General Hogwarts Legacy Related Nonsense. There will be terrible art. There will be abysmal writing. There's probably going to be smut (all aged up 21+). Ask me stuff.
Asks are open - please feel free to send me a request!
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Hogwarts Legacy: The Price of Power (Complete) đ
Sebastian, Ominis and Dracaena embark on a new adventure in their seventh year, navigating a growing love angle and discovering a dastardly plot against Dracaena. In trying to find out more, they discover something far larger than any of them had anticipated, and the fate of the world rests in their hands.
(Warnings - eventual smut, love angle, eventual throuple, lots of angst, some comfort and mature themes)
Ao3 đ
Wattpad đ
Audio Version đ
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Hogwarts Legacy: The Cost of Love đ
Ao3 đ
Wattpad đ
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âšProfessor Fig Adopts the Emerald Trioâš
An alternate timeline in which Professor Fig adopts Sebastian, Ominis and Dracaena at the end of fifth year, offering them sage advice, fatherly love and affection, and helping to get them out of (and occasionally into) trouble.
Hijinks ensue. Fluffy and sweet, some angst but mostly cute.
Part 1
Part 2
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Sebastian Sallow
A Promise of a Theory
Professor Fig almost trips over a studious young Slytherin desperately searching for a way to cure his sister outside his classroom. The kindly professor offers Sebastian some advice and comfort.
The Bars Between Us đ Part 2
Sebastian is rescued from Azkaban after six long years, but he's not the man his friends once knew, and he needs some TLC.
Sebastian Makes a New Friend
Sebastian is adopted by a stray cat.
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Ominis Gaunt
The Sleeping Snakeđ
Things get a bit too much for a very randy Ominis when his snoozing partner is just that smidge too lovely. (Unedited oneshot)
Taming the Serpent đ
In their final year of school, Ominis Gaunt is the only person in all of Hogwarts that seems to be immune to the captivating beauty of one Silvermaria Rivers. Little does he know that the one person who can't see her splendour may be the only one who can love her for who she really is. Ominis has his own demons to banish before he can even think of anything as tiresome as romance, but as time goes by, Silver opens his eyes, so to speak, to a brand new, intoxicating world.
Ominis leaves a voicemail đ
A lonely Ominis leaves you a needy and very explicit voicemail
A Loving Hand
Ominis has never experienced loving touch, and his new girlfriend decides to give him his first proper cuddle.
Don't Drug Your Friends đ
After Garreth slips Ominis a lust potion, there's only one woman that can help him.
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Professor Sharp x Professor Garlick
Brewing Desires (Part 1) đ
Aesop has long had a crush on Mirabel, and at the Hogwarts Professor's annual Christmas drinks at the Three Broomsticks, he finally decides to make a move.
Brewing Desires (Part 2) đ
Following their encounter, Aesop is confused by Mirabel's ordinary behaviour. Following his jealousy at seeing her talk to another man, things come to a head in his office.
Brewing Desires (Part 3)
Though they try to keep it a secret, a certain arsehole Professor learns of their relationship, and an unfortunate dose of Babbling Brew leads Aesop to say more than he should.
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Poppy Sweeting x Garreth Weasley
Of Creatures and Cauldrons (Part 1)
Poppy has a major crush on Gareth. There's only one problem; he's in love with someone else.
Of Creatures and Cauldrons (Part 2)
Natsai tries to help Poppy go on a date with her secret crush, Garreth, but things don't go to plan when Garreth's crush turns up.
Of Creatures and Cauldrons (Part 3)
Poppy is distraught over her lack of returned feelings, and Prof. Garlick steps in with an encouraging word.
I didn't really want to say anything about this but it's got to a bit of a point now.
It's blindingly obvious when someone's used AI to write their fics or drabbles for them. While I don't care if people in fandoms do, it's only fanfiction and it's done for fun, what I do care about is people trying to pass it off as their own writing.
AI steals from actual authors who have spent years, sometimes decades, honing their craft, and a lazy good for nothing feeds a robot a prompt and claims they wrote what it then spits out, or posts it without tagging it properly as genAI, which is lying by omission.
If you must use genAI in your posts, tag it as such. There's no shame in using it for fun, but if you don't tag it, you're stealing from better authors and lying about your craft. Better yet, write your own work. Your own effort will always surpass anything a robot recycles from superior authors.
We can always tell. We always know when you use AI.
