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galaxiasgreen · 14 days ago

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🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-rated, 12.4k]

You threw yourself in a hug, and he didn't know what to do with himself. You'd grown in places he shouldn't have noticed. You smelt good. You felt good. Everything about you – good. He would bottle your essence and drown in it, if he could.

In which, with the betrothal hanging over him, Ominis pushes you away to keep you safe.

Tags: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, pure-blood culture, canon rewrite, book!canon compliant, comas, mild sexual references, secret betrothals, Gift Giving as a love language, recognising her scent, touching, sad pining, Something Blue.

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9. It was Always You

When the tears left him, the first emotion that filled the void was rage.

No matter how many times Ominis tried to stop trembling, reality did not change. He was still hiding in the Ellingboe drawing room, still suffocating beneath people he did not call family, still condemned to a future that no longer felt like his own. He was betrothed. To his cousin. And it had been all planned before tonight, agreed upon by his parents over candlelight and whispers, puppeteering him like a piece on a game board, securing the bloodline's future above all else. A shaken hand had sealed his fate.

You ought to not to bite a hand that feeds you. Mrs Ellingboe's warning from Christmas pierced him sharply, and he seethed, dawning on her meaning too late. The Gaunts were poor now, yes, and the Ellingboes modestly wealthy – but his family possessed something hers did not: Slytherin's rare ability of Parseltongue, and Ominis, being closest to Dorothy's age, was the most ideal candidate for a match.

Foolish boy, not to see this coming. Perhaps he was blind in more than his eyes.

Someone knocked at the door. Ominis sat up, quickly wiped his face.

"I'll be out momentarily."

The door opened anyway.

"Look who's facing the consequences of his own actions."

Ominis snatched his wand, furious. "I don't have the patience to deal with you right now—"

"Then you'd better find it, Gaunt," Peregrine laughed softly. "I may not be able to speak Parseltongue, but I can read you like a first year textbook. I know exactly why you don't want to go through with the match."

He stood, trying not to let the boy rattle him nor err too close to the truth. "Your obsession with me is disconcerting. Flattered as I am, I don't think about you nearly as much as you seem to think about me."

"You give yourself too much credit. Proves you're blind when you fancy yourself that stupid, ugly Hufflepuff over anyone else."

He clutched his wand so tightly it could've snapped, but Peregrine came closer.

"You ought to thank me, actually. You were about to make the worst mistake of your life."

"I assure you, I'm very capable of deciding that for myself."

Peregrine sneered. "Did you know I have an aunt, Gaunt?"

I couldn't give a Doxy's nip about your family. "No."

"When she was twenty-two, she ran away to elope – with a filthy Muggle. Guess what happened to her? Face destroyed from the family tree. No inheritance. Barely enough money to scrape by. All of the important families shun her and their pathetic whelp of a daughter Daphne."

He vaguely recalled a Daphne Lovelace in one of the below years. "What does this have to do with me?"

"What do you think, moonmind? I set up the match."

Ominis couldn't hide his shock. "You?"

"Dorothy is my friend. Only took a little convincing to make her believe you would be ideal. And now that you're as poor as the Stone-Brokes, you have no choice but marriage."

"But why? If you believe I'm a blood traitor, why would you bind your precious friend to me?"

"Because it's a waste," Peregrine snarled. "It's one thing to squander the Malfoy name, but Slytherin's bloodline? You'd turn your back on centuries of legacy for a filthy Mudblood?" He clucked when Ominis raised his wand. "Go on, I dare you. You won't do anything with our parents next door."

Ominis knew he'd been had.

"You're going to marry Dorothy, Gaunt," Peregrine turned back to the door, "in return for keeping your dirty secret. And if you think about doing anything funny, if you think about running away with that silly Mudblood bitch," he grinned, "she'll pay for it."

When he left, Ominis sank back into the chair, too emotionally spent to cry anymore. His body rebelled against the idea, as if such a marriage innately opposed his very being. He could say no. Turn away. Free himself of these restraints that had been cuffed to him his whole life. But what sort of punishment did defiance of this level warrant? Peregrine's aunt may have been cast out, shunned, burnt from the family tree, but the Gaunts were far less forgiving. If he were to refuse Dorothy's hand...

Would they kill him?

That he had to ask himself such a question tore through him anew. They were capable of it, and frankly he suspected they would be more than happy to purge the weak link, the blind runt, from their supposedly magnificent house. If he wouldn't marry and continue the Slytherin bloodline, after all, what use would he have in living?

And then, of course, he had to worry if they would stop at him. Peregrine could tattle regardless of whether Ominis kept up the bargain, and his parents would consider all those who opposed their views as their enemies. Would they go after his friends?

Would they go after you?

No. He couldn't let such a thing happen. He palmed the lingering wetness around his eyes. He would marry Dorothy Ellingboe if he could spare the people he truly loved. There were worse fates than a poor marriage, and Ominis was happy to acquiesce as long as his friends, and you, were safe.

It would be painful. It would be the most painful thing he would ever do. But he would do it. For his friends. For you.

His thoughts turned back to that moment with you on the balcony.

He wished he could take it all back.

So he returned to the dining room, smile plastered on his face. He endured the well-wishes and congratulations, and agreed to a quiet engagement, so Dorothy could make a grandiose announcement at the Fawley Christmas soirée later that year. For now the betrothal was a secret, one that burrowed beneath his skin like maggots, feasting on his decaying insides. It didn't seem to matter what he wanted, how much he pleaded, nor to whom, be it the strings of fate or some higher power. Something, somewhere had already ordained that you and he were the sun and the moon, arcing in different directions, never meant to cross. Never meant to meet at all.

And it seemed pointless anymore to try.

He returned for seventh year without a strategy. On the train up he was reluctantly roped into a compartment with Imelda and Nerida, and eventually Missy. They shared the excitement of their summers, their career plans, their apprenticeships, their worries about the final year workload. But he was quiet, unresponsive to questions. With Missy the most trustworthy of his companions, he should've told her about the betrothal – but it seemed whenever he tried, the words were lodged in his throat, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Speaking it aloud made it real. It scribed it into the chapters of his future, as permanent as ink.

At Hogsmeade station, when he gathered his things to go, Missy tapped his shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"I can see something is bothering you."

"Another time." She seemed to want to argue, but he said, as politely as he could muster, "If I want to tell you, I will."

She didn't persist, but no doubt she didn't let the subject drop, either.

By dinner, he found the parchment in his pocket.

Undercroft, 8pm.

His heart raced. If he struggled to tell Missy the truth, how the hell was he going to tell you?

Still, at 8pm sharp, he was in the Undercroft, waiting. Typically you were late, hauling something scratchy that made clinking sounds. A... basket?

Your voice was suffused with joy. "Hello!"

His heart gave in instantly, but the rational part of him, whatever was left of it, forced him to take a step back. "Gibby, wait—"

"Sorry, sorry, too much? I just missed you. A lot."

"I— missed you too." You'd left him breathless, as you always did.

"And I— well, I brought some wine. You still like wine, right? Of course you do." You reached for the tinkling bottles from the basket. "Connor's more a connaisseur than I am, so I had him choose something that I thought you might like. It's from Italy, Muggle-made, sorry to disappoint your noble and most eminent bloodline—"

Bloodline. The betrothal.

"— but you don't have to drink it. If you don't like it, just say. I won't mind, promise. I tried to like it over summer so I can drink with you, but it was too sour for me, so I can have juice instead, no harm. I thought today we could catch up over a glass, or— or do things that would make both our families blow a gasket."

