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🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-rated, 15.6k]

"Kill..." He feels your hair dribble down, tickling his face. Your hand is shaking. The tip of the dagger teases into his flesh, drawing a meagre bead of blood, but you haven't pushed down yet. Still there. Still fighting back. He summons all the strength he can muster. "I love you," he rasps, letting the truth be known. "I would say it a thousand times over. I would let it be my last words. I would let my last thought be of you. All your strength, joy, laughter and love – I will remember it in this life and the next."

In which, stranded together in the Muggle world, you and Ominis make your final stand.

Tags: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, pure-blood culture, canon rewrite, book!canon compliant, comas, wizard in the Muggle world, wizard/ Muggle relations, innuendos, final showdown, domestic bliss, protective!Ominis, protective!Reader, minor sexual assault (not committed between Ominis and Gibby, the passage has been marked with /// if you wish to skip <3), coarse language (one f-bomb).

MASTERLIST | FIRST | PREV AO3 | Wattpad

11. Peace and Pain

When the dawn finally comes, bathing you both in light, he neither wakes you nor regrets it.

He spent most of the night with one ear on his surroundings. There is peace in the outside world, the fields of rye that susurrate in the wind, birds whistling that herald the dawn, the soft clatter of horse-drawn carts, a gentle rhythm of country life. It is beguiling, but it is a lie. He is not a normal man, cuddled next to his loving wife, this place a mere resting stop in the midst of adventure.

He is a blood traitor in search of sanctuary, and you are his illicit secret.

His other ear, however, the one he admittedly paid more attention to, was keenly trained on you. It heeded to your soft breaths in slumber, your odd whimpers, your funny noises. Turns out you snore a lot. And you shift, restless, one time swinging your arm hard enough to jerk him awake. You drool, too. You are so intensely, adorably human in your sleep, and he cannot find fault in any of it.

So he holds you close, believing the beguiling lie for as long as he can.

When he detects a change in your breathing, and you finally rouse, you croak a rusty admonishment.

"You didn't wake me."

He smiles. "Good morning to you too, my darling."

"Did you sleep?"

"A little."

"Ominis," you chide, but there's no real scorn in it.

He tilts your chin up for a kiss, but his lips meet the back of your hand instead.

"You cannot be that mad."

"No," you say, muffled and shy. "I just— I get really bad morning breath."

He laughs. Merlin, he laughs. You end up laughing too, and he takes advantage of the moment to pin your wrists above your head, giving him free access to your mouth, which he kisses, delicately, deeply, savouring your moan.

When you both break apart, he smiles. "I don't think you have morning breath."

"Wait, really?"

"No, but I shall have to kiss you again to be sure."

You laugh and find solace in one another's embrace again. The bliss cannot last forever, though, and eventually you pull apart to face the morning. Coventry is the nearest city – about a day's ride north, you decipher after consulting a map. So after washing and dressing and putting your parents' rings back on, reinforcing the marriage ruse, you go to pay the innkeeper and procure a horse as Ominis clears the place, vanishing the extra bed you never used and dismantling all the protective enchantments. If the Gaunts come through, he wants not even the walls to whisper in betrayal. He packs your things and leaves nothing behind, mumbling his thanks to the innkeeper when you both leave for the stables.

Things have changed now. It feels different around you, some strange barrier he didn't know he'd erected having evanesced overnight. Every touch makes him glow, every laugh sparks his heart. He knows this is what couples refer to as the honeymoon period – the time in a budding relationship where everything you say and do brings unbridled euphoria. At some point, that will dampen.

Or it should – somehow he can't imagine it ever will.

Being with you is so easy. Getting to this point was not, but the relationship part, the loving part, comes as naturally as breathing to a person, as magic to a wizard, as your hugs to his melancholy.

"If my mama asks," you're saying to him, as you turn them both around the corner for the stables, "we did absolutely nothing together last night."

He clears his throat, focusing on you. "Nothing. Understood."

"You definitely did not take my virtue."

"You are incredibly virtuous."

"Oh drat," you say, jerking him to a stop suddenly, "am I going to Hell? For doing the oodly-doodly?"

"... The oodly-doodly?"

"The marital act, amorous congress, playing the game of nug-nug—"

"Sex."

You hush him. "Don't say it aloud!"

He sighs. You can take the witch out of the Muggle world, but you can't take the Muggle world out of the witch. "I'm telling you, wizardfolk don't care nearly as much as Muggles do. And as you so kindly reminded me, you are not a Muggle." He leans close. "You certainly had no reservations last night."

He can practically hear you blush. "I don't regret it, I just hope I'm not a dollymop cursed to the fiery pits of oblivion, you know?"

With everything going on, it's almost... sweet, that this is the thing that occupies your mind. Not your broken family, not his, coming to kill you. Just the future. Just your love.

For another moment, he believes the beguiling lie.

"If that's the case, I'll be going with you, since I didn't wait until marriage either." He smiles, tugging you along again. "We can accompany each other."

"We would make a rather an attractive couple down there, don't you think?"

"Even Lucy would be jealous."

"Lucy?" You sound confused. "Who's Lucy?"

"You know, that demonic figure all the religious Muggles fear."

"... You mean Lucifer?"

Whoops. You giggle and he shakes his head. You can take the wizard out of the wizarding world...

He feels the dawn heat peel back once you pass under the stable roof. The place has that odour of the outdoors that instantly wrinkles his nose: hay, mud and dirt-clod animal hide. He takes a quick peek using his wand in his pocket; the horse you've chosen is a large stallion, restlessly stomping its hooves in the furthest pen. It ruffles as you prepare the saddle.

"You can ride this creature?"

"Mama comes from a horse farm in Wales," you chirrup. "She taught my brothers and me how to ride. I always loved it. Wasn't very good, mind you. Could never beat Connor or Ellian in a race. But I could out-side-saddle them all. My queenly wave is very practiced. I think I could give Vicky a run for her shillings."

You prattle on, but his thoughts ravel back to yesterday, when he realised just how little he was contributing to this journey. "You are... extraordinary."

"Honestly, Ominis. What have I said about flattery?"

"I mean it. You seem to have infinite knowledge about the Muggle world. I don't know how to cook or clean or sew. I don't know how to make a poultice or navigate a map or ride a horse. I don't even understand something as simple as Muggle currency. Everything I've ever needed was either handed to me or conjured with a wand. I can't help but feel... rather inadequate in comparison."

You seem thoughtful. "I suppose when you have no means and no magic, you have to rely on yourself. But that's the great thing about it." You take his hand, curl it close to the horse's nose so it can sniff him. "It's never too late to learn."

It licks his knuckles, a slick wet slug, and you press his hand to the horse, its softness surprising him. It's a little like a Hippogriff, fluffy down that disguises the strong and lean musculature beneath.

"Don't sell yourself short either," you say, taking your hand away, letting him pet the horse on his own. "You're far too smart to feel inadequate about anything. You're like my own personal encyclopaedia when it comes to magic, and you're the best spell-worker I know. You're a very good dueller too, could've given anyone in Crossed Wand a run for their Galleons, and you know my grades were always mediocre, so I wouldn't have made it through school without copying your homework. You're very meticulous and organised. It's not like life gave you an easy hand either, what with your blindness."

It is a small comfort to know you support him unwaveringly, and his cheeks warm at the rampant compliments. "I suppose."

"Oh," you add brightly, "and you're a very thorough lover."

He barks a laugh. "That might be the highest praise of them all."

You give his arm a cuddle. "Now, no more self-doubt. Coventry will have an owl post."

You help him onto the steed, and you sit in front. It tugs back a fond memory of you in fifth year. "I trust your horse-riding is better than your broom-flying?"

"Much better. For one, the horse can't go very fast with two passengers. Hold onto me, okay?"

He slides his hands around your waist, and presses a gentle kiss to your ear. "Gladly, my darling."

You puff up as you prompt the horse into a trot.

The hours pass, but with you it seems like only minutes. You describe the world to him, or share funny anecdotes, talk about random topics or admit your worries about your family. The sun beats down, tiring him, but he engages with you every moment; he could listen to you speak forever. There are moments, though brief, that he completely forgets who he is, what he's running from, the impossible task at hand. The beguiling lie that he wishes were true – just two friends, partners, lovers, on an adventure together into the welcome unknown, at peace.

Maybe someday it will be real, but not yet. For now, he must face what comes with his head high.

At about midday, you stop to let the horse rest at a local outpost, as you both snack on dried nuts, cheese and some chocolate bourbons.

"We ought to get our story straight, in case we have to talk to strangers," you say firmly as you crunch on shell. "I guess we can stick with Sebastian and Anne, but we need a surname. Oh, how about Butter? Yes, that'll work. So I'm Anne Butter and you're Sebastian Butter."

His brow slants in exasperation, but you continue.

"Now, our past. You and I... met at the local church. In Scotland. St... Slattery's Church of Holiness and Virtue. Yes. I sat next to you during the, erm, prayers, and asked who you were praying for, and it was love at first sight."

"... Really?"

"Sorry, sorry, love at first... sound? It doesn't have the same ring to it. Now, how's your Brummie accent?"

"No, no," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I mean that if anyone cares to ask us for this much detail, we'll simply wipe their memories."

"We're not going to Obliviate anyone!"

"There's no way I can say St Slattery's Church of Holiness and Virtue with a straight face." He smirks. "Especially after last night."

You swat him. "Have some decorum, Mr Butter. We'll need to be prepared for any scenario. No Obliviate."

He sighs. "Can we at least change the surname?"

"No! It's cute!"

He acquiesces, because it's you.

