#ominis x reader

Hogwarts | 1891 | Year 6

The thing about Hogwarts was that it never stopped watching you.

You felt it most clearly at night, when the corridors emptied and the castle’s sounds changed—when footsteps echoed too long and torches burned lower, as if conserving themselves for whatever came next. The stone seemed closer then. Older. Less interested in whether you were meant to be where you stood.

That feeling had kept you awake long past curfew, seated at the edge of the Undercroft table while Sebastian paced.

He hadn’t stopped moving for several minutes.

“You’re going to wear a path into the floor,” you said quietly.

Sebastian halted mid-step and turned toward you, eyes sharp in the low light. “You’re not listening.”

“I am,” you replied evenly. “You’ve just said the same thing four times.”

Across the room, Ominis leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely. He hadn’t said much since Sebastian started talking, but you could tell he was listening closely—not just to the words, but to the room itself, the way the air shifted when Sebastian raised his voice.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “This isn’t dark magic. Not like everyone thinks.”

“That’s usually how it starts,” Ominis said calmly.

Sebastian scoffed. “You haven’t even read the sources.”

“I’ve read enough,” Ominis replied. “Anything that promises control without cost tends to leave that part out.”

Sebastian turned back to the table and shoved a book toward you. The spine was cracked, pages warped slightly from damp, margins crowded with frantic notes written in a familiar hand. You recognized the title immediately—restricted, half-redacted, one of the texts Professor Fig had warned against even citing.

“They called it Imperium,” Sebastian said, tapping the margin. “But not like the curse. Not domination. Order.”

Ominis straightened slightly. “Order imposed is still force.”

“That’s not what this was meant for,” Sebastian shot back. “It was designed to stabilize people. To quiet fear before it turns into something destructive.”

You frowned, flipping through the pages. “That’s not how coercion works.”

“That’s not how it’s described,” Sebastian insisted. “It responds to intent. To need.”

Ominis’s voice lowered. “And who decides whose need matters?”

The room fell silent.

Instead, he said more quietly, “You’ve seen what fear does when it’s left alone.”

The room fell still.

You had seen it. You all had. Fear left to fester, fear turned inward until it hardened into something sharp and desperate. You thought of Anne—of the way Sebastian came back from visits pale and furious, hands shaking with the effort of not breaking something.

Sebastian looked between you and Ominis. “If something like this exists… something that could take that edge away—”

“You don’t get to decide which edge disappears,” Ominis said.

“I’m not talking about everyone,” Sebastian shot back. “I’m talking about people who are already drowning.”

You felt the pull then. Not toward power, but toward the idea of relief.

Sebastian must have mistaken your silence for agreement, because his shoulders loosened slightly, as if something inside him had settled. He didn’t look at either of you for long after that, already turning back toward the book, toward the certainty he’d decided to believe in.

Ominis didn’t speak.

Instead, his hand brushed yours where it rested against the edge of the table. It wasn’t accidental. His fingers barely touched your knuckles—just enough to be felt, just to ask a question without words.

You glanced at him.

His expression hadn’t changed, but his head was angled slightly in your direction now. A small, deliberate shift. A quiet acknowledgment.

I see it too.

You let your fingers curl once, lightly, before pulling your hand away. He didn’t stop you.

Sebastian straightened. “We go tonight.”

—

The castle felt different at this hour. Awake, but watchful. Every sound seemed to linger longer than it should—the soft scuff of boots, the faint brush of fabric, the quiet echo of your breathing.

Sebastian led the way with practiced confidence, weaving through passages that felt less like hallways and more like arteries. You passed tapestries heavy with dust, stone arches carved so low you had to duck slightly beneath them.

Ominis stayed close. Not crowding you, but near enough that you were aware of him without looking. Once, when the floor dipped unexpectedly, his hand settled briefly at your elbow to steady you before withdrawing just as quickly.

Neither of you commented on it.

The staircase appeared suddenly, half-hidden behind a narrow panel of stone you’d walked past countless times without noticing. It descended sharply, spiraling into shadow. Cold air rose from below, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and something older—metallic, almost.

Sebastian paused at the top, torch held low. “This is it.”

You hesitated for half a second longer than you meant to.

Ominis shifted beside you. His shoulder brushed yours as he stepped closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“If you want to turn back,” he said quietly, “say so.”