A blush swept over him. "Gibby—"

"Like— holding hands. Or we could... cuddle. I like cuddling." You laughed suddenly. "Golly, I'm rambling. Sorry. I'm just— nervous. Because— because of what you said. To me. Before we left for summer."

"Wait, please—"

"The curse still affects me, obviously, but it's been over a year now, and my mama said that I should just thrust myself into the action and get back into the swing of things that way. And I-I sort of realised I couldn't keep you waiting. I know you said you would wait, but, you know, it's not really fair on you, when you— when you confessed so sweetly—"

"Gibby," he barked, a command. "Stop."

You cut off as if someone had cast Silencio. He couldn't handle this, handle you.

"I'm sorry... I'm afraid things are different now."

"Different? How do you mean?"

He felt like the worst man in the world.

"I— I don't love you anymore."

You went utterly still.

"What?"

He'd promised never to cause you pain, but the betrothal haunted him. Remember why you're doing this.

This was the easiest way, the best way.

"I said those things in— in a thrall."

"You were bewitched?"

Only by you. "I mean I was being fanciful and silly, and I spoke out of turn."

"You are the last person to say things fanciful and silly, Ominis," you said with an edge. "You're also the last person I know to speak out of turn."

"This time I made a foolish error in judgement. I'm sorry, but— this ends here."

He thought you'd start sobbing. The last time he broke your heart, after all, was in this very place.

Instead you rose up. You closed the gap and grasped his arm.

"You're lying."

"No—"

"You are." He heard the lump in your throat. "You don't tell me you love me and then go back on your word, Ominis Gaunt. What's brought this on? Your family again?"

It's always them. It must've shown in his expression, because your grip softened.

"I can hide it. I know I'm a terrible liar, but I can keep this between us—"

"I'm tired of it," he relented. "I'm tired of hiding you."

"So that's it? I'm not worth it?"

He couldn't say no. It would be another lie.

"I will happily endure all the horrible looks and snide remarks and silly insults for you, because you're worth it to me." You drew yourself ever closer, sealing the gap. "You're tired of hiding? I'm tired of being afraid for myself. I told you I'd never leave you again. I meant it."

You were distractingly close. He had to compose himself before his attentions wandered.

"I won't have you hurt."

"Oh please, I've been cursed. What's the worst they can do after four months of torture?"

"They can and will find worse things. Much worse. A torture curse to them would be child's play."

"And I'm a very competent witch who can fight them off."

"This isn't Defence Against the Dark Arts classes," he snapped. "They could kill you. They would not hesitate."

"I don't fear them, Ominis."

Stubborn, loyal...! "What part of this do you not understand?" he said desperately. "It's death, Gibby! Do you know how much you'd be risking?"

"I can handle whatever they throw at me!"

"But I can't!"

At your abrupt silence, his hands trembled.

"Four months I sat at your bedside, wondering if you were ever going to wake up, and I will not put myself nor you through that again. I will not."

Your breath caught. He could almost swear he felt your heartbeat, too, ramping up a notch.

"I've made up my mind." He took a step back, lengthening the gap between you. "You will not change it."

He turned to the grille, but you called out.

"I will change it, Ominis," you said with fierce determination, enough to make him want. "You spent all of last year making me fall in love with you. So I'm going to return the favour!"

As the lift ascended upwards, he pressed his forehead to the criss-crossed bars. Merlin, if what you said was true, he would not be able to escape. You knew, of course, that even though he claimed he didn't love you anymore, it was a bold-faced lie. That he was already helplessly yours, and it didn't seem possible he could fall any harder.

There'd never been a grand moment of clarity when he realised. It was a build-up, little things upon little things, small flickers of his feelings, gentle nudges towards the turning of his thoughts from fondness to affection. To choose a singular point would be impossible, but even now he remembers the first time he noticed, at the end of third year aboard the Hogwarts Express. As the train approached London, you were scrabbling through your bag to hand him something small and squishy, wrapped in paper.

"What's this?"

"A gift," you said cheerfully.

"What is the occasion?"

"Does it have to be an occasion?" You sank back into the seat opposite, sheepish suddenly. "I can't send you owls over the summer, so... I thought you might like this instead. So you don't forget me."

Rather impossible for forget you, but he unwrapped the package, apprehensive. His brow furrowed as he skimmed the fabric – linen, about a ruler square of it. Unevenly cut, and the hemmed edges were already fraying.

"Is this... a handkerchief?"

"Yes," you said. "You should, erm, feel the corner..."

So he drew his thumb across until he grazed the bump of beads. Seven, in a precise format. Three like an arrow pointing right, and four forming a square.

His breath caught, his heart thumped. "Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

"You made this?"

"Well, the linen I didn't make, obviously." And you were blathering again. "I bought that in Hogsmeade. Cut a little square and did the edges myself. It's... not very good, I know. I'm still learning, and my arm still hurts after the fall. Mama says I'll get better with practice. I tried using magic too, a little Wingardium Leviosa to hem, but, erm, let's just say I poked myself more with the needle than the fabric, so I did the rest by hand."

By hand. This must've taken you a few hours, at least. For a gift with no occasion attached. Just because you wanted to, just because you could. You rendered him so touched that for a long moment, he said nothing, simply drew his thumb across the braille of his initials like it might dissolve at any moment.

His silence was a mistake, in hindsight.

"You don't like it."

"What? No—"

"You probably have fifty million silk handkerchiefs at home that feel like Jesus kissed your skin, so you don't have to keep mine, I just thought of the idea the other day, it's stupid really—"

He reached forwards and grabbed your shoulders, staying your tongue.

"None of my other handkerchiefs have anything monogrammed in a language I can read. This is... very thoughtful of you." Another thump of his heart – how strange. "Thank you."

He heard that smile slowly growing on your face.

"I'm glad."

He'd tucked that little handkerchief into his drawer at home, using it sparingly so the fabric didn't wear. It was more than a gift to him – it was a symbol that your friendship was everlasting. No matter what society dictated, a working-class Muggle-born and a high society pure-blood could find companionship with one another, could earnestly enjoy time spent together. Occasionally over that summer, he pulled it out just to feel those beads again. Just to feel the way he'd felt when you first gave it to him.

Of course, after the incident in the cellar, he pushed it to the back of his drawer and didn't dare to think on it again. But it was there, always. Consistent and refusing to budge.

A little like you.

He made a pact on that first day of seventh year. He didn't like to lose, but that rule had always been flexible with you. No more. He would not bow to your charms, your laugh, your sweetness. He would not let himself succumb, and though you would not either, an impasse was better than the alternative.

When he thinks about it now, he knows he should've told you about the betrothal at once, but what he lacked in self-reflection, he made up in vigilance.

He kept his distance, ignored your attempts to get him alone. Dorothy came to bother him more often, the secret weighing swollen between them. He sated her neediness for company outside her friendship group, showing him off to Peregrine like a new teddy bear, chattily expressing her plans for the future – children, mostly, which made Ominis queasy. He spent as little time in the common room as possible if only to avoid her.

Peregrine, likewise, was more than delighted to take advantage of his blackmail, as Ominis discovered one evening in October, reluctantly heading back towards the common room before curfew.

When he overheard him speaking on the Great Staircase.

With you.

"— know your little secret," he was jeering. "You've got Gaunt lapping at your feet like a starving Puffskein. You and your filthy Muggle blood."

That little maggot. He'd all but promised he wouldn't deign to speak to you if Ominis kept his word. The only thing that stopped him from stepping out, hexing Peregrine into next week... was how utterly unbothered you were.

"Do you have anything new to say, Perry?" You sounded tired, bored. "Because we've done this faff a thousand times before. It's old hat."

Old hat? For once he knew what that meant. What did you mean by that?