On the road again, you fall into companionable silence. It never feels awkward, because you could, if you wanted, speak, but you're content to leave him to some moments of quiet reflection, and he's grateful. He isn't afforded the luxury of solitude at the moment, so it's kind of you to give him space for his thoughts. That you're happy to fill either role, stoic and chatty, reinforces how dear you are to him. It isn't long before you're talking again though, this time about the future.

"What about marriage? Would you ever want to get married? If it was your choice, that is?"

He keeps his grip on you steady. "I would, if it were to you."

"Don't get any ideas. Mama will go loony if I'm married by the time we get back, and Papa might just skewer you with a lollipop stick." You adjust yourself. "Do you have a dream wedding?"

"A what?"

"You know, a wedding you really want?"

He's never thought about it before. "Small," he says, the thought coming to him at once. "With only people I like."

"So that's, what, three guests?"

"You're teasing, but that sounds perfectly fine to me."

Your laughter rumbles beneath his arms.

"Your mama mentioned you had a dream wedding yesterday."

"Oh." You deflate. "It's silly."

He gives you a reassuring squeeze. "Tell me."

"Okay, well, suppose it's not the wedding but after. I don't mind where I get married, but I always wanted to have the honeymoon by the coast. Like a little cottage on the beach or something! That would be so nice. I want to pick out loads of conch shells and go swimming and eat fish and chips." You hunch. "Seaside honeymoons are really expensive though, and now I guess my wedding fund will go to rebuilding the confectionary, so..."

He drops his head onto your shoulder. "That sounds lovely, and I shall endeavour to make that happen. If you marry me, that is."

"Don't tell me that's your proposal."

"Of course not. I'd be much more romantic than that."

"Good, because I want you down on your knees."

He smiles devilishly. "That's my favourite position for you too."

"Ominis!" He laughs, and you let out a hysterical grunt. "You have such a filthy mind!"

"Only for you."

"Hmph! And there I was, thinking you were a gentleman."

"As I've told you before, Gibberish," and brings his lips close to your ear, "I never said I was a gentleman."

Your shiver feeds his male ego.

Tension rolls over you both when Coventry nears, close to sunset. The trees, tall and copulent, surround the roads leading to the centre of the city, and they rustle precariously as you pass through the wood. He is tired, ravenous, exhausted – and his tailbone shrieks in pain, but he's been quiet about it for the sake of the journey, so to know you've finally reached your first destination is nothing short of a blessing.

"Supposedly this is where St George was born," you say – instantly he can detect nerves. "I asked Professor Binns once, if it was true, and he went on for about two hours about historians argue about whether the dragon was a Libyan Lacerator or a Common Welsh Green. Doesn't really make sense to me that it's a Welsh one, I know he's the patron saint of England, but George was said to have originated in Greece—"

"Darling," he says gently, "I know you're nervous. Owl posts are open twenty-four hours, so how about we eat first, all right?"

The small goal seems to give you courage. "Okay."

After leaving the horse, you take his hand and guide him through the city gates. Coventry has a different flavour to London, and though some things they share, crammed streets and beggars and coal, it is also fresher here, and there is more beneath its working-class surface. Supposedly the city has become a boon for clock and watchmakers, you tell him over a quick pub dinner.

"I have an idea how to find the wizarding outpost. Erm..." Your spoon taps against the wooden bowl. "But it's a bit... controversial."

He huffs a laugh. "Controversial appears to be ordinary for us. What is it?"

"Well, we need to find another wizard to lead us there, right? What if we stand on a soapbox and just blurt wizard terms?"

He hopes his face conveys his utter bewilderment at such an idea. "Do you want to get us arrested?"

"I wouldn't be yelling magic is real, filthy Muggles or anything like that. Just saying words and phrases that only wizardfolk would understand. Like... Merlin's beard, or Diagon Alley, or Hogwarts, you know? They'll see we need help, and the Muggles— well," you chuckle, "they'll think I'm speaking gibberish."

He massages his temple. It's mad. Completely mad.

And it might just work.

"It won't be quiet," he says. "We won't be inconspicuous if you do that."

"I know, but we need to warn Missy, and we can't do that if we can't contact her. I think we're beyond the point of inconspicuous."

"It might alert my family," he says instead, the more pressing issue with the idea. "We might not have to worry about being labelled lunatics by the Muggle police or risking the Statue of Secrecy if they get to us first."

"If they do," you say confidently, "we'll run."

So he agrees, and after eating your fill, you both find a spot in the city's centre. A market square, dogs barking, awnings flapping, people chattering. It's not busy at this time of nightfall – a nice change of pace from London – but Merlin would he prostrate to his knees if it would give this even a slither of a chance of working.

"You don't have to stand so close to me," you say with forced brightness, going to the fountain. "You can hide, and I'll find you when I get some information."

Never mind that the Gaunts could appear at any moment, this will be humiliating enough with him at your side. "I'm staying."

You squeeze his arm in thanks. "All right then. Goodbye dignity." You clamber onto the fountain's base. Then you're belting out, as loud as you can, "MALLOWSWEET LEAVES!"

This is one moment where he is glad he's blind. At least he can't see the people in the square. See their reactions.

"EXPELLIARMUS!" you shriek without abandon. "JOBBERKNOLLS! DRAGON HEARTSTRING! HUFFLEPUFF IS THE BEST HOUSE!"

"That I must protest."

"SLYTHERIN IS ALL RIGHT TOO, I GUESS!"

"Oi," someone says, "get down from there and quit your yappin'!"

His face bursts with a colour he knows simply by feeling – red. He keeps his hood low as you continue, voice straining with each second. Please, please.

After a painful two minutes and twelve seconds (he was counting), he hears footsteps and a scuffle as someone yanks you off the fountain, you gasping out in shock. He's at your side in an instant, hand itching to draw his wand, nestled in his pocket, but he resists. There are too many Muggles present, and the last thing either of you want is the Ministry sniffing up your backsides.

Unfortunately the voice, female, seems as unfriendly as it is panicked.

"Are you insane, girl? What do you think you're doing, blurting words like that?"

"No, no—" You struggle to release her grip. "Please, you have to help us—"

"Help you?" hisses the woman. "You're threatening to expose us!"

Ominis steps bodily between you then, seizing the woman's hand and pulling it forcefully off. It works, and he keeps his arm in front of you, haunches up – your hands brace on his back. "We're lost in the city. We've travelled a long way and we need the nearest owl post office." He forces his voice to calm, soothe. "I apologise for her outbursts, but we didn't know how else to find... others like us in the city."

"And that's the best way you thought to do it? The youth of today and their reckless ideas!"

"Please," he says again. "If you could tell us where the nearest owl post office is, we'll be on our way."

"And out of your hair," you squeak, more timid he thought possible, "promise, ma'am."

He hopes this woman knows what out of your hair means.

A second passes, then two, before she relents, stepping out of his personal space. "There's lots better ways to find the entrance to the magical world." Her teeth grind with displeasure. "Next time use a little common sense."

He didn't realise he was holding his breath, and it whooshes out of him. "Thank you."

"Follow me, and for Merlin's sake, keep quiet."

He loops his arm with yours and follows on antsy heels. You don't seem particularly relaxed either as you keep a taut hold on his arm, unwilling to even let the smallest space separate you. You guide him behind the woman down a few streets until the woman stops. Judging by the noise lilting from the doors, music and laughter and drinks clinking, it's the public house. Good.

"Thanks for stepping in," you say quietly, after the woman leaves. "She was really quite scary. You should've seen her face! Like Professor Sharp's every time Garreth blew up a cauldron!"

The sounds inside the pub, called Spick and Span, are deafening. Toasts turn into glass vibrating with each clank, laughter turns shrill and piercing, music turns into some gramophone spitting a grainy but upbeat tune, tumbling through the din like pebbles. The people, you say, look like witches and wizards – funky cloaks and outrageous hats – so you ask the bartender how to access the 'Diagon Alley' equivalent – apparently called the Glamour Ginnel.

"Ah, you'll be wanting the portrait." His accent has a musical drawl. "Go 'round the corner, you'll know what to do."

You go around the corner as instructed – Ominis scents paint lacquer and wood.

"Wowee, that portrait is huge," you say.

"I'm afraid I'll have to rely on you to decipher how it works."

"Well," you say, clearly flummoxed, "it's... an enclosed street with lots of shops. It's really nicely painted."

He takes your hand. "Touch it."

"Just... touch it?"

"Mmm."

"Okay..."

Your fingers graze the oils – then he is being sucked through, your scream supple and strange, until he is stumbling forwards, hand still in yours, on cobblestone in fresh air.

"Wow, it— the painting! It took us right there!"

He takes a moment to steady himself, but even without his sight, he knows you've reached the magical side of the city. Magic pulses around him, suffusing the air like mist, and his displacement peels away for relief. Tentatively he pulls out his wand, and when you don't stop him, he draws it in the air, and the world comes to life beneath his fingertips. It isn't unlike Diagon Alley with its clustered shops and crooked buildings, but it is much, much smaller, an enclosed street like you said, and there are far less people that wade through his senses. It's far past closing now, and each shop has its double doors, converted stables, sealed tightly.

The quiet hums a pleasant melody of night. Things aren't so different, no matter the south or north, and there's a cosiness to the Glamour Ginnel that Diagon Alley lacks. It would be nice to stay a while, look around, browse...

But then he remembers – this isn't a fun little holiday. He hunches his head, tugging his cowl over his face, hoping to hide his distinctive eyes.

The beguiling lie.

"See a post office?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," you mumble, "two shops away."

So you go, and he keeps his wand clenched in his grip. It reacts to his tension, pulsing frequently, refreshing the area as people move. A group of witches whinge as they pass to his left, revellers enjoy bottled Firewhisky by another open pub, and someone strolls behind him. Ominis makes a mental note to track their position.

