just then, a sharp whisper jolted Ominis from his thoughts.

“Ominis!”

His grip tightened around his wand, instincts flaring, until he sensed Sebastian’s familiar magical signature approaching down the corridor.

Ominis frowned, turning his head toward him with a disapproving scowl. “Where have you been? Any longer and the Prefects would’ve found me out!”

Sebastian let out a quiet sigh. “Relax, you worrywart. I had to make preparations first.”

Ominis arched a brow. “What sort of preparations?”

Sebastian, utterly unfazed, replied matter-of-factly, “Bribing our roommates not to rat us out.”

Ominis blinked. “You—what?”

“No loose ends, remember?” Sebastian said, grinning slightly as he adjusted the collar of his cloak.

Ominis sighed through his nose, the weight of the situation pressing back down on him. Rule-breaking wasn’t foreign to him in theory—but in practice, it felt far too messy, far too exposed. He had never needed to sneak around before.

Until now.

“Right,” he muttered. “No loose ends.”

“After you,” Sebastian said, gesturing with a slight bow of mock chivalry.

Ominis didn’t return the smile. Instead, he took a slow, steadying breath as he stepped toward the hidden door masquerading as an ordinary stretch of stone wall.

How ironic, he thought.

The last time he was here, it had been to stop Sebastian from falling deeper into the Dark Arts. Now it was he who sought the darkness—drawn not by temptation, but by necessity. By fear. By a need for answers no ordinary library could provide.

He pressed his hand to the stone, whispering the command in Parseltongue.

The wall shifted, groaning as it peeled back to reveal the familiar spiral staircase leading into the dark. A breath of cold, stale air rolled upward from the depths.

Then he heard it.

Whispers.

Not imagined, not memory—but real. Low and serpentine, spoken in a tongue only he could understand.

“Welcome back, Heir of Slytherin.”

The words slithered along the edges of his mind, unmistakably deliberate. A greeting. An invocation.

And for the first time since setting foot in the corridor, a shiver crept down Ominis’s spine.

Instead of the old trials, all the gates and doors that had once barred them were now open. Welcoming, almost. As if the chamber itself had been waiting.

Ominis felt the unease crawl beneath his skin. This time, it wasn’t just his own. He could sense Sebastian’s too—heavy, bitter, laced with guilt. It swelled as they approached the accursed door—the one that had once demanded pain as passage.

The Crucio door.

Ominis swallowed hard. His wand trembled faintly in his hand as it guided his awareness forward, casting an echo of the chamber into his mind. He saw it clearly: the spot where his aunt’s remains had once been found, where stone met sacrifice.

Beside him, Sebastian had gone quiet. Too quiet. Ominis could feel his friend’s gaze locked on the same point—the very place he had cursed Theowen.

The weight of it all hung heavy between them.

He was about to ask whether they should go on—when the door stirred.

The woman’s screaming face—forever frozen in anguished stone—slid upward with a grating scrape, revealing the entrance to the Scriptorium.

The chamber beyond breathed out a wave of air cold enough to sting the lungs. The scent of mildew, damp parchment, and old, long-burned candles clung to the stone like rot.

Inside, the Scriptorium stretched out in solemn grandeur—an octagonal chamber etched with massive serpentine carvings that coiled from floor to ceiling, their emerald eyes faintly aglow. The walls were covered in darkened inscriptions, some of them half-eroded by time, others glowing faintly in a sickly green light as if resisting the centuries.

Pillars carved to resemble entwined snakes spiraled upward to a vaulted ceiling so high it vanished into shadow. From above, droplets of condensation fell intermittently into the cracked flagstone below, echoing like whispers

There was a pulpit at the far end—an altar-like structure shaped from black marble, worn smooth by age and reverence. Behind it loomed a towering statue of Salazar Slytherin, arms crossed, wand in hand, his expression stern and calculating. Dust clung to the folds of his robes, as though even time itself was afraid to brush him clean.

Everything about the space felt ancient. Reverent. Watching.

“Well… we’ve returned,” Sebastian said, voice quiet and awkward as he eyed the chamber, then his friend, unsure how to proceed.

Ominis gave a curt nod, jaw tight. “I’ll start at the desk. You go through the shelves. I don’t want to stay here longer than necessary.”

Sebastian’s posture straightened, the levity fading from his voice. “Understood.”

Ominis was just about to turn toward the desk when Sebastian spoke again.

“Although…”

Ominis stopped and turned with a sigh, already impatient. “Yes?”

“You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to be looking for,” Sebastian replied, his voice carrying a note of frustration now. “Who knows how many cursed objects Salazar experimented with during his life?”

Ominis paused, then let out another sigh—this one heavier, acknowledging the truth. Sebastian was right. If he was going to be of any use, he needed to know what they were truly dealing with.