The boy hissed. "You know full well it's Peregrine, you common blood wretch—"

"So original."

"— and I know you fancy him too. You don't deserve him. You're a disgusting low breed—"

"Third time this week."

"— who would sully the great Slytherin bloodline, defile it like dirt—"

"Redundant, but good effort—"

"Shut up!" And he hoicked and spat. "You're a stupid Mudblood and you're lower class than my saliva on your shoe."

But you were icy cool in your composure.

"If you say that word again," you said, "I'll hex you."

Peregrine laughed. "You won't. Hufflepuffs have no spines, and my father is friends with the headmaster, and he doesn't care about the sad, wimpy woes of Mudbloods like—"

"Oscausi!"

He made a garbled noise before— nothing. His feet stomped, his hands banged against the bannister in fists, but he couldn't say a word.

"Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Oh wait, you can't. You have no mouth."

You left him there, raging, and Ominis caught up to you on the basement stairs. He shouldn't have talked to you – not with Peregrine was so close, not with you meddling with his feelings – but he needed to know the truth.

"People have said that to you before? Old hat, you called it. I remember you saying that it means something is tediously familiar."

"Of course people have said it to me before." At his bewilderment, you scoffed. "Come on, Ominis. Do you really think you were the first person to call me a Mudblood?"

A new wave of rage seared through him. "Who?"

"One of the shopkeepers when my parents pulled out Muggle currency. Some Ravenclaw who saw me accidentally drop my books with my wand. Random students, portraits, ghosts... Violet McDowell said it to me and Mahendra Pehlwaan on the train up to school before first year, for crying out loud."

It was a horrible realisation to know that he'd been so privileged to avoid such disdain, and that he'd been totally ignorant to how others treated you.

"The magical world has been rotten in this way for a long time," you continued. "It's why people keeps worshipping their family bloodlines, why all you funny pure-bloods keep marrying your cousins."

His chest lurched. He should've said it then. Should've confessed that he was one of those funny pure-bloods now. But he didn't.

He couldn't.

Instead the thought retreated, far back into the safety of his mind, and he mumbled a non-committal, "You'll get in trouble for doing that."

"Oh well."

"Gibby..."

"Suppose I kept a little of your Slytherin for myself, too."

His face bloomed, but Merlin, he was not going to give in.

"If he says that to you again—"

"It's just a silly word to me," you reminded him. "He might as well call me a biscuit-eating-balloon-popper for as nonsensical as it is."

Still, the next time he saw Violet McDowell, he made sure to cast a subtle Trip jinx when she was going down the common room stairs, and it brought him endless satisfaction when she was carted to the hospital wing with a bloody nose and twisted ankle. Was it spiteful? Yes. Was it unjust retribution? It didn't feel like it. You had long since proved to him, to everyone around you, that you weren't incompetent, that you had an affinity with magic as much as the next pure-blood.

"How does it work? Your wand?"

In first year, you were waiting for Sebastian and Anne together by the Quidditch fields. The air was parched, as if about to rain, but still you had spread your robes on the grass, he upright and leaning against an astronomy table.

"Like a dolphin, remember?" he said, recalling the conversation you had on the first day outside Charms.

"I know, but do you tell it to do that? Or does it just... do it?"

"It just does it."

"Wow! Can I do it too? Go around the world without sight?"

"I would assume so."

He heard a rattle. You'd removed your spectacles. "I'll try it then, no cheating! Tell me how you do it."

This would certainly prove interesting. "All right then. Reach out. Sense your surroundings. What do you smell?"

"Grass," you murmured. "Trees. Mud."

"What do you hear?"

"The wind. Some people, in the distance. Brooms shooting through the air. You."

"What do you taste?"

"All the chocolate I just ate."

He smiled at that. "What do you feel?"

"My wand. The air. My robes."

"Can you sense it all, through your wand?"

"... Not a winkle."

He leant back. "I suppose you're reliant on your sight. It would make sense that it wouldn't come naturally to you."

"Oh, I have an idea," you said, plucky again. "Can I try with your wand?"

"I doubt it'll work. The wand chooses the wizard."

But he relented, because he always did, handing it over to you with a smirk. You were strangely reverent.

"Nice to meet you, Ominis' wand. Promise I'll give you back to him."

"It's black pine, supposedly one of the better ones for non-verbal magic," he explained, "and dragon heartstring core. From the same Hebridean Black as my entire family's wands."

A fact that royally depressed him, but he needn't say it aloud.

"Wowee! So it's like this was made for you." You held it up. "Okay. I've closed my eyes. Now. Sense the world!"

Silence.

"Did it work?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Well, am I supposed to feel something? I can't see anything different, since my eyes are closed."

"That's the point," he said, exasperated. "Why not walk around?"

"All right then." You stood. "I'm going to walk to the arches and back—"

You made not one step before he heard a thud and a yelping oof, and he was striding over at once, coming to stand over you.

"Ouch."

"You... tripped."

"Yeah. I don't think your wand likes me very much."

He laughed. "I think that was entirely you, Gibberish."

"Meanie."

He offered his hand, and you got to your feet and swept grass off your skirt.

"All right," you said, determined, "for real this time! Show me the way, Ominis' wand!"

So off you went, huffing and puffing with determination, boots squelching through mud that muffled the further away you walked. He stood there, waiting for the inevitable moment where you stumbled over your own feet, or knocked your knees into stone, or trod on a critter, but by some marvel, you managed to reach the stone follies without incident.

"I did it!" you called. "I walked all the way!"

"And you didn't fall? That is quite the miracle."

"I can still hex you from a distance, you know!"

He grinned. "You didn't cheat at all?"

"No!"

"And my wand?"

"It must like me!"

He doubted it was all his wand showing you the way – and more you relying on your memory of the area. Still, you hurried back over with a swagger to your step.

"Now if I lose my glasses, I can just do a you and walk around without looking! I'll be totally unstoppable—" His wand let out spark; you yelped. "Okay, okay! I'm giving you back! Please don't kill me!"

You shoved it into his hands. It was a testament to your charm, though. He'd never known it to be so acquiescing in another person's hand, nor so... playful.

Perhaps it was fond of you, too.

That won't do anymore. There could be no fondness, no weakness in the chain. Even if magic itself decreed you a good match, you were not meant to be.

Though you continued to try your hardest to prove him wrong.

You'd started to sit at the Slytherin table at lunch. The house boundaries weren't so strict during the day, and ostensibly you liked to sit next to him to sit opposite Missy. The first time you did it, a boy further down the table yelled at you.

"Mudbloods aren't welcome here!"

Ominis shot to his feet at the same time Missy did, but you didn't care. You simply continued to eat your chicken pie like he was no more than a paperboy hawking newspapers. Ominis knew what you were doing. He ignored your attempts at conversation, giving stilted one-word answers when Missy prompted him instead.

On your most daring days, you'd drape your hand over his thigh. The first time, he'd almost choked on his drink. You giggled softly as he tried, in vain, to cull the heat that exploded through him. There was something tantalising about keeping such intimate touches a secret, and you took full advantage of it, of his stony façade, trying in vain to keep you out of his thoughts. Missy must've been in on the joke, perhaps even encouraged it.

At one point, he'd sat at the Gryffindor table with Garreth Weasley to avoid you. And you still found an excuse to sit next to him.

Stubborn, meddlesome girl. But it was admirable, your relentlessness.

And maddeningly attractive.

In November, he sought solitude from the rising workload and went down to the Undercroft to think.

Only to find you there, and Missy.

Duelling.

Drunk.

He ducked when a hex blasted the wall to his left.

"Stop dodging!" Missy said through a wheezed giggle. "Flipendo!"