I see that you posted youâve made smutty audios.. any plans on releasing them here or on Patreon?đ
Any Ominis ones? (Other than the voicemail oneđ„”)
Hi, thanks for the ask. In all honesty I probably won't - I read somewhere that Sebastian's voice actor was under 18 when he originally recorded his lines for Sebastian, and therefore I would be deeply uncomfortable with making suggestive or outright smutty audios with a kid's voice. It's also why the audiobook is on hold until I can verify his age when he recorded (which I've not been able to do yet).
Ominis' voice actor was a full adult so I'm less pressed about borrowing the voice for saucy non-profit audios made for fun, but it's quite expensive and time consuming to create them! So I'm not likely to make more unless I get some severe inspiration that makes the cost worth it. I've had some ideas, but nothing that makes me want to put in the level of effort the voicemail one took to make.
Burnout is a bastard, but I've found the best way to get back into gear is to write absolutely anything. I saw something online that sparked an idea.
Please enjoy this nonsensical stream of consciousness involving Dumbledore, Knitting, and Heavy Metal.
âAh, I thought weâd run into this little snag,â Dumbledore said. âYou seem to be labouring under the delusion that I will⊠what is that phrase? Come quietly.â
Harry watched the scene play out for as long as he was able to before McGonagall threw him to the ground; the brief fight with the Ministry staff, the flash of fire as Dumbledore grasped Fawkes by the tail and vanished, and the ensuing silence that permeated the air before the Ministry staff woke up and started flapping about in a rage-induced panic, like so many spoiled toddlers who have been told they werenât allowed a fifth helping of cake.
Where had Dumbledore gone?
~*~*~
Several hundred miles away, there was a brief flash of light on a beach in Finland, and a tall, thin man with long white hair and a beard luscious enough to infuriate catwalk models across the globe appeared as if from nowhere. Luckily, it was a chilly, wet day, so the beach was empty.
Albus Dumbledore took out his pocketwatch, the face of it covered with planets and odd symbols instead of numbers, wondered for a moment why heâd never thought to buy a timepiece that actually told him the time, and set off across the sand, pondering what he would do during his unintentional holiday.
The answer came to him swiftly as he approached a small shop with the intention of buying a parka and a bag of liquorice allsorts. Plastered to the front of this quaint muggle shop was a bright yellow poster emblazoned with black ink. In the centre of this was a ball of wool that had been drawn to resemble a skull, complete with knitting needles. The wording was in Finnish, but Dumbledore, being a brilliantly clever old man, could speak lots of languages.
Heavy Metal Knitting World Championships.
âWell now,â said Dumbledore, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye. âThat sounds like quite a good time.â
~*~*~
Three days later, a large crowd of hairy muggles with facial piercings gathered before a stage, each of them artfully dressed in a variety of black clothing. A few little old grandmas could be seen in the crowd as well, shivering slightly in long woollen coats. Many of the big hairy men offered them their jackets and got some shortbread in return.
On the stage was a big, aggressive looking drumkit, a pair of guitars that looked like they might actually have teeth, a keyboard with stickers of skulls and flames on it, and a piccolo.
Soon enough, another big, hairy man bounced onstage, wearing a leather jacket with spikes on it. He grabbed the microphone and yelled into it, waving at the crowd. The crowd responded with whoops and leaping. Their enthusiasm was such that a few of the little old ladies discovered what it meant to be a kite for a brief minute.
âGood morning Finland!â roared the host. âWelcome to the annual Heavy Metal Knitting World Championships!â More cheers followed this statement. âWe have a fantastic lineup for you all today, some of the best bands, and best knitters, competing for the coveted title of World Champion Heavy Metal Knitter!â
The crowd whooped and jumped about again, bouncing into each other. A pair of reading glasses went sailing into the air. The host let the crowd calm down a moment, then spread his arms wide.
âLetâs welcome our first contestants, Crib Gunge!â
On the stage, a group of hairy, leatherclad men with enormous beards charged forward, heading to the instruments. One of them walked to the front of the stage, wearing a knitted frog hat with dangly legs that hung down each side of his face and secured under his chin. He held a ball of yarn and a pair of chunky knitting needles. The band launched into their song, a thrum of noisy guitars and thumping bass accompanied by a pounding drumbeat. The man in the frog hat began to knit, swinging his head back and forth and leaping about to the music.
The crowd cheered and jumped along as well, careful to form a protective ring around the little old ladies, who had grouped together for safety.
The song came to an end, and the man with the frog hat proudly held up half a scarf, a little misshapen and lumpy, but the crowd hollered all the same as the band trooped off. The host came back on to announce another band, and the whole thing began again, another raucous metal song accompanied this time by a young woman with clompy, chunky boots and spiky red hair bouncing around the stage and knitting something that appeared to be the beginnings of a doily.