Wordlessly, Ominis reached for the cuff of his sleeve. He unfastened the button and slowly rolled it back, revealing the artefact.

Obsidian black. A metallic serpent coiled tightly around his wrist, its body crafted with such fine precision it seemed to shift in the light, as though it were alive. Its head rested near the inside of his wrist, fangs slightly bared, unmoving but unmistakably sentient.

“This,” Ominis said simply, “is what we’re looking for.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened as he stepped closer, inspecting the bracelet with a mixture of awe and caution. He leaned in slightly, his brow furrowed as he examined the details, careful not to touch it.

“Merlin… definitely something Salazar Slytherin would craft,” he murmured. “It looks like it’s watching you.”

Ominis didn’t reply.

Because sometimes, in the stillness, he wondered if it was.

They parted ways without another word.

Ominis made his way toward the central desk near the pulpit—its surface layered with brittle scrolls and crumbling tomes half-consumed by age and dust. His fingers brushed carefully across the pages, his wand guiding him as he read by touch and magical trace, searching for any hint—any clue—that might match the obsidian serpent on his wrist.

Sebastian disappeared into the arched alcoves lining the outer chamber, moving from shelf to shelf, his wand tip glowing faintly as he sifted through parchments bound in serpent-hide and mouldering books sealed with wax that flaked away at the slightest touch.

Time passed. Minutes folded into hours.

The once-stale air grew heavier, weighed down by the dust they stirred and the cold that seemed to seep deeper the longer they remained. Even the ever-watchful statue of Salazar Slytherin loomed darker, as if growing tired of their presence.

“Nothing,” Sebastian muttered as he emerged from a side alcove, shaking a few flakes of parchment from his cloak. “Every page I’ve found is either a riddle or completely unrelated—rituals, blood magic, snake venom studies, breeding diagrams—”

“Nothing here either,” Ominis said sharply, closing another scroll with a snap. His patience was thinning, his jaw clenched. “We’ve wasted hours.”

They reconvened at the foot of the black marble podium, now littered with discarded notes and hollow silence. Ominis stared at the raised platform, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“This is pointless,” he muttered.

Sebastian shifted beside him, running a hand through his hair.

“So… what do we do now?” he asked, genuinely at a loss.

Ominis grit his teeth, breath catching.

“Bollocks!” he snapped, the word sharp and bitter—and in the same motion, he slammed his wrist—the bracelet—against the podium’s surface with a sharp clack of metal on stone.

At first, nothing.

Then the serpent stirred.  

With a sudden, fluid motion, the obsidian bracelet uncoiled from his wrist like a living thing, slithering across the cold stone. Its body glinted with an eerie shimmer as it curved upward toward the centre of the pulpit, settling itself into a carved indentation neither of them had noticed before.

A faint hiss echoed through the chamber.

Then, with a soft pulse of green light, something shimmered into existence.

A book.

Its cover was bound in deep, dark leather, almost black but threaded through with faint green veins, as if alive with ancient magic. There was no title—just a sigil pressed into the centre: a serpent biting its own tail.

A diary.

Sebastian took a cautious step forward, brows raised. “Well… that’s new.”

Ominis stared at it in silence, his wrist tingling where the bracelet had once been. The pulpit had answered not to their wands or words—but to the artefact.

To him.

Noticing that the serpent had uncoiled from his wrist, Ominis instinctively stepped back—only to feel the strength drain from his legs.

His knees buckled, dizziness washing over him like a crashing tide.

He tumbled backward, caught just in time by Sebastian.

“Ominis! Are you all right?” Sebastian’s voice cracked with alarm.

Ominis winced, ears ringing violently. In that moment of disorientation, his father’s words echoed in his mind—cold and certain:

Parting with the artefact could cost you your life.

“Help me up, Sebastian,” he said hoarsely.

Without hesitation, Sebastian gripped him beneath the arms and guided him back to the pulpit. The moment Ominis’s hands met the cold stone, the ringing stopped.

The dizziness faded. The pain vanished.

As if it had never been there at all.

Sebastian stared at him, wide-eyed. “Ominis… this is dangerous. Maybe we should leave it alone.”

It was almost amusing—Sebastian Sallow, urging caution. The boy who once tore through boundaries in his pursuit of forbidden magic now hesitated. How far they had come.

Ominis nearly smirked, already preparing a biting retort—until a voice hissed softly through the chamber.

Sibilant. Ancient. Familiar.

A whisper in Parseltongue.

“What dost thou seek to remember?”

Ominis felt a shiver crawl down his spine, freezing him where he stood. Just how many sentient artefacts had Salazar Slytherin created? How many pieces of the man’s will still lingered, buried beneath Hogwarts?

