Chapter Text
୨⎯⎯୧
The Lestrange Château was a monument to old money, to traditions, to darker deeds. It was a far cry from a home. Angelina had once told Ominis she spent a summer here, alone as a child, as punishment for some disobedience she wouldn’t specify, her voice trailing off into a pained silence.
The ocean wasn’t far. Ominis could almost feel the salt in the air that drifted through the cracks, the way it stung the skin. Beyond that ocean, in the middle of all that cold, unforgiving water, stood Azkaban. The thought of it sent a shiver through him. He tried not to think of Sebastian, not to imagine him in that dreadful place, but the idea had a way of creeping back into his mind.
After all, it was Ominis who had placed him there.
They were all gathered in one of the many meeting rooms, this one in particular filled with the scent of aged wood, rich leather, and something else Ominis couldn’t quite place—something like damp earth after a heavy rain or the faintest trace of iron. It clung to the back of his throat, made the air feel thick and suffocating.
“Gaunt, you know as well as I do that we need to settle the marriage first,” Fenwick said, his voice as cold as the draughts that haunted the Château’s endless corridors. “Angelina and Ominis must formalise their union before we proceed with any… business.”
There was a pause, a stretch of silence that made Ominis’s heart pound in his chest. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, sharp and assessing, as if he were some commodity to be bartered.
“I agree, Fenwick,” his father finally said, the smoke from his cigar curling through the air, acrid and invasive. “But I need my son to accomplish a certain task first. He’s yet to fully prove his loyalty to our family. It’s tradition, after all. Surely you wouldn’t want your daughter to marry someone… incompetent.”
Ominis stiffened at the word, his fingers twitching around the wand he held too tightly in his hand. He felt like a pawn, a piece to be moved across a chessboard at the whims of others. The sense of control he had fought so hard to maintain was slipping through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Fenwick rose from his chair, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor as he began to pace. “And here I was, under the impression that Ominis bore his name with pride.”
“He does,” his father replied, though Ominis could sense the tension behind his words. “But my teachings are not yet complete. That’s where you come in, Fenwick. If the wedding must be delayed, so be it. But I assure you,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “that object you’re so interested in—will be within your grasp.”
Fenwick halted his pacing. "That’s impossible. I’ve exhausted every resource at my disposal trying to locate that wretched thing, and I’ve failed at every turn."
"I suspect I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you about my plans, Fenwick.”
Fenwick began to stammer a response, but Ominis' father cut him off before he could gather his thoughts.
“My son Ominis will heal Sallow and restore him to full strength once he's been extracted from Azkaban.”
Fenwick's tone sharpened as he asked, "Sallow? You mean young Sebastian Sallow, the boy in Azkaban?”
"I wouldn't exactly call him a young boy anymore." Ominis’ father took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the question hang in the air before answering. “He is a rare find. At just fifteen, he mastered every forbidden spell there is. He cast the Imperius Curse on Ominis. He has used every one of those curses willingly and more. He performed the Killing Curse seamlessly—on his own uncle, no less, in a misguided attempt to save his sister. The sister didn’t survive, but that’s beside the point. He holds everything we need—knowledge, power, a connection to dark magic, much like our own. But I know he won’t give it up willingly. That’s where the re-education comes in—the camps Marvolo oversees. We will heal him, then we will make him pliable. And once we’ve extracted what we need, he’ll be the sacrifice that unlocks everything we desire.”
Ominis felt sick. The room swayed, the edges of reality blurring as his father’s words sank in. He had known his family was ruthless, but this—this was something else entirely. It wasn’t just cruelty; it was calculated, deliberate evil.
“He’s to be a sacrifice?” Fenwick’s voice was a mix of intrigue and revulsion.
"Must I remind you," his father scoffed. "Sallow has nothing left to lose. Anything is better than Azkaban. The Dementors want to finish him off, but they can't. They'll make sure he suffers every moment of his existence. And that existence will be long. I have the power to see to that. But with me, he's got a few choices. Even if one of those choices involves a sacrifice.”
"Does Sallow know—?"
"He knows precisely what he needs to know. No more, no less. And he’s made it clear, in his own way, that this is what he wants."