The owl post office is mercifully empty when you both clamber inside. Quickly you cover cost for a letter and one owl, quill dipping into ink to scribble the circumstances of your impending visit. That you're in Coventry right now, and it'll take a few days to reach Yorkshire.

That his family are actively searching for you.

Just as you roll up the parchment and tie it neatly with a bow, his senses prickle. He palms his wand, asking it for a fresh image of the area. It obeys, reminding him what is where – and something catches his notice. That same person who was walking behind him outside the post office, tucked into the open doorway opposite. The hairs on his neck rise. They haven't moved since you entered the building.

"Gibby," he says quietly, "I think we were followed."

You hand the letter to the clerk, offering Missy's address. "What? By who?"

"I don't know. There's someone outside who seems suspicious."

"It could be anyone." But you don't sound convinced, and you're not stupid enough to test it. "What do we do?"

"We have to assume we've been compromised."

"All right. I can Apparate us to the horse."

"No," he says. "We must assume everything has been compromised. Horse included. If we Apparate there we don't know what will be waiting for us."

"So then, we... what?"

"We sneak out the hard way."

"Disillusionment will be too weak."

"I mean," he says, "we blend in with the crowd. Put your hood up."

You do. "You can't use your wand too much. They'll recognise you."

"I know." His heartrate jackhammers. "You have to lead me."

You loop your arm with his, no hesitation. "All right."

He was right to be suspicious. When you exit the shop and quickly curve back towards the exit, the body stands to attention and follows. Whoever they are, they must not know you know they're tailing you, a small advantage if there was one. He isn't sure how he feels so calm, but perhaps because you're with him, and you need his reassurance, his hand squeezing your arm, that he's finding it in the deepest pits of his chest. He doesn't want you to worry or fear, even though the circumstances call for it.

You almost reach the entrance when a spell is cast.

"Impedimenta!"

He pushes you forwards before it hits you, and his movements slow at once. It takes him another second to recognise that voice.

"Thought you could run, did you?"

No way. No damn way.

He clenches his wand, detecting an overpriced cologne and hair product. His insides cinch with fear – for you, scrambling to cease the Slowing jinx. There's no doubt now that this will end in confrontation.

"I told all of them," said Peregrine Malfoy, sneering, "that you were a pathetic weakling. I warned Dorothy to watch it with you, but never did I actually think you'd have the guts to run away with the disgusting bitch of a Mudblood—"

"Oscausi!"

Hs mouth snaps shut, and you grab his arm.

"No time for that same-old spiel, Perry! Let's go, Ominis!"

Merlin, as if he can't be any more in love with you.

With your cover blown, you seize his arm and run. His back prickles as more people make to follow, and he anticipates the jinxes and hexes flying his way. He blocks them with non-verbal Shield charms and flings back his own, exploding at their feet, flipping them in air, whatever it takes the put distance between them and you. Without his sight, his other senses are better, stronger, and because of it he can anticipate his opponent's actions by their movements alone. Tells they give away, a foot grinding into the dirt or a grunt of anticipation. There's truth to what you said – he's a damn good dueller, and he burns with the need to prove you right.

You fling yourselves out the portrait, and take his arm at once. Apparition spits a dizzy warble through his bones, and it takes a second to gather himself. In the middle of the wood, close to where the horse was tied up in the stables – but not next to it. You both cast Disillusionment at once.

"Anything?" he asks.

You peer through the trees. "Can't see anyone. You?"

He casts his wand out. No. Not a single soul that would catch his attention, and he shakes his head.

"Make a run for it?"

His brow tenses. "It's too easy. If they know we're in the city, why haven't they cut off all possible exits?"

"I don't know, but if Peregrine's here, the rest won't be far behind. If we're going to go, it has to be now."

He curses beneath his breath. The walls are closing in – the Gaunts, catching up. He cannot afford to make mistakes now.

"All right," he whispers, "but go quietly."

You both manage to make it to the horse without incident. He dispels Disillusionment when you help him up, swiftly preparing the horse to run. He keeps his wand clenched in his grasp, even as he puts his hands on your waist, to detect for signs of enemy life. The horse pushes into a gentle trot, then a canter, then the drumbeat of a gallop with your hurried encouragement, and soon you are leaving Coventry behind.

"I-I think we made it!" you say, breathless and relieved. "I think we'll be okay!"

But he doesn't believe for a second.

And he was right to.

He becomes keenly aware of pursuit not two minutes after you've left the city.

The horse hooves batter the ground, disturbing the rush of brooms in air and the crack of rapid-fire Apparition behind. It becomes quickly apparent that the window to escape hasn't just narrowed – it has sealed shut completely.

"They're behind us!" he roars over the wind. "You need to Apparate us away!"

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"All right," you let go of the reins, and he tightens his hold on you, "then brace—"

The horse explodes off its feet, sending you, and Ominis, flying. He doesn't even get to register the spell that hit its hindquarters, no doubt meant for him, before he hits the ground, shoulder lurching, insides splitting, nose cracking. He rolls to a stop at the foot of some tree and curses, snatching his wand at once. The wood encapsulates him, blots out all other noise, and he quickly presses his back to the tree. There's movement behind – not far behind at all. No, no. A tight sensation squeezes at his shoulder again, the wound from yesterday splintered at the seams, and he hobbles forwards, desperate to detect you before they do.

Where are you? He sends the thought into the universe.

A rumble ahead causes him to stop sharply, but he cannot identify the sound. Like rolling thunder trapped in an echoing cavern, and an acrid smell erodes the air. Footsteps clamber behind him, and he bolts forwards into the wheat, throwing up Disillusionment.

Compose yourself. Focus. He forces himself to control his breathing. There is no escape now, but that doesn't mean he has been defeated. Yet. The silence is worse than sound; he must find you. His wand hand trembles, pulsating intermittently, attuned to his heightening terror as he continues to search the area. You can't be far. Please don't be far.

"There's nowhere left to run now, little brother!"

His spine almost buckles at the voice. That damn sneer. Marvolo isn't far away. Shit. He has to find you, now.

Because if he doesn't—

His brain doesn't let him finish the thought. He concentrates on maintaining Disillusionment and masking his footsteps along the forest floor. Ironic how he tries to mimic the way a snake undulates along the ground, slipping towards its prey.

He hears spells fire off somewhere to his left, and his heart ratchets. Someone grunts – it sounds like Lenore.

"Stupid Mudblood!"

Oh no. He pivots left and quickens his pace, wand up.

"Come out! We know you're here!" Marvolo taunts. He's closer now, closer than he wants to risk, voice echoing off every tree stump. "Is this really how you choose to die? Hand in hand with a filthy Mudblood?"

His pulse roars down his veins, but he keeps going, closer and closer, to where he heard your voice. All he has to do is grab you. Then you can both Apparate away, literally anywhere at this point.

He senses you almost immediately. Your body is so familiar to him now that he immediately knows you by your curves and dips, and his blood hikes as he sprints in your direction. You turn sharply, and then he's grabbing you.

Your wand jabs into his throat.

"Petrifi— Ominis!"

He holds tight. "Apparate us. Now."

"Okay!"

But he stays rooted to the ground.

"I— I can't." Panics sets in, your inflection jumping. "I can't."

He tries then too. Feldcroft. He can smell it so clearly, honeysuckle and damp stone, feel it, the cold Scottish air pressing against him, flavoured by the chilling wind, hear it, that unbeatable countryside quiet, the crickets, the owls at night, the people in the day. But though he can picture it so clearly, so vividly, he does not disappear.

"I-I don't understand," you say. "Why can't—"

"Stupefy!"

He shoves you down, the curse slicing past his arm. You recoil.

"Confringo!"

The curse explodes at Raven's chest, and she cries out. Despite it all, pride rears through him. That's my girl. He snatches your arm and yanks you further through the wood, but your grip trembles.

"Why isn't it working?" That you are so scared, so afraid, makes him churn with rage. "I-I swear I'm really trying—"

He swears. "They've cast an Anti-Apparition jinx."

"What?" You go to look up, but he pulls you, and now you're both running, running as fast as you can go. "But then how do we escape?"

You're far enough away now, but the Gaunts won't be far behind. There's no more time. He turns to you, then pushes you ahead.

"You run. Get out of here, if you can get out of the jinx's range then do it, but if not, use Disillusionment and hide. Do you understand?"

"But—"

"Run, please." He doesn't have any more energy to exercise on keeping you safe. "Don't make me beg."

"So you can fight them all by yourself? No."

He clutches your arms. "Gibby, you are the love of my life, and if you get hurt, I will never forgive myself—"

"I am not leaving you."

"For Merlin's sake, you and your damn loyalty!"

"You really want to argue about this now?"

"If I lose you, I—" The very thought breaks him. "I'm terrified I won't be able to protect you."

"You will," you say, "just as I'll protect you."

He holds you for a second longer than he should, committing your details once again to his memory. Never, when he first met you in Charms all those years ago, did he anticipate that your years together, laughing, arguing, fighting at each other's side, would come to this. Never did he think that you, a naïve Muggle-born Hufflepuff who once couldn't hold a wand correctly, would be here, willing to do anything to keep him safe.

If there were thousands of people offering themselves at his feet for his love, each time, he would choose only you.

"I don't have a plan." He prides himself on being the organised one, and yet now, when it matters most, he is completely unprepared. "Nothing more than— than fighting back."

"I have an idea. You stall them." Your voice catches when overwrought grass crunches beneath eager footsteps. You pull him down and peck his lips. "And stay alive."

"What? That is not a plan—"

But you leap into the cover of night, away from the approaching hunters. What the hell sort of half-baked idea is that? But there's no time to call after you. He grips his wand, though it trembles, and turns.