"Protego!" The spell crashed into the ceiling. "Oops-a-daisy, that's left a mark!"

"Ominis is going to kill us."

"We'll repair it! It'll be fine!"

"Will it now?"

Both of you went dead silent at his voice, carrying across the room.

"Oh," said Missy. "Bugger."

To hear her swear without abandon was actually rather funny, but Ominis stifled his amusement.

"Why are you two duelling?"

"Missy's testing me! She – hic – got us some gin." He heard your shoes clack erratically. "It's a girls' night! Want to join?"

"You just said it was girls' night."

"You can be an honorary girl!"

"I don't think that's how that works."

You hiccoughed in response, and it broke his composure.

"Join us, Ominis," Missy said. "I brought wine!"

"Yeah!" You snatched your glass from the ground, slurped noisily and yelled, "Let's have a three way – hic – duel!"

"I think that's enough for you, Gibby."

"I've only had... four glasses!"

"Four glasses too many."

"I'm fine, promi— hic." When he reached to take the glass from your hands, you scampered away. "Try and stop me!"

"I'm not chasing after you," he said, frustrated. "I'll leave you to it."

"Levioso!"

He barely had enough time to throw himself out the way. "Merlin, Gibby!"

"Unless you're chicken? Bawk – hic – bawk? Stupefy!"

He threw off the spell, not even needing to vocalise.

"We're not duelling, Gibby," he said, serious now. "Now put the glass down before you destroy my Undercroft."

"No!"

"You're either going to hurt yourself or be sick."

"I'm a big girl, Ominis. I can handle my alcohic."

"I'm warning you—"

"Are you my mother now?"

Merlin, who knew you could be so brash? Missy was laughing now.

"Last chance," he said, and raised his wand. "Put the glass down, or I'll make you."

And oh could he hear you grin.

"Make me then."

He sent the first spell, which you ricocheted into the wall, but he didn't relent, switching from verbal to non-verbal to confuse you. The blows beat between you, an endless, unyielding rain of magic. In a moment of hesitation, you levitated the glass, freeing your hand to spit hexes as hard as you were giggling in-between.

"Stupefy!"

He dodged. "Impedimenta!"

"Protego!" Zing. "Accio!"

He was yanked forwards – but you held the spell, and he kept coming, crashing right into you, spinning, toppling to the ground. He ended up on top of you, and you wheezed with laughter, vibrating right through to his chest.

"I win!"

He braced himself on his arms and knees, breathless. "Did you?"

"You haven't got my drink!"

He shot a basic cast to his right; the glass exploded, and a self-satisfied grin curled on his lips when you gasped.

"Cheater!"

"What rule says I couldn't do that?"

"I say you couldn't do that."

"You didn't establish anything before we started."

"It was obviously gentlemen's rules!"

"Who said I'm a gentleman?"

But you replied, with no small amount of coyness:

"Suppose you can't be, on top of me like this..."

It took him a second to recognise that this position was highly compromising, and his mirth fell away. He could smell your sweat, which should've been disgusting but was actually exhilarating, could feel your breath on his face, hard and panting. Your scent, like a drug.

Merlin.

He wrenched himself to his feet, cheeks blooming with heat, with need. Stop this. He forced himself to think of Dorothy, of Peregrine, their sneering voices eclipsing yours, to remember why he had to rebuild the walls. What would happen if he failed to.

This is the easiest way, he reminded himself. The best way.

"You," he muttered, "are a troublesome rascal, and I know exactly what you are doing—"

Then Missy screeched.

He'd almost forgotten she was here, watching – oh Merlin, she'd seen that entire ordeal! – but this unholy cry was completely unlike any sound he'd heard before. Her knees hit the ground, nails scratching stone.

"Missy!" you cried, staggering towards her. "Missy, what's going on?"

He followed on unsteady legs too, but for entirely different reasons. He approached Missy, curling up the ground, you shaking her.

"Missy? Talk to us!"

"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out, get out, get out!"

"Of the Undercroft?" you said, panicking. "Ominis, what's happening?"

"I don't know." He felt along her head, but there was no wound, no blood. "Missy, can you hear us—?"

"Get out!" she shrieked again. "Leave me alone!"

"Is it a curse?" you asked.

"No, there wasn't anything to curse her!"

"Then what's wrong? Can we use a spell? A potion?"

"I don't know—"

His blood ran cold. Suddenly he had a feeling he knew exactly what was wrong.

You were undeterred, and you rolled up your sleeves. "Okay, then I'm sorry in advance, Missy! Time for some tough Muggle love!"

Thwack. It took a second for him to realise you'd slapped her, palm to cheek. The most uncouth way to express violence.

... And it worked.

Missy stopped trembling. Her breath evened.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely. "Thank you. That— helped. I just... lost myself, for a moment."

"Lost yourself?" said Ominis, suddenly furious. "You and I both know what that was."

"It's fine."

"It is very clearly not fine."

"What's going on?" you asked, bewildered. "Not some ancient magic balderdash, is it?"

Missy must've told you the truth during your convalescence. "Missy," Ominis said, crossing his arms, "has been seeing visions—"

"Ominis," Missy snarled in warning.

"— of the pain that Isidora Morganach stole."

Her voice went cold. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone."

"That was before you had a screaming fit! If you're not careful, it's going to completely overwhelm—"

"I am fine," she barked, getting to her feet, though she wobbled. "Leave it alone, Ominis."

She staggered to the grille as you stood. "Missy, wait."

She didn't.

You stood there a moment. "I think... I-I think..."

"We should leave her, Gibby." He didn't bother to hide his resentment. "If she wants to let it burn her from the inside, so be it."

His callousness wasn't true. He cared, of course he cared, but he was also so tired of everything breaking down around him, and in spite resolved to let it, to embrace annihilation.

"No, it's not that," you said, shaking, "I... I think I'm going to be sick."

You ran to the nearest crate and retched, and Ominis, holding your hair back, wondered how the hell he got himself into these situations. If he could say I told you so to both you and Missy and get away with it, he would.

As if the roles had been switched, Missy was colder to you both now as you prodded about the ancient magic issue. It had been manageable before, but it seemed it was turning inwards, feeding off her, siphoning from her. To what end, he didn't know. Perhaps she would succumb to madness.

Perhaps she would die.

When asked these rather necessary questions, however, Missy brushed them off like lint. She did continue, however, to let you sit next to him at lunch. He couldn't talk about ancient magic in public, after all – he'd sworn it in his Unbreakable Vow.

But you hadn't.

"The Daily Prophet?" you asked her one lunchtime in early December, as a mist floated down from the icicle-laden ceiling. You were next to him, opposite her, as always. "Why are you reading that drivel? It's all ancient news. Like a repository of gossip."

"I like to read the curse-breaker news," Missy said, nonchalant.

"I guess if it helps you get a vision of your potential career."

"Gibby."

"Is there an article about Isidora Morganach?"

"That's not even subtle."

"I'm trying to help."

"Well, don't," snapped Missy. "And let me read in peace."

You grumbled, he nursed his soup, and when your hand brushed along his inner thigh, higher than usual, his blood rushed to places it should not have rushed.

"Anything interesting?" he rasped, trying to distract himself. "In the column?"

"Not yet," said Missy. She flicked a page. "I suppose anything making headway in breaking curses would be front page—"

She stopped abruptly.

"Something the matter?" you asked. "What's with the face?"

Missy was silent for a beat. Two.

"You're betrothed?"

The words didn't register at first.

"Ominis," Missy repeated, no longer a question, "you're betrothed."

"What?" you snapped – your hand slid away as you grabbed the paper.