You shook your head. “I’m not alone.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

And then you descended.

—

The steps were narrow and uneven, worn smooth by something older than students sneaking after curfew. Moisture clung to the stone, slick beneath your boots, and the further you descended the colder it became. The torchlight didn’t quite reach the corners of the stairwell, shadows gathering there as if they preferred to remain unseen.

The castle felt distant now. Above you, Hogwarts continued on—sleeping students, quiet corridors, the illusion of safety—but down here, it felt like you’d slipped beneath its awareness.

Sebastian moved first, one hand braced against the wall as he navigated the curve of the stairs. His confidence didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened the deeper you went, as though the dark steadied him instead of the other way around.

You followed carefully, fingers brushing the stone for balance. The air grew heavier with each step, carrying the faint hum you’d noticed earlier—subtle but persistent, like something breathing just out of sync with you.

Ominis stayed just behind your shoulder.

You didn’t need to look to know he was there. You felt it in the way his steps matched yours, in how he adjusted his pace without a word whenever the stairs dipped or narrowed. When your foot slipped slightly on damp stone, his hand caught your wrist immediately, firm but gentle, steadying you before you could even react.

“You’re alright,” he murmured.

You nodded, pulse settling. “Yeah.”

His hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before withdrawing. This time, neither of you pretended not to notice.

The stairwell ended abruptly, opening into a narrow passage that sloped downward at an angle that felt deliberate. The walls here were rougher, unfinished, the stone darkened with age and moisture. Water dripped somewhere ahead, the sound echoing too clearly in the confined space.

Sebastian slowed, lifting the torch higher. The flame flickered, reacting to something in the air.

“You feel that?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said.

Ominis didn’t answer, but you could feel the tension in him now. His posture had shifted, shoulders squared, attention fixed not on the walls but on the space itself—as though he were listening for something beneath the sound of your footsteps.

The passage opened suddenly.

The chamber was circular, carved directly from the rock, its ceiling low enough to press down on your awareness. Runes spiraled along the walls in uneven rings, etched so deeply they seemed part of the stone rather than markings laid upon it. The air inside was colder, sharper, and the hum you’d been feeling resolved into something clearer—still quiet, but undeniable.

You stopped just inside the threshold.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Sebastian stepped in fully, awe softening his expression. “It’s here.”

At the center of the room stood the pedestal.

Black stone, smooth and unadorned, rising just above the floor. Embedded in it was the artifact itself—smaller than you’d imagined, dark and simple, its surface absorbing the torchlight rather than reflecting it.

Imperium.

The name surfaced in your mind without invitation, settling there as though it had been waiting.

Ominis halted beside you. His hand brushed the back of your arm, subtle but grounding. “Don’t move too quickly,” he said.

Sebastian didn’t listen.

He approached the pedestal slowly, reverence replacing the restless edge he’d carried moments before. The closer he got, the quieter he became, as though the chamber itself demanded it.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, not turning back. His voice was low, almost awed. “It’s not… threatening.”

“It doesn’t need to be,” Ominis replied, his voice low and warning.

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “You always assume the worst.”

He reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface, the chamber reacted.

The hum deepened, vibrating through the stone beneath your feet. Runes along the walls flared once—sharp, blinding—and pressure built low in your chest, tight and insistent, stealing the air from your lungs.

Sebastian staggered. “Merlin—”

You moved forward without thinking.

Ominis caught your wrist, his grip firm this time. “Wait.”

“He’s hurt,” you said, panic creeping into your voice.

“No,” Ominis’ fingers dug tightly into your skin and for a moment you felt his fear. “It’s…binding.”

Sebastian straightened slowly, breath uneven, one hand braced against the pedestal. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice wavered. “It’s just… loud.”

The artifact pulsed again.

The pressure crawled higher, settling beneath your ribs like a weight you couldn’t shake. You took a step back, chest tightening.

Ominis noticed immediately. He moved closer, his hand sliding from your wrist to your forearm, steady and warm. “Breathe,” he said softly.

You did. Slowly. The pressure eased, retreating just enough to let your lungs expand fully again.

Sebastian turned toward you, eyes bright with something unreadable. “It’s reacting to us.”

“No,” Ominis said, his voice strained. “It’s reacting to you.”

Sebastian scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. “You think I’m special?”