It is time to face his makers.

"There you are. Confringo!"

He doesn't verbalise the Shield charm, just splays his wand, and the spell goes wide, into the air. Raven laughs.

"Nowhere to hide now, is there, Omi?"

"It doesn't have to be like this," he tries, though he knows it will be in vain. "One of you can marry Dorothy. Let me go."

"After you embarrassed us? After you set all our house-elves free? The Ellingboes want nothing to do with us! We're the laughing stock of society! You've condemned us to ridicule and poverty!"

"Then burn me from the family tree! Cast me out of society, shun me, I don't care! Just let me be free."

She shoots another spell; he blocks. But something crashes to his side – another hard blow of a hex – and he staggers back, stars bursting through his skull.

"Where's your Mudblood bitch?" Lenore snarls through the throbbing in Ominis' ears. "Where is she?"

He manages to stagger back in time for her next curse. "Gone," he rasps. "Leave her out of this."

"She seduced you, you little runt," she says, panting manically. "You kneel at the feet of anyone who makes you feel worthy, is that it? You slurp up her praise and fancy yourself in love!"

Grass rustles. Another three bodies appear in the clearing behind him, and he needs not hear their voices to know who they are. They surround him; he's trapped. Still he holds his wand aloft, determined to survive, to live, because he is so tired of pretending to be something he's not. His wand responds in kind, sculpting their auras into shapes, calculating the distance between them by their heartbeats.

If he stalls them, at least it will spare you their wrath. Their vengeance. It burns from them like flames, and he doesn't know how long he can withstand the heat.

Grimsley cackles suddenly, muttering in Parseltongue. "On your own! By yourself! Little weakling brother!"

"She's left you," says his father, and smugness washes through him in exaltation. "She's turned her back on you. That is the Muggle way, Ominis. That's what you chose to abandon us for!"

"I left you because you are all insane!" he shrieks. "Because all you care about is blood!"

"Shut up!" Grimsley yells. "Expulso!"

Ominis raises his wand on instinct – he doesn't even call the Shield charm, yet somewhere to his right the spell connects, exploding soil and debris.

"I left," he yells, even as they stare him down, "because you tortured me for your ludicrous beliefs! Because you are drunk on some fanatical idea of power, and you murder innocent people for it!"

"Muggles deserve it!" yells Marvolo. "Didn't you learn anything over the years? One day they will eradicate wizardkind! One day they will try to claim our power as their own! Mudbloods are only the start."

"A ring!" Raven suddenly shrills. Ominis' stomach turns. "There's a ring— on his finger! You— eloped?"

He'd completely forgotten – the marriage ruse. His throat goes dry.

Marvolo's laughter scathes. "You married the Mudblood?"

"So what if I did?" Ominis barks.

"You've consummated it too, I bet. Seeding yourself in her filth." His derision rings out. "You chose a Mudblood whore over your own family name!"

Ominis seethes.

"Fuck the family name."

Grimsley screams. "You little—"

"Expelliarmus!"

He yelps as his wand flies through the air. Ominis pivots. No, no, no—

"Common blood rat!" Raven yells. "Where—?"

"Expelliarmus!" Her wand goes flying. Your voice echoes from a different spot now. This time, he's tuned in enough to hear that hiss of Disillusionment. "Expelliarmus!"

In such oppressive darkness it will be impossible for them to find their wands. He remembers, perhaps with poor timing, that time in the Undercroft that you used that spell on him. Not incompetent.

His father's wand scatters from his grip. Only Marvolo is left. Until—

"Expelliamus!"

"Protego! Incendio!"

"No!" Ominis screams, but too late – the flames burst outwards, incinerating half the clearing in seconds. "Gibby—"

You stagger outwards, to his left. "Aqua Eructo!"

"Stupefy!" Marvolo cries.

Ominis raises his wand to protect you, distract, something, but both Grimsley and Lenore tackle him – and unprepared for a physical blow, he hits the ground, wand scattered, arms pinned down, face crushed into the dirt. He's left helpless to listen to you and Marvolo duelling, trading spells, him laughing, you grunting. With Slytherin's locket boosting his Dark Magic, Ominis knows he's toying with you. He's holding back. For fun.

"That magic you wield doesn't belong to you!" he yells. "Filthy Mudblood thief!"

"That so?" you jeer. "Come and take it from me then!"

"That's the problem with you Muggle spawn. You are weak-willed." He sneers. "I don't need to take my magic back from you. You'll give it willingly. Because I know there's something you care more about. Or rather, someone."

And he pivots – Ominis hears it – to face him.

"Crucio!"

"No!" you shriek.

He braces for pain that never comes.

Then you're screaming.

"No—" Too late he realises what you did. "No!" He writhes to free himself from Grimsley and Lenore's grip, but they don't relent. "Stop! Please!"

Marvolo ceases the curse. You collapse to the ground as he summons all the wands back.

"How gallant," he sneers. "Jumping in front of him. You're going to regret it by the time I'm done. Crucio!"

You scream again.

"No!" Ominis screams as well, wrestling to break free. "Stop this, please. Let her go, she's innocent!"

When Marvolo ceases the curse, laughing to himself, laughing at you, you're curled up on the ground, barely conscious, and your hands paw for purchase through the torn dirt.

"Innocent?" he laughs. "No Mudblood is ever innocent for what they've stolen! Incarcerous!"

Rope binds Ominis' hands and feet. He struggles, but it cuts into him, drawing blood.

"You're going to lay there helpless, little brother," Marvolo says, "and listen to your precious wife suffer because of you."

You spit suddenly, then get to your feet. He hears you pant, your chest struggling to keep you awake. Yet you come to stand in front of him protectively.

"I-I won't... give in. Y-You won't... ever make me."

"Just go," Ominis implores. "Run, please..."

"You should listen to my little brother, Mudblood," says Marvolo coolly. "Run. Leave us. Save yourself, as all you Muggles are wont to do."

You don't move.

"I'll die... before I step aside."

Ominis bows his head, despair tearing through him. My tenacious, loyal girl.

Now you will die for it.

"A mouthy Mudblood," his father says. "If that's what you wish, you'll regret ever opposing the Gaunt family. Crucio!"

Pain arcs through you again – this time, your screams damage his ears. His father and Grimsley and Raven and Lenore cast it along with him. Again and again. Over and over, your agony becomes the breath in his lungs. He will never purge the echo of it from his mind.

"Let her go, please," Ominis sobs now. "Let her go— I'll do anything—"

"It's too late for that." Marvolo strides to him, grabs his hair, yanks him back so it's impossible to muffle the sound of you. "Listen closely."

You stop screaming – the pain is so immense you cannot draw enough air – but he feels it, each gasp of breath its own lacerating wound. Marvolo keeps him upright, forcing each horrid cry and yelp, as you claw at the grass, as you struggle and writhe, to ingrain into his being like burning scars.

"Gone and done it!" Lenore cackles. "She pissed herself!"

"Mudblood filth, pissing herself!" cries Grimsley in Parseltongue. "Make her sick! Make her sick!"

"Be sick, Mudblood! All over!"

They release the curse again, and you barely move. He trembles, tears streaming down his face. I promised never to cause you pain. He'd rather welcome death than have you suffer anymore.

"Take me instead, please."

"Your begging is pathetic," Marvolo snarls, grip like talons. "You were always our greatest shame. As weak-willed as her. Why don't we find out how much we can break her mind?"

He understands the meaning too late.

"Imperio!"

His heart lurches at your sudden intake of breath. He doesn't even bother to beg now, because he knows Marvolo won't listen – none of them will. Nausea roils through him as you get to your feet.

"You love my little brother, do you?" Marvolo shoves Ominis to the ground and steps back. "You think you can spoil him with your scummy muddy blood?"

Tears stream down Ominis' face, but the Incarceration spell holds him back, and he's helpless as you hum, acting as if everything is all right. A sense of peace has overcome you, but it is just another beguiling lie.

"What shall we have her do?" asks Marvolo.

"Vomit!" yells Grimsley. "Chuck it, Mudblood! Embarrass yourself!"

///

"I think we should go bigger." His father's cruelty singes. "Strip, girl."

"No—!" But the ropes cinch, and Ominis writhes. "You sick bastards! Don't you dare— don't you—!"

"Do as he commands," cuts across Marvolo. "Strip."

And slowly, you obey. As Ominis screams, you unlace your skirt, the fabric pooling at your feet. Your petticoats go next, fluttering down, then the stays; it thumps on top of your other clothes, and you tug off your garters, until you're only in your chemise. Arms and legs bare. Anymore, and you will be naked.

"Ew!" Grimsley says, laughing.

"She's disgusting!" Lenore makes retching noises. "Look at the ugly flesh of her bare skin!"

He promised long ago that he wouldn't ever sink so low as to use Dark Magic, but in that moment, as this horrible atrocity is committed against you, as they mock and taunt and pinch you, exposed and vulnerable, he burns with the violent desire to obliterate them all.

"Stop," says Marvolo, before you can remove the last layer, but it isn't through kindness or pity. "I don't want to see anymore of her hideous body. How about you... dance." There is some hesitation, prompting Marvolo to growl, "I said to dance, Mudblood."

You must do something. You love to dance – but even this sacred part of you is spoilt, tainted, as you bare the dearest part of your soul for their entertainment.

///

"Do you feel the weight of our might now, little brother?" Marvolo calls to him. "Do you understand that her mind is weak? That she will bend at the slightest command of pure-blood supremacy?"

He finds his voice, and it is unlike his own.

"I will kill you."

"Will you? You've made no attempt to even fight back so far." Marvolo hums dismissively. "You love her, do you?"

And though Ominis shouldn't say it, should protect you through lies and deception wherever necessary, he rasps a defiant, "Yes."