Too late did he think to take it from you. Too late did he realise what this meant. This was too sudden. He wasn't prepared— didn't think about what to say—

You shot to stand and flounced from the hall. No, no. He immediately ran after you.

"Gibby, wait!" You were a little spitfire, but he still had height, and caught up to you outside the basement stairs. "Gibby, please—"

"You're betrothed?"

Tears swallowed you up, and yet you whispered as delicately as a flower. His heart broke.

"I— it's not what you think—"

"It says it right here!" you snapped, paper trembling. "You and— and Dorothy Ellingboe, on her seventeenth birthday!"

His shock plunged beneath regret. He could blame a number of people for this. Peregrine. Dorothy. His parents, or hers. In the end, it didn't matter who sent the information to the papers. Only that someone had before he'd plucked up the courage to tell you himself.

"It's arranged," he said quickly. "I didn't plan it— it doesn't mean anything—"

"You're getting married, Ominis," you said. "You knew, and didn't tell me."

"I wanted to—"

"That's why you've been so determined to break it off, isn't it? You knew I would find out. You just wanted to spare yourself telling me the truth." You flung the paper at his feet. "Why am I even bothering? Dorothy is a fancy pure-blood, and I— I'm nothing."

How could you say something so untrue?

You ran passed him, not giving him the opportunity to defend himself. Down the spiral stairs, towards the Hufflepuff common room. He sprinted after you, calling your name, but you didn't listen. By the time he skirted around the corridor of the kitchens, you'd already tapped the code for the entrance, the barrels groaning as they unfurled.

"Leave me alone, Ominis."

"Gibby, wait, I'm sorry."

Before you stepped inside, however, you knocked your hand against a barrel – the wrong one. Vinegar spewed out as you stole inside the safety of the tunnel, and he yelped, too slow to dodge the spray catching most of his arm. It reeked sharply as he ran to the sealed door.

"Gibby," he begged. "Gibby, please."

He tapped the barrel in perfect timing to Helga Hufflepuff, but vinegar soaked him again – likely the common room looking out for you – and this time he let it.

He deserved it, and worse.

He waited, scourging the vinegar from his clothes, until someone else from his year group left the common room – who just so happened to be your other best friend, Adelaide. She let out a sad noise when she stepped out.

"You've really hurt her, Ominis. She's sobbing her eyes out in there."

That sundered him a little more. "Will you ask her to come out, please? So I can explain?"

"What's there to explain? Imagine it was the other way around. How would you feel if you found out she was betrothed through the paper?"

Enraged. Resentful. Heartbroken.

All things he already was.

"Give her time," said Adelaide, but she was devoid of sympathy. "It's the least you could do."

So he'd loped back to his common room, numb. Missy eventually returned, but said nothing, allowing him room to breathe in his mistake. She didn't know either, after all – he'd kept this from her as equally as he'd kept it from you, and he wasn't stupid enough to miss the hurt that radiated from his friend, too.

By not telling anyone, he could pretend it wasn't real. By keeping it a secret, he kept you free of the burden. For you. He was doing this for you.

So he told himself, over and over.

Despite this setback, he was determined not to let this be the end of your relationship together, so as you had done for the whole first three months of term, he chased you. Tagged you after class, asked to speak to you in private. For two weeks you didn't give him the time of day.

"Gibby," he said one evening after dinner, so worn down by your cold shoulder that he would resort to begging if he had to. "Please talk to me."

"Why?" you dug with sharpness. "So you can keep secrets again?"

"If you would let me explain—"

"Are you going to marry her?" When he was silent, stunned, you repeated more forcefully, "Are you going to marry her, Ominis?"

"I-I don't have a choice."

"What was it you said, back in the Scriptorium? Before Sebastian used Crucio on me?"

He remembered. We always have a choice. He'd been so sure back then.

So naïve.

"He threatened you." He blurted it. Foolish boy, yet he couldn't stop. "Malfoy threatened to hurt you if I didn't go through with the marriage. And my family—"

"I can take care of myself," you snarled.

"I know," he mumbled. "But I will marry her, to be certain. I'm sorry."

"So what else is there to be said?" Your pitch squealed in hurt. "I'm not going to be your mistress."

"I don't love her, Gibby," he said, but the rest lodged in his throat. I love you.

You were unmoved. "You've taken me for a fool. Don't talk to me again."

Christmas came. You returned home, and Dorothy stayed, and as she paraded him around with Hector Fawley and Antares Black it was the worst holidays he'd ever had. Missy refused his ideas for help since her episode, even though with everything else going on, he worried deeply for her.

When the new term started, he went to Apparition classes with the rest of the seventh years, though his were conducted in private, with a special instructor by the name Perdita Ruthven. Apparition didn't work for him like it did others, they'd discovered, when he struggled to pop between one end of the room to the other. It was his smell and hearing that was intimately intertwined to places he knew, so it took only the reminder of honeysuckle to drop him right in the middle of Feldcroft, and the ripple of pondwater to take him to the far end of the Great Lake. He reckoned he could appear right in Gaunt Manor, if only he thought of those damp walls and stale air.

You, on the other hand, excelled. Before long you were Apparating and Disapparating with ease, all without splinching yourself once. Not even Missy was that skilled, having left half her pinkie nail behind at one point.

"I saw Gibby today," said Missy after one class, "holding hands with Leander."

He was supposed to be beyond jealousy, but it reared up inside him again, terrible and tumultuous.

"Good for her."

"That's not all. Natty told me they've been snogging in the hallways. Leander's been boasting about it."

He inhaled a long breath to control his rising temper. "I'm happy for them."

"Oh, please. You can't even fool yourself."

"That's rich, coming from you," he barked. "Stop trying to interfere and leave me be."

"To make the stupidest mistake of your life?"

A faint echo of Peregrine's words. "I am betrothed."

"Only because you will it."

"You think I want this?"

"No, Ominis. I think you're afraid of change. I think you're afraid of standing up despite the consequences." She was blunt, frosty. "I tell people I'm hallucinating, I might as well check myself into a lifetime in St Mungo's myself. My excuse is self-preservation. Your excuse... is cowardice."

There were moments of defiance peppered throughout the years, moments when he lashed out against his family – refusing to cast the Cruciatus Curse the biggest, and condoning Sebastian's character at the trial the most recent, but other times too. Biting back at their cruelty, expressing disdain at their actions, speaking English when the native language was Parseltongue. But there was one thing that connected them all: these acts were small, never disturbing the peace, never truly facing a consequence harsh enough that it could not be smoothed back over.

Missy had hit a nerve deep in his chest. Cowardice. He'd never truly known what the consequences were if he never dared to test the status quo. But there was prodding at what was, and there was upending the table – and being with you was the latter.

For you. He repeated it constantly. He was doing this for you. No one and nothing could convince him otherwise.

The year wore on, and the gap between you swelled. You continued to date Leander – numerous times he'd walked passed you whispering in his ear, cuddling him, kissing. Traitorous songs chanted in his mind. How he wished he could take Leander's place. Be the one to hold you, kiss you.

It had come to a point where he'd started thinking about you in ways that were... inappropriate. He couldn't help it. The boys in his dorm spoke of girls like conquests, won after long, hard battles of dominance and attrition. It was sickening but impossible not to listen to, when it seemed it was all Augustus Tukesbury and Evander Sweeney would talk about when Ominis was trying to sleep.

"You and Wakefield?" Evander scoffed. "Thought you fancied McDowell?"

"Nah. Wakefield's got bigger knockers. Knows how to use her tongue, too."

"As if you've tumbled her!"

"The Prefect's bathroom isn't only for washing. The only thing better would be both of them at once."

Merlin. Ominis yanked his duvet over his ears.