It wasnât exactly clear what the criteria was to score points in this competition, thought Dumbledore, standing backstage and watching another little old lady appear very briefly over the heads of the crowd. She looked mildly alarmed, though whether that was due to the sudden absence of gravity caused by the moshing crowd or the rather saucy song lyrics being snarled onstage, he wasnât entirely sure. Regardless, mused Dumbledore, everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time.
A few more bands came on to play a song, each accompanied by a hairy man or spiky woman who attempted to headbang and knit at the same time. Then, the host stepped forward again, looking mildly befuddled, as if his list was ever so slightly longer than it had been a few moments ago.
âEr⊠our next competitors are⊠Dumbles and the Doors?â
The crowd cheered again, but it fizzled out slightly as the next act walked on. Accompanied by several slim women with long, wild hair and artfully torn clothing was a tall, thin man with longer hair and a more impressive beard than perhaps anyone in the crowd had seen before. He wore tiny, half-moon spectacles, a pair of skin-tight, black leather trousers with rips in the knees, enormous, clunky boots, a t-shirt that said ANARCHY! on the front, and a long, black overcoat that swirled.
The crowd murmured. This old man was very clearly ancient, perhaps a hundred and fifteen, if the elderly ladies amongst the metalheads were any judge. They all sympathetically rubbed their hips.
The tall, thin man raised his arms, holding a knitting needle in each hand like a baton.
He brought his hands down sharply, signalling one of the band members to play Flight of the Bumblebee on the piccolo, and Dumbledore began to knit. His hands moved at a frantic blur, and when the drums and electric guitars joined in, he began to headbang. His silvery hair and beard flew about his head, then turned into a whirling windmill of white as he kept pace with the frantic playing. Gasps and cheers sounded from the crowd, and even a few of the old ladies whooped.
Dumbledore was in his element. He hopped and kicked to either side of the stage, letting the momentum of his impressive facial hair carry him in a wild circle, knitting all the while. In the crowd, some of the hairy men lifted the elderly ladies up so they could see properly without being trodden on. A few others began to mosh, if the equivalent of elderly moshing was bumping into one another and saying âterribly sorry, dearieâ immediately afterwards.
As the music reached a crescendo, Dumbledore raised his hands up high, letting the crowd see the piece of knitwear forming under the needles, still headbanging. Then, with a flourish, he sealed the ends, tied off the threads and opened his arms to thunderous applause. He took a bow, smiling as handkerchiefs, bandannas and even a garter were tossed onto the stage at his feet. He rose with a twinkling smile, raised his newly-knitted tea cosy up, placed it firmly on his head, and took his leave, taking the Weird Sisters with him.
~*~*~
Later that evening, Dumbledore sat in a comfy chintz armchair in a modest muggle boarding house. Heâd magicked in his own furniture of course, and was now enjoying a lovely cup of tea with a tot or two of brandy in it, Fawkes the Phoenix perched on the back of his chair. The phoenix was giving him side-eye.
âOh, come now, Fawkes,â said Dumbledore. âNo need for that. Even if the Ministry heard such rumours, theyâd likely think tales of my partaking in a muggle festival are complete nonsense. Besides, it was rather good fun.â
He smiled as he looked to the mantlepiece, where a little golden trophy sat. It was formed like a ball of yarn with knitting needles sticking out of it, and the yarn had the shape of a skull. Dumbledore decided then and there that it was his new favourite ornament, and it likely would remain that way for some time.
At least, until he entered the Bondi Beach Surfing Championships next week.
In planning my fic, I did a lot of research into HP and HL lore to try and make it as accurate as possible. In doing so, I had a wonderful time trying to picture what wands our emerald trio had, and came up with the following. Included below are the woods, cores and lengths of their wands, as well as notes from Ollivander on what each wood symbolises, and I highlighted the parts that I thought most relevant to our trio. I also threw in some floriography for the woods, which I personally think match our trio marvellously.
Dracaena â 10 Âœ inches
Blackthorn wood
"Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. This does not necessarily mean that its owner practises the Dark Arts (although it is undeniable that those who do so will enjoy the blackthorn wandâs prodigious power); one finds blackthorn wands among the Aurors as well as among the denizens of Azkaban. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish."
Symbolism - Transition, Sudden Change, Death
Core - Phoenix Feather
This is the rarest core type. Phoenix feathers are capable of the greatest range of magic, though they may take longer than either unicorn or dragon cores to reveal this. They show the most initiative, sometimes acting of their own accord, a quality that many witches and wizards dislike.
Phoenix feather wands are always the pickiest when it comes to potential owners, for the creature from which they are taken is one of the most independent and detached in the world. These wands are the hardest to tame and to personalise, and their allegiance is usually hard won.