Schling. Metal hisses from a sheath.

"Mudblood," he commands, "stab him."

Ominis' hatred dissolves as the dagger changes palms. You pad over as he falls back to the ground, the rope crushing his arms together. You come so close that even beyond the blood that coats you, the sweat, the tears that have leaked, the piss and ashes, still beneath it all lies your scent, so sweet and enthralling, a crass reminder of who you are beneath Marvolo's puppet strings.

"I... will stab him..." you murmur.

He doesn't struggle when your elbow pins his shoulder. He feels the tip keening against his flesh – of his abdomen. Not his heart.

Perhaps you are still in there, somewhere. Perhaps you can fight back.

"Wake up, my darling, please."

The tip pierces. Pain lances up, wicked-sharp. You sink it deeper, ever deeper, until the hilt meets his skin, and it pries a scream from deep in his chest.

"Mudbloods are a scourge on this earth, Ominis," Marvolo croons from everywhere and nowhere. "Just like their ancestors, they will always betray you in the end."

"You betrayed me," he manages through a wet gasp, somehow lucid. He tastes blood. "I would accept death willingly if it meant a second of relief from you."

"You are a waste of Slytherin's blood," he hisses in response, "and your treachery will be your doom. Mudblood," he booms with command again, "stab his heart."

You rip out the knife. He screams.

"Stab... heart..." you murmur, trembling. "Kill..."

He cannot fight anymore. Already he knows he's losing too much blood. He refuses to think on what this means for him – because once he's dead, you'll be next, and even if he cannot be yours in this life, then at least he wants you to reach the new dawn, to find your next adventure without him.

He releases a gasp when the tip presses to his chest, above his heart.

"Kill..."

He feels your hair dribble down, tickling his face. Your hand is shaking. The tip teases into his flesh, drawing a meagre bead of blood, but you haven't pushed down yet.

Still there. Still fighting back.

He summons all the strength he can muster.

"I love you," he rasps, letting the truth be known. "I would say it a thousand times over. I would let it be my last words. I would let my last thought be of you. All your strength, joy, laughter and love – I will remember it in this life and the next." He sucks in a watery breath. "You may let go, my darling. I give you permission to forgive yourself when my soul passes into the after."

"O... mi... nis..."

He can barely move, barely breathe, but he pulls himself up, just enough that he can press a kiss to your lips. The wound in his abdomen keens, but in the brief touch between you, he sends all his love through your bond.

Your breath catches. Sweat plinks onto his chin. The dagger point violently quakes.

Then eases, ever so slightly.

"S-Scream," you whisper. "Scream and fall limp."

"Gibby—"

"Do it."

So he lets out a bleat and sinks down to the ground. He feels your hand slip down to the ground, dropping the bloodied knife. His wand, left abandoned there when Grimsley and Lenore tackled him to the ground. You snatch it from the grass.

"A weak, pliant little mind," says Marvolo. "Face me, Mudblood. I want the pleasure of watching you die on your knees."

You hesitate. He lays there, terrified. Dying.

"Mudblood," Marvolo barks, "I said to face—"

You swing around. "Bombarda Maxima!"

The ground explodes, his family screams. Bodies fly back. Ominis' eyes fly open, though he's so dizzy he can't make out any sense of what is happening.

He anchors on your voice, radiant and strong.

"Relashio." You fire off spells with no hesitation. "Episkey, Rennervate. Accio wand."

No charm will stop his incoming death, you know, but it is enough to jerk him back to a writhing sort of consciousness. His wand obeys you without question, and you press it into his hands when you retrieve your own. The world moulds into shapes – the crater by your feet, his family scattered across the clearing, bloodied and bruised, the smoke pluming into the sky. You jam a Wiggenweld into his mouth and he drinks every drop greedily.

But it won't be enough.

"They'll wake up soon," you say. "We have to go."

"I— can't—"

"Yes you will," you command. "I am not leaving you, so get up."

Somehow, despite the height difference, you manage to throw his arm over his shoulder. It's in vain, he knows it is, because there's no way you can escape the range of the Anti-Apparition Jinx before they rouse. No way you can escape before the blood loss kills him.

"Go without me," he manages. "Please."

"No."

"Gibby—"

"I love you," you bark. "And if we have to— to die together, so be it."

He tries to take another step, but his foot gives way to a sharp bolt of pain, and you come down with him, tripping into the grass. Somewhere behind him, someone screams in rage. His father comes up from behind – Ominis can tell it's him merely by the way he pants, apoplectic.

You said it to each other yesterday, in what seemed like another world. You would fight for him, and he would fight for you.

He intends to keep that promise.

He stands and swings around, wand aloft.

His father booms, "Avada Kedavra!"

And though he knows he will die tonight, at least it will be in your arms.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spells burst on contact. Death will come next.

But instead the curses crash and burst, never overwhelming.

He doesn't understand how, or why. The Killing curse, all three Unforgivable Curses, are so because they cannot be blocked, cannot be deflected nor protected against. But he feels the magic like a fist, pushing back against it, trying to dominate. He digs his feet into the grass. Wind shears around him, the sound like thunder crashing.

"Gibby!" he shrills.

You crawl to him. Your arm goes around his shoulder. "Hold on!"

"What's happening?"

"I don't know!"

"You will— you will die, blood traitor!" his father bellows over the commotion, but a note of confusion pierces through his words. "Then I will have your Mudblood whore die just as painfully!"

Something pulses, almost gentle. You let out a gasp. Voices emerge – voices he doesn't recognise.

"You got this, boy!"

"Fight 'em good!"

"Don't give up!"

He doesn't recognise any of them, but it gives him the push he needs to stay upright, stay strong.

"They're ghosts!" you say over the roaring of the spells. "Or— apparitions!"

"What are?"

"They're— Muggles!"

Another voice comes to him. "You can survive this!"

His heart rushes into his throat. He recognises that voice.

The Muggle in the cellar.

"But— h-how— who—"

"Forgive yourself the choices you were forced to make," says the Muggle, "and fight back!"

His father strains, no longer taunting. You free one of your arms.

"Confringo!"

It's the last push. He feels the spell, his spell and yours, combined, winning, shoving the Killing curse back.

"No!" his father cries. "You can't—!"

You give one last cry. The spell explodes, blowing you both back into the clearing. He lands badly on his injured back, yanking out a moan of pain. His ears ring impossibly loud – he can't hear you. He doesn't know whether you're dead or alive. No, no.

A hand finds his arm, and he flinches, not knowing whether it's you or his enemies, but then the hand finds his face, cups his cheek, and he knows it's yours. It takes a moment for the clanging to cease, for your voice to come back to him.

"I-It exploded," you're saying desperately, crying. "There was gold magic everywhere— I-I don't know— your father— he's not moving. I... I think..."

But there is no need to confirm what you already know, what the stench tells him.

He is dead.

"H-How?"

"I-I don't know—"

"No!"

Ominis yanks you down. The curse whizzes overhead.

"You— you murderer!" shrieks Grimsley. "Blood traitor! Mudblood bitch! Avada Kedavra!"

Ominis pushes you out of the way again. "No, stop!" he yells. Whatever is happening is beyond his understanding of magic, but it appears your strength is protecting him. He can't listen to another one of his family do this – perish for naught. "Please, it doesn't have to end this way!"

"It's too late to beg for mercy!" Grimsley says, deranged. "I'll do whatever it takes to purge you from the family tree! Avada Kedavra!"

And he recoils with, "Impedimenta!"

The spells clash. He is too weak to stand now, instead falling to his knees, bearing the brunt of the curse. That golden pulse imbibes him with strength again, and Muggles cry out from all around him.

"Keep it up, lad!"

"Stay strong!"

You find his arm again, looping yours through protectively. "Reducto!"

An anguished cry of defeat blasts him apart again, and this time, when he tries to get up, dizziness rolls over him. You don't need to tell him what happened now.

Another Gaunt member, felled.

He's sobbing now. Even though he isn't using the curse, it almost feels like he is, with two dead bodies strewn about him. He never wanted this, for himself, for you.

"Ominis," you rasp.

When Raven steps out, the dizziness has shifted into intermittent consciousness. Blearily he registers Raven firing a Killing curse, him flinging out something in return, people crying out his name, you crying out his name – then his sister's body, hitting the ground. The sounds hiss and mingle into a cacophony. Something spits onto his face. Blood, as you try to talk to him.

He reaches for your hand, and you reach for his. Once more he raises his wand, knowing Lenore is seconds behind. A great thunder sounds, you squeezing his hand with all your might. He might've blacked out at one point, he isn't sure.

All he knows is that he wants to have a future free from the shackles of his bloodline. That he no longer wants to bear the brunt of the shadows of his past.

All he knows is that he wants to live.

An ice-cool touch draws him from the stupor. Sounds swim about him, until your voice comes through.

"R-Rennervate."

His eyes widen. Suddenly there is clarity to the world around him. The grass singed beneath him. Your touch, keeping him moored.

"Ominis? Please, say something?"

"I— I'm here."

"Your sister— I-I'm sorry."

So he didn't hallucinate that either. She attacked, and paid the price.

His father is dead. Grimsley is dead. Raven is dead. Lenore is dead. They are all dead.

Except one.

When Marvolo steps out, Ominis pulls on his last reserves of strength to get to his feet and stand in front of you. Marvolo is cruel, but he is shrewd and smart, the smartest of them all. He will know how to win after his family have collapsed before him. Ominis is willing to die if that's what it takes to keep you safe. But you – stupid, stubborn you – raise your wand, shaking, both of you perfectly aligned and in sync.

But Marvolo makes no move to attack. He stands a distance away, watching.