Ominis felt like he was drowning, each word from his father pushing him further under the surface. He had spent years trying to atone for his family’s sins, trying to carve out some semblance of a life that wasn’t tainted by their darkness. But now, that darkness was pulling him back in, threatening to consume everything he had fought for.
“What do you say, Fenwick?” his father asked, his tone almost jovial, as if they were discussing a simple business transaction. “Will you lend us the Château for this little endeavour? It’s secluded, private. The perfect place to keep Sallow until we’re ready.”
“Gaunt, your plans are always… ambitious," Fenwick said. “But hiding someone like Sallow here? It's a risk."
"A necessary risk, Fenwick. The chateau is perfect. Isolated, secure. Once he's better, he’ll be moved. You have my word."
“And the marriage?”
“The marriage will take place—I’ll see to that personally. If it doesn’t, then you’ll have every reason to hold me accountable. We certainly wouldn't want our unfortunate children to miss out on a fortunate life, would we?"
୨⎯⎯୧
The rain was barely a mist, just a whisper of moisture in the air. Angelina held her wand above them, charmed to shield them from the droplets, her other hand clung to Ominis’s arm.
"You've got something on your mind, haven't you?" Her voice was a thread, fraying at the edges, like she was afraid the question itself might unravel something she wasn’t ready to face.
Ominis hesitated. The dampness in the air clung to him, settling into his bones, chilling him in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. It was that familiar weight, pressing down on him, the kind that made every word feel like a burden. He shifted, the gravel underfoot crunching.
“The wedding,” he began, his voice catching, "has been delayed. It won’t be next month as your father intended. My father… somehow managed to persuade him to agree."
“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Her attempt at lightness fell flat, the words hanging in the air, awkward and out of place.
“I— I’m not sure.”
There was a thick silence, and Ominis could feel her gaze on him, searching for something she wasn’t certain she wanted to find.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her tone more tentative now. “Is there a reason— oh, I see. That’s what you meant. Sorry.”
“Your father,” he said, feeling his way through the conversation like he was navigating a minefield, “mentioned an object he’s trying to get back. Do you have any idea what it might be?”
“An object?” She echoed, her voice wavering, trailing off into uncertainty. He could sense her retreating, pulling away, not physically, but emotionally, putting up walls he couldn’t see but could feel nonetheless. “No, I don’t… not necessarily…”
The words were a lie; he could hear it in the hitch of her breath, the falter in her voice as she stumbled through the sentence.
He stopped walking, turning towards her. He reached out, his hand finding her chin, lifting it gently. “I know it’s painful to talk about your past, and I’m sorry for bringing it up. I truly am. But I need your help. I need to know what object they were discussing.”
When she remained silent, Ominis leaned in closer, resting his forehead against hers, and whispered, “Please.”
“It’s a Soulbind, the object. A music box,” Angelina began, her voice so soft it seemed ready to be swept away by the wind. "My mother was the only one who could unlock its magic. But after she died, my father… he became obsessed with its power. He tried to open it, but he couldn’t. I… I had watched my mother, heard her recite the incantation. So he forced me. I didn’t want to, but he made me.”
Ominis could feel her pain, her fear, the way it still haunted her, lingering in the spaces between her breaths.
“But when I said the words, something went wrong. The magic twisted, like it was fighting back. The air around us grew heavy, and suddenly, there was a blinding light. Then, flames—wild, uncontrollable—erupted from the music box, consuming everything. The fire lashed out like it had a mind of its own. I tried to stop it, to undo what I had done, but it was too late. It surged through the room, and I could feel it searing my skin, marking me. "That’s the truth… the entire story of how I ended up with these scars."
Ominis’ grip on her arm tightened slightly, an unconscious attempt to offer some semblance of comfort. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words hollow, but all he had to offer. “Do you think your mother’s soul is…?”
She nodded, a faint tremor running through her. “Trapped, yes. That’s why my father wants it back.”
“What happened to it? Why… why isn’t it with him?”
Angelina shook her head, her silence more profound than the rain, which had begun to fall harder, the sound of it echoing the growing weight between them.
Ominis reached for her hand, his own trembling slightly. “Angelina, please. They’re planning to sacrifice Sebastian and other—other things my father has planned. Horrible things. Things I don’t even fully understand.”
Her breath caught for a moment. “Sacrifice?”