Ominis â 11 Ÿ inches
Cedar
"Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find strength of character and unusual loyalty. My father, Gervaise Ollivander, used always to say, âyou will never fool the cedar carrier,â and I agree: the cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I would go further than my father, however, in saying that I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond. The witch or wizard who is well-matched with cedar carries the potential to be a frightening adversary, which often comes as a shock to those who have thoughtlessly challenged them."
Symbolism - I live but for thee, Think of Me, Prosperity, Longevity
Core - Unicorn Hair
Unicorn hair generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. Wands with unicorn cores are generally the most difficult to turn to the Dark Arts. They are the most faithful of all wands, and usually remain strongly attached to their first owner, irrespective of whether he or she was an accomplished witch or wizard.
Minor disadvantages of unicorn hair are that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and that they are prone to melancholy if seriously mishandled, meaning that the hair may âdieâ and need replacing.
Sebastian â 12 ÂŒ inches
Aspen
"Wand-quality aspen wood is white and fine-grained, and highly prized by all wand-makers for its stylish resemblance to ivory and its usually outstanding charmwork. The proper owner of the aspen wand is often an accomplished duellist, or destined to be so, for the aspen wand is one of those particularly suited to martial magic. In my experience, aspen wand owners are generally strong-minded and determined, more likely than most to be attracted by quests and new orders; this is a wand for revolutionaries."
Symbolism - Excess of sensibility, fear, Lamentation
Core - Dragon Heartstring
As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner.
The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.
i miss your works so so much đ are you alright? do you plan on continuing your works?
Hi anon, that's very sweet of you to say, I'm glad you enjoyed them. I'd love to get back to writing, but sadly my creative bucket is well and truly empty at the moment. I've written so much in the last couple of years and I've been trying to finish my original work that I plan to publish, which has burned me out something chronic.
I do plan to come back, but I won't put out anything that's below my usual standards. You know that old saying, 'if you have to force a fart, it's probably shit'? I don't want to give you guys shit, you deserve a good, well-written story.
In the meantime, depending on whether you read on ao3 or wattpad, I do have some older works in another fandom that you might enjoy (ao3 specific). It might scratch the itch as I rest my dumb-dumb brain.
A huge thank you to the lovely and talented @morelikeravenbore for the tag đ„° I've had little cause to write of late, far to many bothersome aspects of real life have intruded upon my literary desires. However, I did cook up a little somethin' somethin' that probably counts.
Until Death Do Us Part
It had been six months since Ominis experienced what he considered to be a contender for one of the worst days of his life. When he had been younger, if someone had ever cared to ask him; âwhatâs the worst thing to ever happen to you?â he could have easily answered that it was the day his own family cast Crucio on him to force him to torture a muggle. Once his terrible fifth year was over and done with, it became more of a struggle to choose between that, and the day he learned that his best friend was going to be sent to Azkaban, despite his decision along with the new student to protect him from his misdeeds. It seemed Anne had second thoughts about that, for she turned her brother in.
At the time, Ominis veered towards the latter being more awful, because it was the single thing that had set the rest of his terrible life in motion, the sole reason he found himself without an escape, a sanctuary, or a friend to have his back once term ended.
Heâd had nowhere else to go, so he had to go back home. Not the home heâd come to think of as home, no, that was Hogwarts, and the Sallowâs cottage in Feldcroft. Neither were an option for a summer holiday after Anne vanished and Sebastian was arrested.
Ominis winced, trying very hard not to think too much about what transpired when he stood in the presence of his parents for the first time after five long years. He tried very hard not to think about how heâd known what awaited him as he stood, back rigid, in the cold entrance hall of the manor. The jabs at his appearance. The mockery of his carefully chosen clothing. The snide remarks about his blindness, his capability as a wizard, his failings as a man. He tried very hard not to think about how his chest had clenched, his heart had raced, his palms had grown clammy. Heâd known he was to endure weeks of not just verbal insults, but brutal, physical attacks as well. Hexes. Jinxes. Curses. His parents never denied his older brothers their second favourite sport of Ominis-tormenting.
He sighed. Heâd survived it before, and he had survived it again. He at least had enjoyed Christmas and Easter at Hogwarts through his sixth and seventh years, though without his best friend, even that small mercy felt cold.
It was when school ended that Ominis thought again about how he had another contender for the worst day of his life. Leaving behind the place where he had made his very first friends, learned how to use magic, discovered secrets, and learned to stand up for himself was almost as painful as losing Sebastian and Anne in the same month had been. But he had left with six OWLS of rather good merit, if he said so himself. All he had to do now was find a job and passage abroad, perhaps to France, and he could escape his damnable family for good.