"So this is how it ends?" he calls, laughing, panting, manic. "You, surrounded by your family. Dead. Are you proud, little brother? You've single-handedly killed the entire House of Gaunt!"

"You did that to yourselves!" he shrieks back, though the realisation hammers him. "If you'd have just left me alone—"

"To become a blood traitor! To turn on your family!"

"You were never my family!" He takes your hand. "She is."

"You disgust me." He switches to Parseltongue then. "You will never escape your bloodline, little brother. Salazar Slytherin runs through your veins, that will never change. His legacy lives on in you."

Ominis replies in English.

"My legacy is what I make it to be."

He grits his teeth, prepares to duel.

But Marvolo laughs.

"I'm not fool enough to test you, nor your Mudblood whore." He backs away. "I don't know how you survived, but I'll know what you did tonight – I'll remember. And I will erase you, like you were never there to begin with. You were always a disgrace on the Gaunt line, a runt, and now a murderer— you'll be forgotten, I'll make sure of it!"

Ominis' grip on you strengthens.

"So be it."

Marvolo takes another step back, and then he's running – running in the opposite direction until he's but an echo in Ominis' memories.

He doesn't believe it. The odour of death permeates through the air like a sea tide. His entire body quakes with adrenaline, with agony, with emotional turmoil. Marvolo can't have run away – he will come back, he will attack him again when he's least expecting it. He doesn't even feel the ground when he falls to his knees, completely spent, his body finally succumbing to the wound. You catch his head before it hits the earth.

"Ominis— stay awake— let me— I-I'll try to heal you." Your hands frantically roam his body. "D-Diffindo." You sharply cut off part of his shirt to press to the wound, but it soaks with blood so quickly; even in the sudden numbness, he feels it. "No— no no no—"

"G-Gibby." His awareness is too taut, a thread at breaking point, on the death that surrounds him, has always surrounded him. "I-I've... lost... too much blood..."

"No you haven't." You're sobbing again, and through everything he hates to know he caused your heartbreak. "You'll stay alive because I want my future to have you in it!"

A lovely sentiment. He can almost dream it. A simple life you would have together, you, his best friend, his first and last love, the eye of his storm, the wind in his sails, the fire in his hearth...

Or is that all just another beguiling lie?

Your voice seems faraway now, like you're speaking through the other side a mirror.

"Please," you beg softly. Your hands tremble on his wound. "Don't leave me."

He manages to slip a hand onto yours. Your hands are his anchor. For some reason his mind slingshots back to the Scriptorium, and he reaches for your face, brushing his nail upon your cheeks. There is no greater moment that he wishes he could see, if only to witness your beauty and light for the first, and last, time.

He tries to reassure you. Instead of words, he coughs blood. One by one, his senses dim. He can no longer feel your face, nor his hand, nor anything in his body. The world quietens into silence, his tongue tasting the flavour of the void beyond.

The last to fade is his sense of smell, like grains of sand through his fingers. The trees and sky, the smoke and ashes, the dead bodies and tang of blood.

And something... faintly saccharine.

When the darkness comes, Ominis embraces it. He can feel the very essence of his soul slipping away, liquefying into ether. He isn't sure when a strange sort of consciousness wakes in him, not quite himself but also him precisely. He starts to forget the before and only comprehend what is upon him. Nothingness, the paradise of oblivion.

Apparitions murmur in his head.

"Please— please, I'm begging you, do something—"

"I-I will see what I can do." Something presses on his conscience. "Vulnera Senantur."

The end of the road unfurls before him, and he inclines towards it, curious. There's laughter and music at the end of this thread. It enthrals him, mind and body. There is no pain and sadness over there. There is nothing.

"He's resisting."

But then he detects that sweetness again. It calls to him, familiar.

It smells like... strawberry laces.

"Ominis, come back to me, please."

That voice has so much anguish. Why would he want to be there, where there is agony and sorrow? Where he will have to face the truth of what has happened to his family? What he has become?

"Damn it, Ominis!" Another familiar smell drifts through – like power and secrets. "Fight back!"

He turns back to oblivion again, and his soul resists.

Maybe... maybe one day, he will find paradise, but running away will not absolve him.

I will do anything to fight for you too.

Slowly his senses return. Your fingers interlocked with his, your breath a whisper away, pleading with God, with magic itself. Your heartbeat, even though it is so far away, beats perilously, as if aware of his mortality. Then he feels his own, strumming with the life he is owed.

It is not his time yet. He reaches out to the hook offered on the end of the line, and tugs.

His eyes fly open. He sees nothing, but it is like coming back to himself.

"It— it's working!" Tears splatter on his neck. "Ominis? Ominis, can you hear me?"

He breathes noisily from his nose. It's like he's been asleep for a thousand years, and his voice hasn't been used for twice as long. Pain envelops his entire body – but the kind that tells him that he is awake. That he lives.

"I hear you." I feel you. I taste you. I smell you.

You tremble, and suddenly you are hugging him fiercely, weeping into his neck. He can barely move, the pain is so great, but he finds the wherewithal to twine his arm around you.

Missy's wand draws back from his wound. "Shit, Ominis." She sounds ragged. "You... almost... died."

As you pull back, he asks, "Did you... save me? How?"

He already knows the answer. The yarn of power from the repository lives on.

"Luck, or ancient magic. Probably both."

He manages to sit up after a while. As Missy dresses his wound properly, you talk the entire time, of random things, trivial things. He becomes attuned to the world, to the wind sweeping the length of your hair, to the bird calls that signal morning, to the stubs of the felled trees that still dance in the wind. But it is the sound of you that keeps him tethered to this plane, and he rests his head on your lap with easy breaths.

"How did... how did I survive?" he mumbles, cutting off your chatter. "Four Killing Curses..."

"I... I don't know," you say.

But it is Missy that says, "I may not be the only person able to wield ancient magic after all."

"What do you mean? Ominis can't wield your magic."

"It— surrounds me," he breathes out. "After the repository. Is it... that?"

"That might've played a part, yes, and I know you cannot wield it in the same way I can," she says, "but you can wield it, both of you. This type of ancient magic predates me. Stronger than diamond and as old as the earth itself. It's the magic that comes with intention and perseverance and human connection. You strengthened each other, you fought for each other. That's why you were able to overcome them in the end. Your love outweighed their hatred."

Your strength, your joy, your laughter and love. His strength, his joy, his laughter and love. Both, together, saved you.

"Their hatred..." he mumbles, absorbing the words.

They died for it. His father, Grimsley, Raven, Lenore. Marvolo might've died too, if he hadn't retreated. Ominis, his mother, Marvolo – the last of the House of Gaunt.

It's true, what his brother said. Ominis has ended an entire family line... but he can't quite bring himself to feel sad about its extinction. The nature of his blood, after all, was the catalyst to this entire fiasco. For generations, Gaunts have upheld the view that pure-bloods are superior to Muggle-borns. Now it will end with him.

Missy keens suddenly. He tries to reach out, but doesn't have the strength yet. You touch her instead.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm all right," she says. "I haven't... exerted my magic like that in— a long time."

"You won't have another vision again like in seventh year, will you?"

The reply comes after a beat of hesitation that Ominis is too tired to point out. "No."

"Because if you do," you say, "I don't think I can take care of both of you at once."

"Don't worry... about me. Keep him upright... keep him conscious. I will— get help."

"Help?" he mumbles. "But... my family..." The corpses.

"You didn't cast the Killing Curse, remember," she says. "You are innocent."

But as Missy Apparates away, he's not sure he quite believes that.

"Stay awake, Ominis."

"I'm awake." He tries to smile, recalling a fond memory. "I won't look into any light."

You bark a hysterical laugh. "No you won't, not with me around."

"Gibby..." He swallows. There is too much that can be easily summarised with, "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? I-I stabbed you. I almost killed you."

"Not your fault."

"They came after you because of me."

"They would've found me wanting no matter what." His fingers tangle with yours. "I'm sorry— you've been through so much pain for me."

A tear lands on his cheek.

"I'm sorry you have to go through so much pain to find peace."

He lays back, and realises he was wrong before. It is now that he wishes, more than anything, that he could see your face.

"I think I'm starting to understand," he murmurs softly, curling into your sweet embrace, "that peace cannot be found first without pain."

When he is strong enough to sit up, and you are alone together, with the sky, and the dead, he folds into your arms. One tear comes free, leading the way for the others. With his family's corpses around him, his legacy sealed, he cries and cries and cries, and you hold him, crying too, your tears mingling together.

When the dawn finally comes, bathing you both in light, Ominis Gaunt is born anew.

⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　*　　⠀. 　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦ 　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　* .⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　

⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　*　　⠀. 　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦ 　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　* .⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　

⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　*　　⠀. 　　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　⠀✦ 　˚　　　　　　　　　　　　　　* .⠀ 　　　　　　　　　　.　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀✦ ⠀ ⠀　　　　　　　　　　　　　　⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀* ⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✦⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　. .　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　　　　,　　　　　　　　　* 　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　⠀　　　⠀.　　　˚　　　⠀　⠀ 　　,　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀ 　　　　　⠀✦⠀　　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　.　　　　.　　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　. 　.⠀　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀, 　　　　　✦⠀　　　　

Though it heralds an important day, the morning starts like every other.

He rouses before you. Suburban London is already active outside the window, its clamour no more than background noise now that Ominis has accustomed to it. He feels around the bed, finding first your hair, straddled about the pillow, then the rest of you, and he shuffles towards you, enveloping you in his arms, pressing kisses to your hair, to your forehead, to your cheeks and lips until you stir.

"Mmm. 'Mornin'."

"Good morning, my love."

"Whattime issit?"

"Nine o'clock."