"Oi, Gaunt," called Evander, and Ominis pried his eyes open in irritation. "You dallied with Ellingboe? That why you're marrying her so young?"

"No," he grounded out. The very thought was utterly revolting.

Augustus scoffed. "Come on, Evander. Gaunt's more prudish than all the first years put together. Bet he wants to wait for marriage like a good boy. Probably thinks a tumble is when you fall off your broom."

His parents had given him the talk a few years ago, a horribly awkward conversation he wished he could purge from his brain. Sebastian was also completely unabashed when he described the sordid diagrams in some books he'd stolen from the Restricted Section.

"I know what sex is, Tukesbury," he snapped. "Now would you two shut up so I can sleep?"

"Who'd you rather shag, then? Missy or Dorothy?"

You. Your skin on his, your lips on him, your legs intertwined, night young. His face instantly flamed when it brought back your hands on his thigh, the feel of you beneath him in the Undercroft, all your hugs and touches, fantasies he'd desperately tried to eschew.

Stop. He crumpled the thought like parchment. Do not bend. In no universe would he allow himself to think about doing any such thing with you.

Even if the rest of his body craved it.

"I know which I'd rather," said Evander. "Merlin, is Missy gorgeous."

"I'd let her tussle with my goblin, you know?"

"You're disgusting," muttered Ominis.

"Oh, get off your high horse, Gaunt," Augustus replied. "Just because you can't appreciate her looks doesn't mean the rest of us can't."

In what he considered a small peace offering, he shared to Missy, in less grotesque language, what Augustus had said – and the boy ended up in the hospital wing next day, though Missy swore she had nothing to do with it, all with that placid, pleasant tone.

"It looks like both of us have our humps to overcome," she told him quietly. "The question is, how?"

How, indeed.

The situation only muddled his feelings further when, in March, he was on his way from Charms when he heard you in the hallway ahead.

Instinct pressed him flush to the wall, ear tilted towards you. The enchanting notes of your voice were a flute on a dawn-swathed tide, but something was fraying. The beats of frustration, anger. He'd heard that plenty of times too, but this was... different.

"Why?" Your accusation was frontal. "Did I do something wrong? Was I too forward?"

Then Leander's baritone voice came, and it stoked Ominis' jealousy once more.

"Merlin, no. You being forward is really attractive."

"So what, then?"

To his credit, Leander didn't match your clear annoyance. "Look, I'm the last person that will say you're not heaps of fun, and you're cute and sweet. But it's pretty clear you don't feel the same way."

"Of course I do—"

"No, you don't. I was stupid not to see it before. The only reason you're with me is because you can't have him."

Ominis stilled.

"That— that's not true."

But your tone warbled. A lie.

"I know when we're cuddling or holding hands or kissing, you're thinking about him, Gibs. Don't try to deny it. It's why you don't want to commit."

Hurt flecked through you now. "H-He's not part of the picture anymore. He's getting married!"

"Yeah," Leander said quietly, "but emotionally, he's all you're thinking about. You're just using me to get over him."

That rendered you speechless.

"I'm not even mad. Just... disappointed, I guess."

"No, Leander—"

"I'll see you around."

His footsteps came Ominis' way, and it was too late for Ominis to even pretend he was doing anything other than eavesdropping, so he stood his ground in silence. Leander stopped short.

"Figures," he muttered. "Marriage be damned, if you want her, Gaunt, go for it. Stop wasting everyone's time. Especially mine."

He walked off as you rounded the corner, piqued by the voices. You inhaled sharply.

"Happy now?"

"Don't blame me," he snapped. "That was all you."

"Was it?"

You stormed off, leaving him in a state of frustration. It was a cruel way to move on, even for you, but perhaps he'd underestimated how deeply hurt ran through your veins, how you could turn elsewhere in an irrational bout to satisfy your cravings for affection. Hufflepuffs were known for their compassion, and you certainly possessed it in spades, but it wasn't your only trait. He tended to put you on a pedestal sometimes, but this was a bare-faced reminder that you were human, rounded and flawed, yoked on your feelings as much as anyone was.

A flicker of regret went through him. Sebastian wasn't there – loath as Ominis was to admit it, his friend was more in tune with such things than he ever was. Very often Sebastian told Ominis plainly about things he missed. He'd have probably known you'd run to Leander for distraction, and Ominis wondered how he was faring in Azkaban, whether the Dementors had taken that part of his goodness yet.

He could imagine what he'd say about this. Stuff your family, and Dorothy too. Come live with me as an honorary Sallow, denounce your bloodline and marry Gibby. That'll show them.

A silly notion, really, to think reality could be as easy as Sebastian often made it out to be.

In his dorm room alone, he tried everything he could to stop thinking about you. He remembered your arguments. He remembered the names you'd called him. He remembered you vomiting, or your embarrassing moments, or that one time in Beasts that you fell into Dugbog dung and couldn't purge the smell from your robes for two weeks. But though his head steeled, his heart resisted. With all your faults you were still too lovable, cemented in his life too thoroughly to be so easily expelled with tricks and deceit.

A moment in first year only brought his attachment to you into full comprehension.

It was the first time he didn't recognise you.

What is that? Apple blossom? The scent came accompanied with your voice, and it was jarring, when so long had you smelt the same, those strawberry laces, once saccharine, now a gentle welcome. It was almost wrong, like a flame that soothed instead of burned, or water rough on skin. His nose wrinkled when you greeted him and Sebastian that morning on the incline to the Owlery.

"I can't believe you're scared of owls," Sebastian was laughing, ignorant of Ominis' plight. "You can't be a witch if you're scared of owls. That's how we send all our post!"

"I just find them eerie, okay?" you were saying, clearly perturbed. "When they're all flying around during breakfast, how d'you know one won't poo on your kippers?"

"Because they're trained?"

"It only takes one accident! Then, bam, brown porridge! And not the yum yum chocolate kind!"

Ominis was silent as you and Sebastian bickered. Apple blossom, and something tart as well... rhubarb, maybe? What was this strange concoction you were wearing? At the top of the steps you hovered at the door, skittish.

"Seriously, Gibby?"

"Just— give me a chance to prepare myself." When Sebastian groaned, you huffed. "They have massive eyes! It's like they're staring into my soul!"

"Merlin's flabby arms, give me the letter. I'll post it." He took it and marched inside. "But next time you're going to do it yourself, even if I have to drag you."

"Thanks Sebastian!" you called to his back. "Honestly, Ominis, if you could see them you'd definitely agree! Maybe it's a Muggle-born thing? Mahendra doesn't like them either."

"You changed your soap."

Oh. He hadn't meant to say that aloud.

You seemed dumbfounded, then said quietly, "I thought I might try something different. You noticed?"

"It caught me unawares, is all. Your scent has always been strawberry laces."

"Red liquorice, you mean?"

He smiled. "Never mind me. It's nice."

But a few days later, there it was, that familiar sweetness a miasma, like it'd never left. He asked after it.

"Oh, well," you squeaked, "I wanted you to know when I was around."

"If you want to change it, Gibberish, you can."

But you said, "No. It helps you, and I like it. That's good enough for me."

And ever since, you'd been the same, and the scent of that little Muggle sweet had embossed into his heart.

It was the first sweet he associated with you, but it wasn't the last.

To distract himself from the betrothal, Missy's issues, and you, he threw himself into revision – proving a worthy use of his time when he excelled at his N.E.W.T.s, even his worst subject of Potions. After Hogwarts he would be expected to get a job, start his career as a graduating adult, and he wished then, more desperately than he had all year, that Sebastian and Anne were still there to embrace the future together, as they'd always wanted.