"Yes," he whispered. The corners of his eyes stung. "And I think… I think Sebastian knows. He wants to do it. Anything to get out of Azkaban. He’s desperate to escape. Knowing that he’s willing to do anything, it just… it makes me realise how unbearable it must be in there, and—" His voice faltered, unable to finish.
Angelina pulled away, her hand slipping from his grasp. She walked a few steps ahead, the rain now pouring freely over her. Ominis stood rooted in place, the cold droplets beginning to soak through his clothes. He didn’t bother to summon his wand to shield himself. He simply waited.
When she returned, there was something different in the air around her. She stopped before him, something delicate brushing against his chest. A rose, he realised, by the faint scent that reached him.
“Red,” she said softly, gently tucking it into his front pocket. "It suits you. Red… it’s the colour of love."
Ominis brushed his fingers over the petals, feeling their softness, their coolness against his skin.
"I traded the music box for these,” she said, her voice distant, as if she were speaking from a long-forgotten memory. “I was just a child. The thought of my father possessing the music box, of him unleashing its magic, was unbearable. And I certainly didn’t want it, not after what it did to me. So I got rid of it. Sold it. I never mentioned its magic. In return, the kind lady gave me some seeds. They grew into these roses. They reminded me of my mother.”
"This is why you spent that summer here, all on your own. Because he punished you for it?" Ominis asked, trying to piece together the fragments.
She was silent for a moment, then finally murmured, "I'm sorry. I wish I could help, tell you where the music box is. But it was cursed, and I was so terrified."
"Don’t apologise. I will figure it out.” He pulled her into a hug. She was cold, shivering. “I would have done exactly the same."
୨⎯⎯୧
The Ministry buzzed with the hive of footsteps, the flutter of parchment, the low hum of distant conversations. The corridors twisted and turned, each step deeper inviting more scrutiny, eyes lingering just a moment too long.
Ominis paused outside the imposing oak door, taking a deep breath. He knew this would not be easy. The officials within this department were notorious for their rigid adherence to protocol, their lack of leniency, and their absence of compassion, especially regarding matters involving Azkaban. The air felt heavier here, and the oppressive silence seemed to echo the weight of the decisions made behind these walls.
He knocked.
“Enter,” came a curt voice from within.
Ominis pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was filled with the scent of old parchment and ink. He could hear the scratch of quills against parchment, the occasional murmur of conversation between the officials.
“May I help you?” The voice belonged to a stern-sounding witch behind a large desk. Her tone was cold, and Ominis could sense the scepticism in her words.
“Yes, good morning,” Ominis began. “I’m here to inquire about contacting a prisoner in Azkaban.”
There was a brief silence, followed by a rustle of papers. “And who might you be inquiring about?”
“Sebastian Sallow.”
There was a pause, the kind that stretched just a moment too long. “And what is your relationship to the prisoner?”
“A friend,” Ominis said, the word feeling both inadequate and loaded with memories. “I need to ensure his… well-being.”
The witch’s quill scratched against the parchment again. “Azkaban prisoners are not typically granted visitors, Mr...?”
“Gaunt. Ominis Gaunt.”
“Galadriel Gaunt’s son?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Mr Gaunt, the protocols for contacting Azkaban prisoners are strict. Exceptions are rarely made. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
Ominis took a measured breath. “I have reason to believe that Sebastian is in grave danger, beyond the usual conditions of Azkaban. I need to speak with him to confirm his safety.”
The room fell silent. He could hear the rustle of the witch’s robes as she shifted in her seat, the sound of her quill tapping against the desk.
“Mr Gaunt, you must understand the gravity of such an accusation. Azkaban is heavily regulated, and any claims of mistreatment are taken very seriously. Do you have evidence to support your concerns?”
Ominis felt a pang of frustration. “I have reason to believe that Sebastian Sallow is being targeted unfairly. I’ve heard things... things about his treatment.”
There was yet another long silence, filled only by the distant sounds of the bustling Ministry. Finally, the witch spoke again, her tone softer, more contemplative. “Mr Gaunt, your father’s contributions to Azkaban are well-known. He provides significant funds to maintain the prison’s operations. To question the treatment of a prisoner under these circumstances... it’s complicated.”