You fling yourself up, slumber dispersed. "What? Oh no, no, no, I'm going to be so late opening—" You twist to look at your bedside clock, and sink. "Ominis, you fiend! It's not even half-seven!"

He laughs. "One day you won't fall for that." He pulls you back down to wrap his arms around you, cuddle you. "Since you're awake..."

"We have a lot to prepare for today," you huff into his chest. "I have to spell the fudge to keep cold, you know how Mrs Coulter likes our signature cold fudge. The counter needs a clean and the entrance a sweep. And I really must check the best-before date on the marzipan. I can't remember if I said it was August this year or next. Not to mention that we have to close early today, which is not going to make Barmy Boris happy. Have to prepare him a heavier bag of Pick n' Mix to make up for it. You definitely have work off today, right?"

"Yes, Gibby," he says, not without exasperation. "Everyone in the Department of Law Enforcement knows what's happening today, let alone my office."

"I know, I'm sorry, I just don't want us to be late. Oh! And the toffee nougat! It needs to be cut up—"

"Darling," he cuts across, "I promise you will be able to do this twice as fast with my help."

"Your help? More like your distraction."

He hums. "Maybe a little distraction."

He kisses you softly. You return it, eager. It's been three years since the Gaunts attacked, and if there is such a thing as a honeymoon phase, he's still going through it. Every single day.

"It's very early," he says, dropping his voice low. "We needn't rush."

"Oh? And what else did you have in mind for the morning?"

"We could stay in bed," he mumbles, hands finding the lace at the back of your nightgown, tugging gently. "Do... other things."

"Am I other things?"

"So crass, darling wife of mine."

"I suppose we could..." You cup his face, bring him close, set his heart to racing— "Or you could help me prepare the shop for opening."

"That doesn't involve you taking your clothes off."

"Not with that attitude."

He arcs a brow. You laugh.

"Okay, it doesn't, but it would make me very happy," and you pause deliberately, "darling husband of mine."

Ugh. That gets him every time.

"Fine," he says in mock pout. "For the greater good of the Muggle neighbourhood, I suppose."

"If you're good, I'll make it up to you later."

He throws off the blanket. "I'll hold you to that."

The days are simpler now. After a particularly harrowing interrogation about the dead Gaunts, he was let off without charge – no Killing curse was cast from his wand. Ominis' earlier heroics during Ranrok's invasion, as it turned out, look excellent on a work application as well, so the Auror administration were happy to hire him. Not an Auror himself, thankfully. He's experienced enough bloodshed to last a lifetime.

When he returns home from work, Apparating straight to the flat, he usually finds you closing up the confectionary for the day, sweeping with a broom or counting money. The business doesn't make much, but it does make you ecstatically happy. It's your dream come true, and he's happy knowing, combined with your family's insurance payout after the arson, that through the last of his fortune, Noctua contributed to it in some way. He misses her terribly often; she would've adored you.

The nights, however, are less simple.

No matter what he spends doing the evening before, soaking in a tub, reading a book, dancing with you to a gramophone or simply enjoying your company – in every sort of way – there are nights he wakes drenched in sweat, where the screams pulse in his head like sirens. Days when he cannot distinguish those screams, yours, between past and present. You rock him gently until the tears pass, until he finds tranquillity in your embrace. He wishes he could overcome the demons of the past, but they cling to him, no matter how much time he is afforded from it.

The opposite happens, too – your own trauma, suddenly rising as you dream of the multiple times you took Crucio, the assault you experienced through Imperio, or the torture curse you suffered when you were fifteen. Some nights you struggle to split reality from lie, lunging yourself out of bed when you realise who sleeps next to you. He takes the reins of soothing you, reminding you what is real until you remember, until you calm, until you're softly crying into his chest. Neither of you will escape the ghosts of the past, but that doesn't mean you don't try to maintain them as best as you can. You are there for each other on your best and worst days.

You love each other no matter what.

That morning, he helps you clean and unload a shipment of new treats, rearrange the shelves to your liking and charms the brooms to sweep.

"Do you think I should make stew?"

"Hmm?" he asks, distracted in keeping the brooms upright. "Stew for what?"

"For him. I mean, I know Missy will have food, but you know my recipe is the best."

"I'm not sure you'll have the time, darling."

"I can use magic."

He turns to you, deadpan. "Remember the last time you tried to cook with magic?"

"... Fine, yes, the potatoes ended up on the ceiling."

"As did the rest of the pot."

"It still tasted okay!"

"It tasted like plasterboard, and I had to clean it up."

You make a raspberry noise, and he laughs. Being yours is easy, but he didn't realise marriage could be so easy, either. You don't worry about meaningless things like your bloodline or heirs. You don't expect him to act perfectly at all times. You're happy to show him off on your arm whenever you're in public, rather than hide him away like a family shame. You want for nothing but give your love freely in return. It brings him great satisfaction to think, if his ancestors were to look upon what their descendant had become, living a mundane, Muggle existence with his Muggle-born wife, he would cause generations of Slytherin heirs to implode in their graves.

The wedding ceremony, too, was small and so extraordinarily Muggle. No magic was allowed – a fact he had to reiterate several times to your wayward school friends – which left him wandless for most of the day. The church was local, slightly rundown, led by your childhood vicar, a man who smoked too many cigars and leered at you when he thought you didn't notice. You wore a battered hand-me-down dress, the same one your mama wore when she married your father, and he wore coattails borrowed from Connor and Ellian, who made his ushers, with an old blue sweet in the pocket. There was no dowry, no declaration in the Daily Prophet, no pomp and frivolity on the day. It even rained outside, shattering against the church roof, but it was beautiful, the soundtrack to your love, and when he kissed you, sealing the vows, he was the happiest man alive.

He took your surname too, which baffled your Muggle relatives. He didn't care. Blood he could not change, but he was glad to relinquish the name of Gaunt forever.

You slow-danced to a harp and ate a variety of dishes donated from your guests, and when the night was over, he whisked you to a quaint little cottage by the sea, where he made love to you gently, thoroughly, ensconced by the far sounds of the tide and your dulcet laughter, a balm for any ailment.

Of course, even married to you, he still doesn't quite understand Muggle customs. He loathes the stuffiness and decorum of Muggle spaces, he loathes how people treat him because of his condition, he loathes the idea that society has deemed women, and ergo you, incapable and sensitive, that you cannot possess a mind of your own. Consequently he despises that his name is on the confectionary deed, as he quickly discovers when solicitors come to visit.

"You shall have to pose your questions to my wife, sir," he says to the man, wearing a suit despite the summer heat. "I'm afraid I can't help you with the business."

"Your wife?" The man ruffles. "I don't follow."

"I believe I'm being perfectly understandable," Ominis says, witholding his irritation. "I defer all decision-making to her excellent discretion. Sweetling's Emporium is named for her, after all."

"But Mr—"

"Something wrong?" You come out from the back room then, a crate of jars rattling in hand. "Ah, hello, Mr Banks! Are you here about the tax forms?"

Mr Banks seems put out. "Yes, madam."

"Great! Come into the office, we can go through—"

"I must insist on you, sir," the man continues. "'Tis your property, after all."

Oh, Ominis does love a stubborn one.

"And I insist," he says coolly, "that you don't interrupt her again."

"I do so hate to be interrupted," you say sweetly, laced with venom.

Mr Banks blusters. "Apologies, but I cannot speak to a—" He seems to remember himself and clears his throat. "I insist I speak to a man."

Ominis cants his head.

"Are you questioning my wife's impeccable aptitude, sir?"

You'll give him grief for such an over-the-top statement later, but for now you are a united front.

"What?" Mr Banks stammers. "O-Of course not, sir!"

"Then even a blind man can see no reason why you cannot discuss these matters with her."

"I can assure you," you say, perkiness faker than his manners, "I know much more about this business than my husband does."

He seems bewildered, and lets out a disgruntled noise before a sigh. "Very well then. Please forgive my comportment, madam. At your... insistence, I would be happy to discuss these matters with you."

"Wonderful! Ominis, honey," and you've gone back to being genuinely pleasant now, "can you watch the shop whilst we talk? I'll keep the door open, won't be long."

"Of course."

Ominis smiles as you go into the back, humming Ernie Lark's tune. He does quite enjoy meddling with Muggle minds – truth to Anne's words then, when she said it was liberating. She came to the wedding too, only briefly, and they keep polite correspondence with the occasional meet up for tea, where he learns about whatever adventure she's found next. The curse still burdens her, but she manages it in her own way. Evading death thus far.

Sometimes he does miss living purely behind magical walls. He has to be careful now whenever he pulls out his wand. Has to make sure the curtains are drawn before he can even perform a simple Repairing charm when he accidentally knocks over a jar or a Scourging charm for a wayward spillage. The neighbourhood kids start to learn about him too – Mrs Sweetling's inscrutable, blind husband who, despite his condition, seems to know where everything is. On days he's not working he helps out sometimes, and the local Muggle boys like to come in after they tire of throwing the hoop down the hill, eagerly testing Ominis' knowledge.

"What about the iced gems?"

"Top shelf," Ominis says, more than amused and happy to play their games. "To your left."

"Whoa," the boy says. "That's right."

"That's left, dolt," sniggers his friend.

"How about the boiled ones, Mr Sweetling?" asks the youngest. "Bet you couldn't find your own sweets, no sir."

Ominis doesn't even need his walking stick to find them, the crate in the centre unit. He sticks his hand in and pours them off his hands. The kids gasp and twitter in delight.

"This means nothin'," says the oldest boy, the most sceptical of the group. "You know what's a real test, Mr Sweetling? You picking out a certain colour. What about— strawberry?"

Ominis smiles. "Strawberry? The blue ones?"

"How d'you make 'em so blue?" asks the youngest.