The End of School party happened in the Great Hall. All seventh years were present, dressed up, teary-eyed, exchanging contact details, promising meet-ups over the summer, in the future. It was customary to wear a school shirt over your garb and have others sign it, and with a spell he learnt he had the words Transfigured into braille, surprised at the kindness of the messages.

Don't be a stranger, wrote Garreth. I'm going to miss seeing your grumpy face every day.

We weren't ever close friends, but I always admired you, wrote Nerida. Good luck to you in whatever you do!

I am so thankful to have met you, was Missy's message. This isn't goodbye, because I intend to keep in touch whether you like it or not.

They'd argued over the year, but he was thankful to have met her, too.

As the party wound to a close, he felt a tug on his arm. Strawberry laces.

"Can I sign your shirt too?"

He quashed his longing, deep, deep down.

"Of course."

You flattened his arm and scribbled. You dotted too, as if writing in braille, but when you Transfigured the text it was two simple words. Good luck. Nothing else.

He wrote on your blouse in his best penmanship. Good luck. Nothing else.

"Wait."

He stalled before taking off, and you inhaled a long, regal breath.

"In the Muggle world, there's a saying for brides when they marry. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in her shoe. It's for what to wear when they walk down the aisle. Brings luck, and I thought... even though you're the bridegroom, it could be applied to you."

He swallowed, but his throat was still sticky.

"I don't want to say goodbye on a sour note, so... here."

He reached forwards, hands grasping something small, the size of a Sickle, wrapped in paper packaging. He unfolded it, fingers caressing the rough surface... of a sweet.

"You probably have old and new stuff in abundance," you said, "and borrowing usually implies you intend to give it back. A Muggle coin is too risky, so I thought, for irony's sake, you could have this. Something blue."

"A boiled sweet?"

"Strawberry flavour. I made it myself in the kitchens last week with blue food dye, and, well... keep it on you, during the wedding. It will bring you luck on the day, and... in the future."

He brought the sweet to his nose and inhaled. Strawberry, as you said, but sweeter. His heart thrashed.

"Gibby..."

"I hope you find happiness, Ominis," you said quietly. "I truly mean that."

Then you turned to go, and he couldn't bear to know this was the last time you'd see each other ever again. But you walked away, and his jaw clenched, and he gripped that little sweet, his last reminder of you.

He'd have the memories. That should've been enough.

But he was foolish to think it would.

He'd taken his last ride on the Hogwarts Express with Missy, but it was a sombre occasion – the last time they'd see each other before he was married, forever trapped, and despite her heroics in fifth year she wasn't on the invite list for the wedding.

"You're welcome to visit me at any time in York."

"Thank you."

"And you will visit," she said, a soft command. "I don't care if Dorothy disapproves."

"I will try."

The train shuddered to a stop in York Railway Station. Missy gathered her belongings and they exchanged a brief, but meaningful hug.

"Highgate," she said then, a total non-sequitur. "Highgate high street. There's a confectionary there. Visit there too, if you cannot come to me."

The summer brought the wedding preparations into sharp clarity. The house was cleaned, furniture repurchased, clothes fitted, garden groomed for the ceremony. The house-elves worked tirelessly to please the Gaunts and the Ellingboes, no matter how high or impossible their expectations. Everything had to be perfect. A week before, his father, Marvolo, Grimsley and Mr Ellingboe forced Ominis to endure a banquet together in lieu of the stag night. They overindulged in fine food and expensive wine, financial cares forgotten as they rode the high of the incoming union of the families.

"This marriage is only the beginning," his father purred into his glass. "This alliance is securing matches for you all. They laughed at us, scorned our instable family line, and now look! Raven's already had offers from the Yaxleys and the Greengrasses, and the Malfoys have expressed interest in wedding Lenore to Peregrine."

Ominis didn't drink any wine, and barely ate. Every day, every moment of every hour, he wished for this nightmare to end. He wished he could face death like an old friend. He wished he could swap places with Sebastian, as surely a Dementor's Kiss was far more bearable than this.

He would marry Dorothy. To protect you, he would do anything. He said it to himself, over and over, to convince himself of this truth. For you, for you, for you.

Yet the closer the days got to the wedding, the less he believed.

On the night before, his mother escorted him to one of the master suites, what would be his new quarters post-marriage. He scented incense, candles of rose, fresh linen and jasmine soap.

"You must consummate the marriage on the wedding night. There are two potions in the bedside drawer, both to promote fertility. Take one before you begin the marital act, the second if you wish to try again in the morning."

He bit his tongue to control his disgust.

"For many generations, it has been... difficult, for us Gaunts to conceive, and when we did, many did not survive to the birthing stage." For the first time ever, he detected humility, loss, in her voice. "I fear this issue may have passed down to you. I was very lucky to be blessed with you and your siblings, however. So do your duty to this family, Ominis."

Duty. At the end of the day, that was all that mattered. Even for something as sacred as making love.

He numbly made his way back to his own quarters. It was dark now, the heavy pall of night like a bolt of silk on skin. It was a reckless thing to do, to drift over to his drawers, to reach into the back. He felt the scrap of linen and tugged, finding your handkerchief there, and the beading work, unsullied by the events of the last few years.

For you. It was a barely audible bleat at the back of his mind. It flickered a curious memory of the End of School party back to him, and weakened to his whims, he found the shirt he'd tossed aside, fingers skimming the linen until he found your message. Good luck. He nocked his wand – you'd Transfigured your own message, but he remembered now that you'd written something in braille too. He adjusted the Transcription charm and drew his wand across the fabric.

His breath caught when a new message emerged beneath his fingertips.

I love you. I always will.

It felt like his chest was caving in, so sudden did breath rush in. He listened out, checking, double-checking for sounds outside the door, in case someone would enter and interrupt this divine moment. But no one did, and he read the words, again and again, over and over and over.

For you.

With piercing awareness, Sebastian's voice filled his head, as if they'd only been speaking yesterday.

Your family – they don't know the real you, that you're loyal and kind and wise and great. Don't ever let them make you think otherwise.

When had he forgotten this wisdom? When had he let himself be eroded down until he was only pieces of himself, a tangle of threads knotted together to their liking? A pawn of a son, strutted around to further political alliances and strengthen the bloodline?

Sometimes family isn't blood. Sometimes family is heart. And she is as much a part of yours as the rest of us are.

Anne had realised, so long before him, that you'd always be there for him, even if the world determined you shouldn't. Anne had seen how you had taken root within his life, changed it so fundamentally for the better. How good you were together. How you belonged to one another, you, a piece of his heart.

It is a constant battle to fight for what you love, who you love. There is no end to it. Missy's advice, whispered at your bedside so many years ago. But that doesn't mean you lay down your weapon. It means you keep swinging, no matter how hard fatigue tries to hold you down.

Was this it? Would he lay down his weapon and yield for the last time? Give up the last sacred part of himself?

At the start of his seventh year, perhaps he would have. His matrimony was practically written into his destiny from the moment he first emerged into the world, as it had been for all the Gaunts before him, and terrified for you, fearing one way or another you would meet demise by his carelessness, he gave up himself to make sure you were safe.

This was the easiest way, the best way.

But it was also the coward's way.

Instead of fighting for you, he'd chosen to stuff cotton in his ears, to ignore his own feelings, to squash them down into specks. But those specks were seeds, and they had long since grown wild.

Because the stark truth was, it was you. It was always you.

He wanted you more than anything and anyone.

The thought punched him worse than any offensive hex. Dizzy, he reached for the wall. Suddenly that thought was all that ensconced him – that going through with this would lose you forever. That this was a betrayal that ran deeper than bones and blood. He turned sharply, too sharply, almost hitting the vanity, and gripped his bedposts before allowing himself to shut his eyes, to block himself from the world around him.