No such luck. Heâd been home barely a week before they told him they had arranged for him to be married. He remembered the glee in their voices as they told him this, mentioning some pureblood heâd never heard of.
âSheâs a disappointment to her family as well, so youâre the perfect match.â
âHomeschooled, so she wonât have had time to learn how unsatisfactory you are.â
âOr how ugly. She may faint before she reaches the alter.â
Ominis had decided he hated her as much as his parents for agreeing to this.
The wedding was quick, and he often wondered if this was to prevent the pair of them from gathering enough courage to run for it, or lose their minds and start cursing everything in the vicinity. Heâd thought about it more than once. Perhaps it was quick because her parents didnât want to spend any more time or galleons than necessary on the ordeal. There wasnât even a reception. For that, at least, he was grateful.
Ominis sighed again, his head pillowed on satin. The covers of his bed were satin as well. Thankfully, he slept alone.
He remembered all too well standing before some altar, a person of wheezing breath laced with halitosis standing behind it. The sound of a distant door opening had set his racing heart to squeezing, and the sound of it closing could have been his very own death knell. He had kept his wand firmly in hand, refusing to raise it to gather the impression of his bride as he had listened to her footsteps drawing closer, the low click of heels on tiles, the tiniest echo resounding over the rustling of fabric dragged over the floor. Her dress, no doubt. He had wondered if she was ugly. He had hoped she was ugly, because then he would have less excuse to touch her, blind or no.
He had been silent as she arrived at the altar, standing before him. From the barest change in the air from her breath, he had guessed she was of his height, and he was not a short man. He had drawn himself up to his full height, no longer looking down and to the right, just in case his eyeline landed somewhere it shouldnât and embarrassing someone. No, he had stared right where he imagined this womanâs eyes to be, and from the tiny intake of breath, he knew he was staring right into them, something that unnerved those unused to it. A talent he wielded with grim satisfaction.
She smelled amazing. He hated that she smelled amazing.
Heâd barely heard the creaking voice of the minister, hurrying through the wedding rites. Heâd just kept on glaring, and he imagined he could feel his fury returned, his eyes hot and dry, as if she was burning them with her own glower. He had hardly noticed when she took his hand to slide something cold and smooth over his finger, and heâd had to force his hand to perform the same motion for her. The only words that had registered in his mind were the ones he wished he could have missed.
You may now kiss your bride.
He hadnât moved, so she did. She had come forward, and he had felt her breath on his face. Sweet and touched with mint. Their lips had brushed, barely a touch, and Ominis fought not to recoil. His first kiss. Heâd been saving it for⊠well. He didnât know who, but it wasnât her.
His lip had curled.
âUntil death do us part,â Ominis hissed.
âYours, or mine?â she replied.
Her voice was surprisingly melodic, low pitched, and⊠Merlin, the word sultry had almost crossed his mind, had he not caught it by the ankles and throttled the life out of it. She had taken his arm in an iron grip and steered him down the aisle. This woman, his wife, in all but want.
That had been six months ago. They shared a small house on the outskirts of Surrey, surrounded on three sides by fields, farmland and woodland, a town at their back. The only thing they had agreed on, the moment they stepped into the carriage to fly them to their new home, was to avoid each other as much as possible. They barely passed each other, let alone spoke to each other. Meals were shared in stony silence, though Ominis was privately pleased that she was a competent cook, though this pleasure rankled him.
He could hear her now. She had risen from her own bed in her own room, and in moments, she would cross the landing to the bathroom, where she would spend twenty minutes showering and readying herself for the day. He would remain in bed, waiting for her to go downstairs, and then he would rise, bathe, and follow for breakfast. Then they would go about their days.
Her family were wealthy. Far wealthier than the Gaunts, and he had come to realise that this was the only reason heâd been married off to her. The dowry, he had heard, had been most impressive, if only to get rid of a disappointing daughter and a disappointing son. Failure to impress oneâs parents, he thought, could be a lucrative business indeed, had he the will to harness such a thing. Her money had become his, and there was enough to support them for many a year. Good thing too, because he had no inclination to work.
Ominis rolled onto his side. Living at home had been miserable. Bullied, tormented, even tortured, his days had been filled with fear, his nights with terror. Hogwarts, despite his friendship with Sebastian and Anne, had been little better. Students hated or feared him, assumed him Dark, avoided him or bullied him, and though their jibes were nothing compared to his family, it was still awful. But now? Living in silence in a house that didnât feel like home, friendless, married to a woman that clearly despised him as much as he did her, Ominis thought he couldnât be more miserable if he made a jolly good effort to be so.