"Hold on," splutters the eldest, "you can't even know what blue means!"

"Hmm, you're right." Ominis sticks his hand in his pocket, where his wand nestles. Time to cheat. "I have no concept of blue or green or red. But—" His free hand reaches forwards, picks one out, and hands it to the boy. "I believe this is strawberry."

"Whoooooa!" cries the youngest. "He did it, he did it!"

"How?" cries the eldest. "It's like magic!"

Ominis smiles. "Something like that."

Not to say that you have abandoned the magical world – far from it. The living room of your flat, for example, has two settings: one Muggle, for when your Muggle relatives pay a visit, and one magical, where the room teems with oddities, flowers that sing when you give them a scratch, needles that knit by themselves, pictures that move. Ominis has owls deliver the Daily Prophet every day, his morning reading over tea and toast before work. It seems like, even though he's gone through hell and back just to be with you, the rest of the world has yet to find its own modicum of peace.

"Ominis?"

"Hmm?" One morning, he places his teacup down at your apprehension. "What is it?"

"The paper arrived." You approach him, sitting on the arm of his chair, and slide it over. "I had a glance before I transfigured it to braille, and, well..."

You guide his fingers to the passage. Betrothal Announcements. Your mood clues him in, but he reads on anyway, fingers brushing the words.

Ludvig and Marvida Ellingboe are pleased to announce the upcoming union of their daughter, Dorothy Marvida Anastasia, to Marvolo Corvinus Gaunt. The happy couple will marry in a private ceremony at the Gaunt House in Little Hangleton this September, where the family will reside.

"No pictures of them," you say.

Because this is a political marriage, nothing more. The happy couple. His jaw clenches. "Seems the Ellingboes must've wanted that Parseltongue heir more desperately than they cared for their reputation. They deserve each other."

"I know she was a horrible person, but... I feel sorry for Dorothy."

The worst of it is, he does too. Nasty as she was, he feels pity for anyone lawfully chained to his brother.

"I suppose the dowry was safe, even after they wasted their fortunes on the wedding that never happened. Doubt it'll last long." Missy told him that after his mother's passing and the estate was reclaimed, Marvolo lived alone in the shack where the house-elves used to live. That mental image always brings a smile to his face. "He'll do whatever it takes for the bloodline."

"Do you think..." You hesitate. "Do you think they'll have children?"

"I'm surprised they haven't already tried to squeeze out a few heirs," he muses. "My mother once told me how difficult it was to get pregnant, probably an effect of all the inbreeding. They might not have any at all."

You take the paper away. "Well, stuff them and their stupid ideals." You peck his cheek quickly. "Love you."

Your kisses are as sweet as they were two years ago, and just as eager. With all the time in the world, you often spend your evenings wrapped in one another's embrace, discovering more and more about each other's bodies, tastes, what works and what doesn't. You're like your own personal world he gets to explore, and he relishes each chance to learn.

One evening he Apparates home and stumbles upstairs to the sofa, where he promptly sinks into it, massaging his forehead.

You pop your head around. "Hello—" Your gasp cuts through. "That bruise is huge!"

He takes his hand away, the bump keening. "Blasted poacher. If they had thoroughly checked the area was clear before they sent me to detail the aftermath then I wouldn't have taken a jinx to the head."

You coo. "It must hurt. Let me get some ice!"

He's been using Episkey periodically on it instead, which isn't working so much but at least lessens the pain, but you, practical Muggle-raised you, return with ice cubes wrapped inside a tea towel, and the sensation stings pleasantly.

"I despise field work."

You're eager to touch him, he notices, little ones on his arm, his cheek, his hands and thighs. "Suppose you have to do it a little. If it helps, it makes you look very rugged and handsome."

He chuckles. "Is that so?"

You scoot closer. "Really very handsome. So handsome I-I would like you to ravish me immediately."

He laughs so hard his head hurts.

"You never were one for subtlety, were you?"

"I'm sorry, it's just I thought about you earlier, and then I couldn't stop thinking about you, and I've basically been pacing in wait for you to come home and— oh." You lean back suddenly, fretful. "No, sorry, sorry, I've just remembered I've got a hotpot going, and I don't think we'll have time for, erm, anything before its done. Never mind me."

But he seizes your waist before you can dance away, and you drop the tea towel, gasping right into his lips.

"How long until it's ready?"

"E-Erm." He knows when he does this, when he's assertive with you, that you love it. "M-Maybe twenty minutes? I-It's just cooking on the stove."

He crashes your lips together, and you melt instantly. Your hands go to his hair, gripping tightly, his hands go to your neck, his touch a whisper as it drags lower, down your collarbone, down to your chest. When you break apart, you're already panting.

"That's plenty of time, my darling."

"Twenty minutes? Really?"

"You've unravelled in less before."

"Whose fault is that?"

"I can't help it if I'm such an efficient lover."

You laugh and kiss him again. Quickly you straddle him, wrapped in each other's embrace, blissfully enjoying the small moments you snatch together as well as the long ones.

"Mmph, honey," you mumble, as his kisses trail down to your collarbone, as his hands go to unbutton your dress. "We're in the living room."

He hums into your neck. "So?"

"We can't do anything scandalous in here!"

You're exasperating sometimes, but that's why he loves you.

"We can do whatever we want in here. It's our house."

"Technically it's yours."

"Well then, I can choose to make you mine in whatever room I so desire. Should I take you to the kitchen instead? I think you'd taste rather scrumptious on the dining table."

"Ominis!" You swat him lightly as he laughs again. "No living room, no kitchen. Take me to the bedroom."

"So demanding," he croons. "What if I refuse?"

"Then you're going to dinner very unsatisfied."

"Mmm, then so would you, and I think we both know who would cave first."

You let out a little annoyed groan. "Fine, fine! But if I see even one stain—"

He kisses you, silencing your protestations, and your hands wrap around his shoulders again, pulling him closer. That smile, that enriches his day, every day, leaves him more smitten than he was a moment earlier.

You burnt the hotpot that day, but the memories you make together are far more important.

An hour before the shop closes, you let him off to prepare. The day already weighs on him, leaving him jittery and, ironically, rather unhelpful in the confectionary, so you order him to drink some tea and calm. It seems impossible, the teacup trembling in his grasp, even as he forces the scalding earl grey down his throat. Instead he stands and paces, hands tracing the living room. The photo frames that line the hearth – though he can't see them, he remembers each and every photo. You and him, at multiple stages of your life together. School photos that feel like were taken a lifetime ago.

Ominis' favourite is one of him and you and Anne. And him. A stupid, annoying best friend, the person Ominis has missed for five years.

His brother in all but blood.

In a few short hours, they will be reunited. His chest clenches again with worry, and he reaches for his favourite ornament to ground him. A photo frame with no glass, it has pinned by four corners an old, weathered handkerchief, its sides fraying and colour, supposedly, wearing away. He draws his thumb across the corner. Once it had two braille characters for OG, but since he married, the initials no longer fit anymore, so he asked you to change it.

You did, only to add one character.

O+G

He likes this one much better now. He's different – five years have changed him irrevocably. But, he believes, he has changed for the better.

Perhaps Sebastian Sallow has changed for the better, too.

The shop closes at precisely four. Dressed in formal summer robes, or what you sometimes call Sunday best, he heads downstairs to check you're ready to leave. You'll insist on changing into more formal garb and putting on rouge, naturally, but he hopes you're not distracted with all the little tasks that insist on your attention.

Luckily, when he reaches the shop floor, you're cutting up some toffee nougat to put into the ice box, a charmed crate in the store room that keeps all the perishables cold. The Muggles don't know that this is one of the Sweetling's Emporium's secrets to the low prices – your products last much longer.

"Nearly done," you say by way of greeting.

"Till trays are away?"

"Yep! I was thinking of taking some of this with me. Sebastian likes nougat, right?"

He definitely did before. How will five years of Dementors have affected his best friend? Five years of having his goodness drained from him? Will he be the same person, will he have that same effortless humour and disposition for mischief, the same insatiable thirst for knowledge, the same bullheadedness and wiles?

Or will he be stripped bare, mere vestiges of his former self? Will he recoil from the light, after so long spent in darkness? Will he still live in the shadows of his past?

"I believe so," he says non-committedly. Now that the moment is here, nerves crackle through him. "What if he's different, Gibby? What if he's spent the last five years resenting us?"

"He won't. In fact, I'd reckon it'll be the opposite – that he's spent every moment wishing he was with us." You hum. "He'll need your help to find himself again."

He leans against the counter top, massaging his forehead. "I couldn't help him before. What makes you so certain I can help him now?"

"Because you went through the exact same thing, Ominis," you say – with that smile he can hear. "You know what it's like."

Your reassurance eases the panic.

"Well," he says, a little wry, and he comes up to you, snakes his arm around you waist and pulls you close, "I had a little help."

"A little?"

"A lot."

You touch his nose. "And you best Adam and Eve it."

He laughs. His frivolous oddball that speaks only gibberish. His silly, wonderful, challenging, beautiful wife.

"I love you."

You lean in, and he presses a kiss to you, jubilant.

"I love you too," you say into his lips. "Now hands off, I need to powder my face before we go!"

You scarper away, and he calls, "Don't take too long!" up the stairs, laughing beneath his breath. If this is what the future will be like from now on... Ominis cannot wait.

Fin.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!! 💚 If you want to find out what happens to Sebastian and Missy (with plenty of Ominis and Gibby too), check out my fic SHELTER OF OUR NIGHT on AO3 and Wattpad!

Or read the first chapter of a new Ominis/ Gibby fic WREN & WRAITH here!

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Thank you so much to my tag list 💚 @cordidy @witchyafterdark @femaholicc @cherry-cola-100

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