Sebastian, noticing the shift in his friend’s posture, stepped in and gave him a gentle shake. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Ominis swallowed thickly. “I-It spoke to me.”

Sebastian’s eyes darted between Ominis and the diary. “What? The book?”

Ominis nodded once.

Sebastian stared, a little more wary now—but still curious. “Well, what did it say?”

“It asked what memory I wished to remember,” Ominis replied, still shaken.

Sebastian raised a brow. “And you didn’t immediately ask about the cursed bracelet? Merlin’s sake, Ominis—ask it!”

Ominis nearly groaned. “Your curiosity is going to be the death of us.”

But he had no better option—and part of him wanted to know too.

He stepped closer to the pulsing book, its surface alive with slow, flickering veins of green and silver. Leaning forward, he hissed the words in Parseltongue:

“The memory of the serpent bracelet… obsidian, coiled… bound to me.”

The diary shivered.

Its cover rippled like water, and then the serpent emblem on its front began to glow with a deep, unnatural green. A voice issued from within—low, cold, regal. As though carved from stone and memory:

“The Vipera Vinculum. Thy wish is mine to obey.”

The moment the words were spoken, the serpent sigil on the diary glowed a searing green.

Then—without warning—the obsidian serpent slithered off the pulpit and across the stone like a living shadow. Ominis flinched, staggering back as it darted toward him. Before he could react, the serpent coiled itself back around his wrist, its metallic body tightening with eerie precision until it resumed its original position.

It was like being shackled by something sentient. Something watching.

Ominis’s breath hitched. The cold of the bracelet sank deeper this time, as though it had fed on something.

Then, with a low crackle of magic, the diary on the pulpit began to shift.

Its pages curled inward like leaves caught in wind, folding into themselves as the cover thickened and darkened, transfiguring before their eyes. The leather tightened, stiffened, shimmered—until the book was no longer a book at all.

In its place sat an ornate crystal vial, nestled in silver filigree. Green light pulsed softly from within, swirling like smoke inside the glass. Ancient runes shimmered across the silver frame, faint and indecipherable.

“What in Merlin’s name…” Sebastian whispered, stepping closer.

Then the ground beneath them rumbled.

Just for a second—but long enough for dust to drift from the high ceiling and the air to go still. 

With a loud, mechanical click, the tiled floor before the pulpit shifted—stone plates pulling back and rotating in a perfect, precise pattern. From the centre, a circular basin rose, carved with interlocking serpents and glowing with faint green veins.

A Pensieve.

Old. Impossibly old.

And waiting.

Ominis stood frozen, heart hammering in his chest as his gaze flicked between the glowing vial and the Pensieve rising before him. The vibrations from the shifting floor still lingered in the air, making the stone beneath his boots feel alive—watching.

He could feel the serpent coiled around his wrist, its metallic body unnaturally still, as though it too were waiting.

The Pensieve hummed softly.

Its eerie green glow pulsed like a heartbeat, a silent promise of long-buried truths—or worse, of madness cloaked in memory. His hand twitched toward his wand, but the vial held him fast. There was something invitational about the way it shimmered. Beckoning. Demanding.

But what if it was a trap?

What if this was another twisted design of Salazar Slytherin’s—a legacy of pain disguised as revelation?

His pulse quickened. Every instinct screamed at him to not move, to not trust what he couldn’t see. And yet… this was why he’d come. This was the path.

Still, he hesitated.

“What are you waiting for?” Sebastian groaned beside him. “We’ve been at this all night. We tear the place apart, come up empty, and now—now—it serves us a shiny, ancient memory like a juicy steak on a platter… and you’re not going to take it?”

Ominis’s voice was sharp. “It could be a trap.”

Sebastian sighed—long, tired, and dramatic. “Ominis… I have an early lecture with Professor Binns tomorrow. If I have to sit through thirty minutes of him talking about goblin uprisings with no sleep, I swear I’ll curse you.”

He pointed at the Pensieve. “So for Merlin’s sake, just look into the bloody thing. No offense.”

Ominis sighed, the sound heavy with resignation.

He stepped toward the Pensieve, the decorated vial cradled carefully in his hand. The swirling contents inside pulsed once, casting his face in a soft green glow. With a steady hand, he unstoppered the vial and poured its glowing memory into the basin.

The liquid met the silvery surface with a quiet shimmer, swirling outward in spirals of light until the entire Pensieve began to glow brighter—deeper.

Sebastian was already moving, stepping to the opposite side of the basin, eyes locked on the surface.

Without another word, the two boys leaned forward—and together, they plunged into the memory.

The stone chamber vanished.

The weight of the present fell away.

And at last, they saw him—one of the great four, a legend turned flesh before their eyes.

Salazar Slytherin.