He didnât want to get up. He rarely did these days, for he saw little point. What joy did a walk in the fresh air hold for him if he had this to come home to? What was the point in losing himself in a storybook if reality was waiting for him to close the cover? What distraction did dreams hold, if a loveless marriage was all he had to look forward to when he woke?
Heâd thought heâd never marry when he was younger. The girls at Hogwarts didnât interest him, and the boys certainly didnât, no matter how some of the other students liked to insinuate his preferences because of his determination in remaining well-groomed and spoken. Yes, he had longed for someone to love him, to accept him as he was, but he knew it wasnât possible. Who could love, or even want a creature like him? Blind, broken, defective, hated by all but a few, who turned out to be just as fucked up as he was.
Ominis came to realise two things a little too late. The first was that his wife had come into his room, no doubt looking for him as he hadnât come down to breakfast. The second thing was that he was weeping.
âOminis?â
His breath caught. He registered the dampness on his cheeks. He felt them flood with heat, and he pulled the covers over his head, praying in vain that she hadnât seen. That she would leave. That she would just let him be.
Of course, wilful, stubborn creature that she was, she did none of those things. She remained in the doorway for a moment longer, then came closer, her feet hushing over the carpet. There was another pause, and then his mattress sank to one side as she perched beside him. He tensed.
âGet out,â he managed.
She did not. A weight landed on his shoulder, tentative at first, then firm. Her hand. A squeeze.
âAre you unwell?â
âI said get out,â Ominis snarled, pulling the covers tighter about his head.
The hand withdrew, but her presence did not. Ominis clenched his jaw, scrubbing angrily at his eyes under the marginal safety of the quilt. Dimly, he realised that this was the most they had spoken since they were married, if one ignored the snipes and jabs they threw at each other on occasion, a means of venting their displeasure and frustrations that never seemed to soothe either.
He heard a soft breath, the sigh of snow slumping off a roof, the sound it makes as it falls. He waited for the flump.
âOminis⊠I know this isnât what either of us wanted. Hell, I know it isnât what I wanted. I wanted to explore, to travel the world, to discover some new magic or make something of myself. I never wanted to be married, least of all to someone that barely notices if I walk into the room.â
Ominis said nothing. Of course he would be the root of this womanâs woes. If he remained silent, perhaps she would leave him be.
But she didnât. She remained, the warmth of her body seeping into the mattress, and he knew it would remain there long after he left, an indelible imprint that would so unwelcomely remind him of her intrusion.
âWeâre stuck,â she said now, and her voice was the low hum of a cello in a distant room. âWeâre married, whether we like it or not. Would it not be sensible to just⊠try to get on? We could at least make an effort to be cordial with one another.â
âWe could divorce,â Ominis muttered, loudly enough for her to hear. She gave a wry laugh, and his lips twisted outward, the way the gnarled root of an ancient oak might twist. It could be mistaken for a smile on a dark night, if one were inclined towards fancy. They both knew divorce was not an option. The Gaunts had made it perfectly clear that if the annual payments from his wifeâs family ceased for whatever reason, he would beg for death before they were through with him. He knew they wouldnât grant it, either. Not for months. Years, if they could keep him alive and sane that long.
For a long few minutes, they sat in silence. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall, and Ominisâ heartbeat resounding in the mattress and burrowing through the pillow to his ear. It was growing uncomfortably close under the covers, and he found himself craving fresh air. Gingerly, his hand crept forward, lifting the cover just enough to allow it in without uncovering his face. The air came, and with it came her scent, marking itself on the inside of his lungs as surely as it would mark itself in his bedlinen. Something that smelled of warm citrus and amber. It made him think of hot, dry summer nights, a time forgotten when he holidayed in Greece with his family. Well. They holidayed. He endured. He had hated the hustle and bustle and the way nothing was familiar, the food was strange and unpalatable, the voices rough and incomprehensible, the weather scalding and intolerable.
The smells though⊠heâd loved them. Exotic and musky and enticing.
Sultry.
Ominis pulled the covers off his head and sat up, keeping them drawn to his chest. He faced his wife for the first time in six months, and again heard the soft intake of breath as his pupilless eyes found hers.
âWhy are you here?â
âWeâre married,â she replied. Her tone was sardonic, and he could have sworn he heard her smirk. His fingers tightened in the covers.
âI meant in my room,â he growled. âI appreciate my privacy.â
âI thought you might be unwell,â she said. He felt the mattress shift, and thought she might have shrugged. âYouâre never late to breakfast. I came to check.â
âSuch a caring wife,â he bit. âPerhaps I tire of your cooking.â
âPerhaps I do as well,â she said.