Ominis’ breath caught. “My father… what? He…”
The official clicked her tongue, a sharp sound of impatience. “The Ministry relies on Mr Galadriel Gaunt’s contributions to keep Azkaban functioning. Therefore, challenging his authority could have... consequences. And without his support, the security of Azkaban could be compromised. The Dementors require strict management, and we cannot afford to lose control—”
Someone interrupted, whispering something into the woman’s ear. She paused, then cleared her throat with an air of finality.
"Mr Gaunt,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’m afraid we must conclude this conversation.”
Back in the corridors, it felt as though the walls were closing in on him, stretching out endlessly, twisting in a way that made them seem almost alive. Ominis couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was missing, something critical lurking just out of reach.
The familiar sound of the gears grinding and the lift’s gentle sway of the lift made him feel lightheaded. Suddenly, his wand vibrated subtly, then grew warm—too hot for comfort. He dropped it instinctively, bringing his fingers to his lips, feeling the sting of the sudden heat.
"Sir? Your wand…” came the concerned voice of the elf manoeuvring the lift.
Ominis reached out and took the wand from the elf’s tiny, rough hands, still feeling the residual heat from the malfunction.
“Thank you,” he muttered.
The lift chimed softly as it reached the next floor, and the doors slid open.
“Ah, Merlin’s beard, Ominis Gaunt! It’s been ages, hasn’t it?” A jovial and warm voice greeted him.
“Who are you?” Ominis asked, trying to place the voice.
“It’s me, Talbot Weasley, of course! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already,” the man chuckled, though there was a note of concern. “How’s life as a Healer treating you?”
“Talbot Weasley…” Ominis muttered, running his fingers along his wand. “I’m afraid I don’t recall. I’m rather busy at the moment—”
Talbot Weasly interrupted him with a hearty laugh. “Busy, are you? How do you forget an old advocate who sat with you during Sallow’s trial? You and I had quite the conversation, if you remember.”
Realisation struck Ominis like a jolt. “Ah, yes. Of course, Mr Weasley. My apologies.”
“No worries at all, Mr Gaunt. Now, where are you headed?”
“Well, I was just leaving but—” Ominis cleared his throat. “Actually, Mr Weasley. Is there a place where we could speak in private?”
"Ah, why of course!" Talbot exclaimed in an almost manic enthusiasm.
Following Talbot, Ominis could sense the bustle of people moving past, their clothing occasionally brushing against him as they hurried by. When they arrived at a small room, Talbot eagerly held the door open for him. The air inside was thick and musty, as though the room had been abandoned for some time. The space felt cramped and cluttered, constricting around them.
"Do sit down, dear boy, do sit down," Talbot said, his voice coming from somewhere ahead. Ominis reached out, his fingers brushing against a pile of papers precariously stacked on a chair. He gingerly patted the seat to clear a space before lowering himself into it.
"Tea? Yes, tea! I have some somewhere around here..." Talbot’s voice was accompanied by the sound of drawers opening and closing, objects being moved, and the rustle of paper. A loud crash followed as something fell to the floor and shattered. "Blast it! Confounded thing!" Talbot muttered, the words followed by the swish of a wand and the soft, crackling sound of a repair spell.
“Mr Weasley, I was wondering if you could tell me more about my father’s influence in Azkaban. When did it begin, and how did it come about?”
There was a brief silence before Talbot spoke again, his voice slightly more guarded. "Ah, Azkaban... dreadful place, really. Your father, you say? Influence is such a broad term, don’t you think? Could mean anything from political clout to, I don’t know, controlling the weather on the Isle of Drear. Why ask?”
Ominis sighed, his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of the chair. “Well, Mr Weasley, what if an Azkaban prisoner had contact with an outside source and had allies within the prison? What would happen?”
Talbot Weasley paused, his erratic movements stilled for a moment. "Ah, yes, well, that's a rather tricky situation, isn't it?" he said, his voice slipping into a stream of rapid, almost nonsensical chatter. "Azkaban, such a grim place, you know. Full of Dementors and all sorts of terrible things. One would have to be quite clever to orchestrate such a thing. Quite clever indeed. And as for the logistics, well, there are spells and wards and whatnot. The Ministry, and your father, of course, takes great care to ensure the integrity of the prison."