This couldn't go on anymore. To shackle himself to Dorothy and the Gaunt line was to forever lose grasp on his soul.

When it was already tethered to yours.

You filled his mind, every moment of you. When he first met you, all of your joy and teasing and silliness between. The way you taught him to smile and laugh and find goodness in everything.

The argument that changed you, and the year that changed everything else.

And when the last of his memories unfurl before him, he stands from the bed and wanders to the window, where the slip beneath draws a sharp draught across his face, drying the tears that have leaked.

If he goes through with this wedding, he loses you forever.

But... it's not too late.

He has to escape. He has to find you, his rock, his world. Gibberish. He smiles. The words you speak, the phrases you use. He doesn't understand you sometimes – but you always understood him, when no one in this wretched family ever did.

For his entire life, Ominis has lived to serve his bloodline.

Now it is time he serves himself.

The plan cobbles together hastily. He casts an Extension charm on his bag and stuffs it full with as many clothes as he can muster. He doesn't have many left, most of it sold off, but there's enough. Then he finds another bag, putting his more valuable resources inside. What possessions he wishes to keep, which isn't much, frankly, a few bottles of Wiggenweld, and the little money he has – he will need to make a trip to Gringotts.

He uses the embroidered handkerchief to wrap the sweet you gave him, tucking it into his pocket next to his wand. For luck.

Then, under the cover of a nightfall, as the house rests in preparation for tomorrow, Ominis tosses the bags outside, and leaps from the window.

"Arresto Momentum!"

He lands quietly on the front lawn. The air is balmy, rent with the sounds of nocturnal critters, crickets that buzz, owls that twitter. He casts the Revealing charm to gather his bearings and check he is alone, then he twists right, with barely a thought to the place he once called home.

Before he can Apparate away, he must do one last thing. One last goodbye to his family.

The Gaunt estate is needlessly large. His steps are furtive, hurried against the gravel path, taking him deep into the wood that surrounds the estate, the bag a leaden weight in his arm. His family are too proud, too sentimental, to sell, but where he's going will be the last to get seized in potential takeover. He wends up the lopsided stones, brushing his hand against the damp stone wall, the thicket vast enough that nothing pierces through, and when it rains, it soaks the ground for days, the air sour with the stench of it.

Eventually, when even the noise of the village cannot penetrate the trees, his foot knocks a shallow set of stone steps, and he knows he has arrived.

The shack.

Rarely does he come here, a ramshackle excuse of a building, built shoddily together with planks of wood and brittle thatching. Sometimes his father took him as a child, imparting his idea of a moral lesson. This place is beneath you, boy. Only come here to bestow punishment. Yet it is with reverence that Ominis knocks on the door.

A house-elf responds with a squeak in surprise – immediately he recognises his mother's personal attendant, Thimble.

"M-Master Gaunt! You should not be so far from the house!"

"I'm sorry to intrude," he says by way of greeting. "Please may I come in?"

The door croaks as Thimble opens it wider, allowing him entrance. He ducks beneath the door – the kitchen is not very tall, and it reeks of mildew and rotten wood, but a hearth blazes in the corner, and a pot lid trembles in near-boil.

"I need to speak with everyone. Will you rouse them all?"

"Right away, master." She disappears with the snap of her fingers.

A little envy pierces him. How easy it is to Apparate wherever they desire. One by one, they magically appear in the room, eager to please, and when all fourteen bodies stand nervously before him, he drops the massive bag by his feet.

"Master Gaunt," says Pip, Ominis' personal house-elf. "Can Pip assist with anything? Pip can assure master, the wedding preparations are ahead as scheduled—"

"I'm not getting married."

This stuns Pip and the others into silence.

"Not... getting married, master?"

"No. I'm leaving. Tonight." For some reason he feels like he can trust them with his elusive mission. "I'm done being a puppet for this family."

One of the older house-elves, Ratch, ruffles his head. "Ratch thinks Master Gaunt must think wisely before doing anything rash."

"I have thought about this for years." He crouches, untying the bag. "My parents and siblings have dictated what I should do, where I should go, and who I should socialise with for my entire life. Now I am taking it into my own hands, as I should've done a long time ago."

"By jilting Miss Ellingboe?" asks Gobble, a kitchen house-elf. "But Master Gaunt, without the wedding, the magnificent Gaunt family will not receive the sizable dowry."

"I'm counting on it."

He pulls the last tie of his bag, and it flowers open, revealing his clothes. A palpable hush falls on the house-elves as he plucks from the top a double-breasted frock coat. Part of his wedding apparel.

"Pip," he says, "this is my last command to you. You take this coat and never return. You leave the Gaunt family behind forever."

Pip lets out a shaky gasp. "M-Master Gaunt—"

"I'm releasing you from our service. You have been good to me. Thank you."

He offers the coat.

A shaky hand takes it from him. The coat is much too big to fit, but the fabric squeezes in a hopeful grip.

"Ominis has always been Pip's favourite of the Gaunts."

Ominis smiles. "I don't deserve that."

"Pip believes Ominis will go far," he says, "and that he is right to follow his heart. Pip wishes Ominis luck."

Crack. He disappears.

"M-Master Gaunt," stammers Thimble. "What if— what if we do not wish to leave?"

There is security under a wizard's serfdom, and he knows house-elves subscribe to different rules entirely, but he struggles to understand in this instance; his mother has never been kind to her. Rooms away he could hear the punishments enforced for tasks impossible to complete. Sometimes he heard crying in the depths of the night, too – and knew, this time, it was not the Muggles.

Nonetheless, he reaches into the bag and takes the next item, a grey waistcoat.

"Then to you, Thimble, I order this: take this and head to Hogwarts. Speak to Professor Weasley or Gladwin Moon. They will offer you sanctuary and work, if you desire it."

She blubbers as she takes the waistcoat, and Disapparates at once. To each house-elf, he dispenses the last of his clothing, sometimes a hand-stitched shirt, or a pair of tweed breeches, from as large as an embroidered winter cloak to as small as a school tie. He gives out his entire wedding outfit and then some, until each house-elf disappears, and he is left with one.

Ratch hesitates.

"Is Master Gaunt so certain about this? About abandoning master's family? Everything master knows?"

"They're not everything I know," Ominis says. "My family has quite a narrow view on the world."

"But to risk poverty and isolation? For a Mu— Muggle-born?"

He nearly says it. Mudblood.

"How did you know?"

"Master had Ratch check on you occasionally, since two summers ago." After the trial. "Master had Ratch report on you whenever Ratch saw you were with the girl."

Wretched Father. "How often did you see us together?"

"Not often," says Ratch, and he hesitates. "But master... did not believe it when Ratch told him so."

The implication is clear.

"I know you're loyal to him," says Ominis gently, "but he wouldn't hesitate to toss you aside whenever it suited him. Do not mistake the length of your service as mutual loyalty."

He holds out a belt. It's unfortunate that this is the last article, as he assumes Ratch is too familiar with them. Still, it pulls from Ominis' hands like a snake, writhing to be free.

"They will chase you," Ratch says quietly. "They will find you. They will brand you a blood traitor, and hunt you and the Muggle-born until you are dead."

It is a heavy burden to bear.

"I know."

But he is no longer afraid.

Ratch clears his throat. "Then Ratch wishes you good fortune, Ominis Gaunt. You will need it."

Crack. He disappears.

Ominis stands and heads to the door. He doesn't bother taking the bag – it is empty anyway.

When he steps back into the open air and Disapparates, the last he hears of the Gaunt shack is the pot boiling over.

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