Ominis glared. He was trying to needle her, some base thing within him longing for a fight, a true, proper argument in which he could let loose, scream and shout and vent everything he had been holding since the day he was born into this cursed life, but by Merlin, she seemed to be enjoying his taunts. It sounded like she was smiling.
âIâm not doing it,â he groused. âThe cooking, I mean. Itâs your job.â
âJobs are paid,â she remarked, still in that infuriatingly bright tone, as if they were simply conversing, not steering towards a tantrum. âI do it because I enjoy it. You would too, if you could cook.â
Ominisâ fist clenched. He wished he had his wand in hand as her playful jab landed and dug into his skin. It wasnât his fault that he didnât know how! No one had ever shown him.
âDo not mock me,â he snarled. âYou⊠invade my room, my life, and mock me?â
âI invaded your life as much as you invaded mine,â she replied, and Ominis found himself inordinately pleased at the sudden coolness in her tone. But the growing grin was tugged off his face as she wrongfooted him yet again.
âIâm sorry,â she said. âI didnât mean to offend you.â
She rose at last from her seat on the edge of his bed, and he heard her move away. In that moment, he wanted to call her back to him, to apologise himself for his behaviour, his bad mood, his determination to start a fight. How foolish it seemed to him then, that he would behave so childishly, when she too had had her life, her goals, her wishes shattered by the machinations of a family that termed her existence a disappointment, as his family did.
Perhaps they did have something in common after all.
Tags!
@thatssallowsgirl @alliezarin @blackhehecat @islayhawkin @morelikeravenbore (because your prose is like chocolate cake after lent) @little-emerald-snake and anyone else who would like to join đ
The trouble with having so many ideas for fics and being only one person that has to hold down a job and find the time to write, I see other fics popping up that literally have the same premise as fics I've been planning to write đđđ I've literally seen two separate ones by two different authors AND an absolutely beautiful bit of comic art with a quote from Omi I've had written down in CoL for the last four months đđđ
Genuinely, this isn't a rant at all, more an observation on how there aren't really that many original ideas, especially when writing fanfiction! I might write mine anyway, but I've got my current ones to finish first đŹ I can't wait to read the fics that have similar ideas!
Sebastian enjoys Christmas quite a lot, though it often comes with some melancholy for him. He has fond but faint memories of his parents around this time of year, and he mostly remembers cosy reds and warm fires and the scent of nutmeg and marshmallow. He remembers feeling safe, loved, and excited. Of course, that changed when he and Anne went to live with Solomon â their days became colder, hugs less frequent, affection rarely given from their irascible guardian. Christmas was celebrated in the Sallowâs cottage, but it wasnât the same.
However, when Sebastian and Anne went to Hogwarts, they elected to stay at the castle for that first year, to keep Ominis company. Solomon spent his first Christmas in six years alone, and it made him rethink things. Not by a lot, but just enough to make the effort to throw up a bit of tinsel and get some turkey for supper, to gift each of the three children a small, inexpensive bauble that showed he tried without having to go to too much effort. Anne found this gesture deeply endearing, but Sebastian wasnât so easily convinced, knowing that an another argument was just around the corner. Whenever he can, he takes the opportunity to make a big thing out of Christmas, eating too much at dinner, buying presents he canât really afford so his sister and best friend have lovely things to open, singing carols at the top of his voice and hilariously out of tune.
Sebastian wants this time of year to be special, memorable, and important, something to look forward to when things get too dark. Even after fifth year, when his friendship with Ominis is strained and Anne isnât talking to him and Solomon is dead, he still tries. He decorates the cottage how he feels it should be decorated, he cuts down a tree by himself and hauls it in, agonising over each and every detail to make sure itâs perfect. He buys presents for everyone â Ominis, Anne, all his classmates, and you, of course. It doesnât matter if heâs barely spoken to someone, even the teachers get a little gift, even if itâs just a small bar of Honeydukesâ chocolate. Sebastian needs this time of year to be special, to help him remember that there is still some good in the world, that he is still capable of love, and being loved.
And sometimes, just as he's about to drift off to sleep, he smells the faint scent of nutmeg and marshmallow, and his dreams are soft and warm.