Ominis could hear the clutter of objects being shifted around as Mr Weasley continued his ramblings. "Allies within the prison, you say? That would require a level of cunning and coordination that's quite extraordinary. Not to mention the risks involved. Azkaban's not exactly a place where people chat over tea, after all. But then again, one can never be too sure. There's always the possibility of corruption, influence, all those sorts of things. Quite the conundrum, really."
“Then, do you think an extraction is actually possible? What would the Ministry do in such a situation?"
Mr Weasley seemed to ponder this for a moment before resuming his frenetic pace. "Well, yes. Hypothetically speaking, of course. As for the Ministry, well, that’s quite obvious, isn’t it? The Ministry would respond with utmost severity. Reinforcements, heightened security, immediate investigations. You see, an extraction from Azkaban isn't just about the prisoner. It's about the very fabric of our magical society. An extraction would signify a breach of trust, a failure of our protective measures. It would be catastrophic, really."
Talbot's voice trailed off, but not before he added absentmindedly, “Your father, though, has always been careful. Even with his experiments on prisoners involving the Dementors and–”
"Cautious? Experiments with prisoners?" Ominis froze. His heart thudded in his chest.
Talbot's words faltered as he realised his mistake. "Oh, Merlin's beard… I, um, that’s highly classified information, you see. I really shouldn’t have said—you were not supposed to hear that."
Ominis leaned forward. "What experiments, Mr Weasley?”
Talbot stood abruptly, knocking over a stack of papers in his haste. "I'm afraid that's all I can say, Mr Gaunt. You must leave now. I have—I have pressing matters to attend to. Yes, very pressing."
"Mr Weasley, please, I need to know—"
"Good day, Mr Gaunt," Talbot interrupted, his voice trembling slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to hide. "I trust you can find your own way out."
"Sebastian," Ominis blurted out, the name leaving his lips before he could second-guess himself. "Sebastian Sallow. He's the prisoner my father wants extracted."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, much to Ominis’ surprise, Talbot began to laugh. The sound started as a low chuckle but quickly escalated into something hysterical, almost maniacal, filling the room with a dissonant echo that unsettled Ominis.
"Oh, Merlin," Talbot gasped between bouts of laughter, his hand coming down heavily on Ominis' shoulder. "What a dreadful jest you've just made."
Ominis stiffened under the weight of Talbot's hand, his unease growing. The laughter wasn’t comforting; it was tinged with something darker, something that made Ominis's stomach twist.
Talbot finally composed himself, though a trace of amusement lingered in his tone. "It was good seeing you, Mr Gaunt," he said, dismissing him as though they had just shared a harmless jest over tea.
But Ominis didn’t move. His mind was reeling, and his heart pounded in his chest. "I know what my father’s planning, and it involves Sebastian. I need to know what you know."
Talbot’s smile faltered, and he took a step back, his fingers drumming nervously against his thigh. "Mr Gaunt, I suggest you forget whatever it is you think you know. For your sake."
Ominis tilted his head, the silence stretching between them like a taut string ready to snap. "I can’t forget," he said quietly. "And neither should you. Help me. Please. Help me help Sebastian."
Talbot’s nervous energy was almost palpable now. "You’re walking a dangerous line, Mr Gaunt. Best you turn back before it’s too late."
"It’s already too late. Sebastian is in danger.”
Talbot stepped closer to Ominis, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "You’re playing with fire, Ominis Gaunt. If you get too close, you’ll burn. There are things happening that you don’t understand, and it’s best to keep it that way."
"If it is about Sebastian, I need to know. He’s… important to me. My father plans to use him, and he’s spoken of a sacrifice."
Talbot's voice softened for the briefest moment, before regaining its steely edge. "Then for your own good, Ominis, walk away. Leave this all behind while you still have the chance. There’s nothing left of Sebastian... not anymore. Surely, you wouldn’t want to waste your efforts trying to heal him."
Ominis stiffened, a cold dread settling in his stomach. "How do you know about that? I never mentioned—"
His words were cut off as he instinctively reached for his wand, but before he could utter a single spell, a sudden, violent crash filled the room. Everything around him seemed to explode at once—books, furniture, glass—all shattering with a deafening roar. He threw his arms up to shield himself, feeling the sharp edges of debris brushing against him.
Panic surged through him as he turned to find the door and burst out of the room. His heart pounded in his chest as he stumbled into the corridor, the sounds of chaos still echoing in his ears. But when he turned back, expecting the wreckage behind him, there was nothing. The room he had just escaped from was gone—vanished, as though it had never existed. And with it, Talbot Weasley had disappeared too.
୨⎯⎯୧
The cold bit at his fingers as he traced the engraved letters on the stone, feeling the grooves of a name that once held so much life.
Ominis stood silently beside the grave, the wind whispering through the trees, carrying with it the scent of frost. He didn’t know why he had brought Angelina here. Perhaps it was because he had no one else. Perhaps it was because he needed to say it aloud, to feel the weight of the words on his tongue.
“She was Sebastian’s sister,” he finally said. “His twin. She… she didn’t deserve what happened to her. It was a curse. A curse that no one could break. Not even him.”
Angelina didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry into the details that hung heavy in the air. She simply stood there, her presence a quiet comfort, her hand resting lightly on his arm. There was a sweetness to her silence, a softness that Ominis had always found both soothing and distant, like a lullaby sung from another room.
He let out a slow breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease just a fraction. “I’m going to do it,” he said. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to.
Angelina turned her head slightly, her breath warm against the cold air. “It’s starting to snow,” she said softly, her voice tinged with something Ominis couldn’t quite place. Was it hope? Resignation? He couldn’t tell.
He nodded, though he couldn’t see the snow, couldn’t feel it yet. But he knew it was there, drifting down to cover the ground, to blanket the world in white. He could almost hear it, the silence that came with it, the way it muffled everything, softened the edges of the world.
୨⎯⎯୧
Sometimes, Ominis dreamt of a boy.
He was a child again, just eleven. They were in a field, the kind that stretched on forever, with grass so soft beneath their feet, the air warm and sweet like the lingering scent of spring. The boy was laughing, his voice clear waters in the quiet, bubbling up like a stream, light and pure.
The boy was throwing petals. Ominis could feel them landing on his skin, soft and delicate, like whispers against his cheeks. He reached out, catching them in his hands, counting each one as if they were something precious. One, two, three... He lost track, but it didn’t matter. The numbers didn’t matter. What mattered was the feeling, the sensation of something so gentle and fleeting, something he could hold onto for just a moment before it slipped away.
“What do you see in the clouds?” he asked the boy. “Describe them to me.”
The boy laughed again, a sound that made Ominis’ heart ache with a longing he couldn’t name. “I see a dragon,” the boy said. “And next to it, a ship. A ship with sails as big as the sky.”
Ominis tried to imagine it, the shapes and forms that the boy described, but all he could see was darkness. All he could feel was the earth beneath him and the petals in his hands. “Tell me more,” he urged.
“There’s a phoenix,” the boy continued, his voice softer now, as if he were speaking a secret. “Rising from the ashes. It’s so beautiful, Ominis. I wish you could see it.”
Ominis’ heart twisted, the ache spreading through his chest. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see the dragon and the ship and the phoenix, to see the world through the boy’s eyes, to share in the wonder and the beauty of it all. But he couldn’t. All he had were the petals in his hands and the boy’s voice, and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
“Keep talking,” Ominis whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, keep talking.”
“Ominis,” the boy whispered until the dream began to fade, dissolving into the hazy light of waking. “Ominis, Ominis, Ominis.”
୨⎯⎯୧
𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕙 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣
“Your arm,” his father said.
Ominis didn’t hesitate, though his heart hammered against his ribs. He extended his arm, the movement automatic, mechanical, like a puppet on strings.
Then, the sharp sting of a blade cut into his flesh. He sucked in a breath, the pain shooting up his arm.
Marvolo insisted on being there.
"He looks as though he's about to faint, Father," he said, with an unsettling hint of fascination. "What if he does? It’ll be quite the spectacle if he does, won’t it?"
Ominis gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay upright, to keep his breathing even. But the blood kept coming, warm and wet against his skin, a steady flow that seemed to draw out more than just the life in his veins.
His mother was present too, silent, but Ominis could sense her gaze, heavy and inscrutable. He wondered if she felt anything at all. Pity, perhaps. Or maybe just the cold satisfaction of seeing him bleed, of watching him squirm, helpless. After all, any affection she held for him was misplaced.