Ominis Gaunt
For Ominis, Christmas was just another time of year. His parents considered it a very muggle tradition, and as such eschewed typical celebratory activities. However, that didn't stop them trying to outdo other noble families in terms of the most expensive gifts to each other (which the Gaunts promptly sold, hoping their fellow purebloods didn't notice they'd spent less on their gifts and enchanted them). Decorations mean nothing to Ominis, they simply serve to be an annoyance if suddenly thereâs a bloody tree in the middle of the floor that wasnât there yesterday, tinsel to trip over and baubles to slip on. But when he was very small, Noctua told him about Christmas, old Saint Nick, the elves, and more, whispering stories of fantasy to him and gifting him small, thoughtful things that set his imagination alight, thinking such things couldn't be real. Of course, that stopped when she vanished, and Ominis didnât dare raise the subject with his parents for fears of reprisal.
So, it was quite the shock when Hogwarts became abundantly festive during his first year, his new friendsâ enthusiasm alien to him. He had no desire to return home unless he absolutely had to, and he was touched when Anne and Sebastian decided to stay with him. Over that holiday, Ominisâ opinions began to shift, and he secretly came to love the sound of carols, the smell of peppermint and pine, the subtle shift in the air that brought with it kindness and joy, things that had been all too rare for him.
Ominis isnât really one for giving or receiving gifts, being of the opinion that thereâs usually some kind of string attached, an unspoken, expected favour to be called upon at a later date. As such, Ominis is incredibly selective about who he accepts presents from, and who he gifts them to. Anne, Sebastian and you would receive small things that to the average outsider seem like afterthoughts â a bracelet made of glass beads, a copy of a children's book, a series of different kinds of flowers dried and pressed and enchanted to last. Those he doesnât know well or doesn't trust will be gifted far more extravagant things, which seems very odd to those that donât know Ominis.
But those that do know him know that these âlast minuteâ or âthoughtlessâ presents are actually representations of how well Ominis knows his friends. Anne had been gushing for months about this particular bracelet, wishing she had one just like it. Sebastian had been bemoaning how his favourite copy of Beedleâs Tales had fallen to bits because heâd read it so much, and as for the flowers⊠Ominis is well versed in floriography, and there will be a message in there, just for you.
The extravagant gifts for family and newcomers to his friendship circle is an insurance policy to make sure he is in no way indebted. Ominis canât stand being in debt to anyone, especially at Christmas.
Garreth Weasley
Christmas for Garreth is a huge event. Itâs a time filled with laughter, happiness, enthusiasm, excitement⊠everything Christmas should be. He never spends it at Hogwarts, preferring to go home and be with his family, where itâs always loud and full of smells of cooking, where everyone is so tightly packed together you canât turn around without bumping into another Weasley.
He is enthusiastic about everything to do with Christmas, from the presents to the decorations to the cooking to the dinner itself. The Weasleys have several small family traditions that could be missed if youâve just come into the family or have never experienced a Weasley Christmas before â things like always taking a sip of liquor before you start to eat, because Garrethâs granddad once made a joke about âwhetting the appetiteâ and baby Garreth took this literally, grabbing his grandadâs whisky. Another tradition is how the Weasley children will pile into their parentsâ bedroom, no matter their age, and all sit on the bed to open their stockings before they all go downstairs together to open the presents under the tree.
Though the Weasleys arenât well off by any means, each of them tends to have their family and Christmas in mind for most of the year, and will always be on the lookout for little bargains, trinkets, and special offers they can snaffle to hoard until the end of the year. Itâs important to them that they have lots of things to open, even if itâs individually wrapped pieces of a puzzle set or chocolate hamper or artistic kit. It makes everyone feel like thereâs more to go around, and that just for one day, they can forget about their nearly-empty Gringotts Vault.
Garreth himself is absurdly generous, and heâll happily do favours and odd jobs for people if that means he can earn a little extra gold so he can make Christmas a bit more special for his family and friends. He happily opens his home to you if you ever express the slightest interest in a Weasley Christmas. If you attend, youâll feel like part of the family in no time at all.
The conversation we never go to hear between Sebastian and Ominis after the Scriptorium incident.
~
"How could you do it, Sebastian? How could you curse someone like that, curse her? You had to mean it!"
"I just... we could have died otherwise! It doesn't matter how I did it, I just did. We got out, we're alive, aren't we?"
"Ominis? Don't ignore me."
"I'm not ignoring you, Sallow, I'm processing. I won't forget this."
"Hey, come on mate. You forgot all about that time I accidentally turned your hair blue, right?"
"Turned my-? I don't believe this. How can you think this is comparable? Her scream went right through me, Sallow, I felt it in my bones! ...I ...I haven't felt anything else since."
It's your first day at your new job, working for the Investigations team of the Ministry of Magic's Law Enforcement Department, and you've already managed to make a major mistake. Your boss, Ominis, is not impressed.
(Otherwise known as I wanted to try my hand at this AI thing and I am very happy with the results even if I had to edit his eyes)