His father’s hand was firm as he pressed something against the wound, a cloth, maybe, to staunch the bleeding.
“It’s done,” his father said, the words final, like a door slamming shut. “You’re bound now.”
Just like that, it was decided. He was going to heal Sebastian. The choice had been made, finalised. The deal was sealed.
He didn’t know how. Didn’t know if he could. The uncertainty gnawed at him like a persistent ache, something deep and hollow that wouldn’t let go, latched onto him like a summer bug. But he had to try. That much he knew.
Sebastian didn’t exactly have a choice.
Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.
He heard the screams echoing in his mind, Sebastian's voice cutting through the silence like a blade–the memory of that night at Hogwarts when they came for him. And Ominis had done nothing. Stood there, useless, powerless, as Sebastian’s world crumbled around him.
He wasn’t sure if he could face Sebastian now. Wasn’t sure if he could bear the weight of that guilt, that regret that had been festering inside him for years. It was all so tangled, so complicated, and the thought of untangling it made his head spin.
He wasn’t sure if Sebastian even wanted to be healed by him. If he knew. Wasn’t sure if Sebastian would even recognise him, if he would understand. But then again, Sebastian didn’t exactly have a choice.
Therefore, he was going to do it. He had to. For Sebastian. For himself. For whatever scraps of humanity he had left.
He was going to heal Sebastian, to free him from his family's clutches, even if it meant tearing himself apart. Even if it meant his own death.
୨⎯⎯୧
The night was colder than it should have been, like it was trying to choke out any hope that dared to linger.
Ominis tightened his grip on his wand, the warmth of the wood against his skin grounding him. The path was already somewhat familiar, but the journey felt like walking through a nightmare, everything twisted and wrong until he reached the door.
The door that led to Sebastian. To whatever awaited him on the other side.
He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle. A ghostly weight pressed down on him, suffocating, but he forced himself to move, to push the door open, to step inside.
The room was oppressively quiet, the sort of silence that thrummed with the echoes of a heart broken too many times, overflowing with words too painful to voice. Ominis felt the dampness in the air, how it clung to his skin, weighed down his chest, made breathing a chore. He sensed Sebastian’s presence—heard the faint rustle of fabric with each ragged breath, felt the warmth radiating from his body.
He sat beside the bed, his hand resting on the rough, coarse blankets that covered Sebastian’s motionless body.
Ominis didn’t need to see the scars to know they were there. He could feel them, like a twisted map carved into the flesh of someone he had once known so intimately. He knew Sebastian had tortured himself, but having him before him now, the reality of it was still a shock that cut deeper than he expected.
Sebastian was feverish, his body burning with an unnatural heat, like a furnace, like the fires that had once burned down his own sense of self. Sebastian’s hand twitched, and then, with a sudden burst of strength, it clamped down on Ominis’s hand, holding it with a grip that was too strong, too desperate.
Ominis froze. The silence was broken by a scream, a guttural sound that seemed to tear through Sebastian’s throat. It wasn’t a scream of fear or pain—it was something deeper, something primal. It was the sound of someone who had been pushed to the edge of sanity and was now clinging to whatever was left.
“Sebastian,” Ominis whispered. “Sebastian, it’s me. It’s Ominis.”
There was no response. Another scream, this one more desperate, more broken. Ominis felt his own breath catch in his throat, a lump forming there, threatening to choke him. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything that would bring Sebastian back, that would make him stop. But the words wouldn’t come. They were lodged somewhere deep inside him, buried under years of guilt, of regret.
Sebastian’s grip tightened, his nails digging into Ominis’s skin, drawing blood. Ominis didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. All he could do was sit there, helpless, as the boy he had once loved screamed and thrashed, lost in a nightmare Ominis couldn’t reach.
“Sebastian,” he whispered again.
Sebastian’s hand finally loosened its grip, falling limp against the bed. The screams subsided into whimpers, then silence. Ominis sat there, his hand still holding Sebastian’s, feeling the warmth of the blood trickling down his fingers. He didn’t know how long he sat there, how long the silence stretched on. Time had lost all meaning.
All he knew was that this was only the beginning.
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