The artifact answered.

A thin vein of dark light extended from its surface, reaching toward Sebastian’s hand. It pressed there briefly—testing, measuring—before snapping back into the artifact itself.

The hum fractured, then collapsed inward.

Sebastian inhaled sharply, stumbling back a step.

The chamber settled slowly, the pressure easing in increments rather than vanishing outright. The runes dimmed, their glow fading into the stone. The artifact remained exactly where it had been—unchanged, silent.

For a moment, none of you moved.

Then, breaking the silence, Sebastian laughed under his breath. It was short, brittle, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See?” he said lightly. “Nothing.”

He turned his hand over once more, flexing his fingers as if daring something to happen.

You didn’t move.

Your gaze stayed fixed on his skin, half-expecting to see something surface — a mark, a shadow, anything that would make sense of the way your chest still felt tight. The pressure had faded, but the air in the chamber hadn’t fully settled. It felt thinner now. Wrong.

“That…that doesn’t mean nothing happened,” you said quietly.

Sebastian looked at you then, really looked, and his expression softened. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Ominis remained still, head angled slightly as though listening past Sebastian’s words. His posture had changed — subtle, but unmistakable. Less relaxed. More alert.

“It’s quiet,” he said slowly. “Too quiet.”

Sebastian frowned. “You said it wasn’t active.”

Ominis didn’t look at him.

“I said it wasn’t doing anything yet,” he replied. “That’s not the same thing.”

That landed differently.

Sebastian glanced back at the pedestal, then at his hand again. “You’re both acting like it did something.”

You swallowed. “It reacted to you.”

“So?” he said. “It didn’t hurt me.”

“No,” Ominis agreed. “It didn’t.”

There was a pause.

“And that,” Ominis continued, carefully, “is what concerns me.”

The chamber seemed to close in around you then — not physically, but in the way silence does when it’s listening. The runes along the walls no longer glowed, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching, waiting for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Sebastian straightened, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the moment. “You’re both being dramatic.”

He stepped back toward the pedestal, curiosity flickering again.

Ominis moved before you could think to stop him.

His arm came out across your path, not forceful but firm, a quiet barrier. “We’re leaving.”

Sebastian stopped. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m deciding it anyway,” Ominis said.

The air between them tightened.

You stepped closer to Sebastian, lowering your voice. “Please. Just — not tonight.”

He hesitated.

For the first time since you’d entered the chamber, doubt flickered across his face. Just for a moment.

Then it hardened into resolve.

“I’m fine,” he said. “You saw that.”

You had.

That was the problem.

As you turned away, the artifact remained exactly as it had been — dark, still, unremarkable. And yet the hum hadn’t disappeared entirely. It had simply receded, slipping beneath your awareness like a memory you didn’t want to examine too closely.

The climb back up felt longer.

Sebastian walked ahead again, confidence restored too quickly, his steps lighter than they had any right to be. You watched him closely, noting the way he moved, the ease in his shoulders, the absence of hesitation.

It scared you more than if he’d been shaken.

Ominis stayed beside you, closer now than before. When the passage narrowed, his hand settled briefly at your back, guiding you through without comment. You noticed the way his fingers tightened slightly, then loosened again, as if he were reminding himself to breathe.

Neither of you spoke until you reached the top of the stairs.

When you finally emerged into the upper corridor, the warmth of the castle felt unreal — too normal, too unchanged.

Sebastian turned toward you both, smiling. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

You forced a nod, but your gaze lingered on him as he walked away, unease pooling low in your stomach.

Ominis didn’t look at Sebastian at all.

His attention was fixed on the stairwell behind you, head tilted, listening.

After a moment, he spoke quietly.

“It didn’t take anything from him,” he said.

You waited.

“But it didn’t let him go either.”

Your breath caught.

Ominis finally turned toward you, his expression controlled but tight around the edges. “Whatever that was meant to do,” he said, “it recognized something in him.”

“…And that’s bad?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he replied. “I think it is.”

The corridor remained empty. Silent. Ordinary.

But as you walked away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted — not in the castle, but in Sebastian.

And whatever had answered him in that chamber hadn’t needed to follow.

The rain had settled into London the way it always did when the city wanted to feel older than it was—steady, cold, unhurried. It slicked the cobblestones and softened the street into something quieter, lanternlight stretching thin across the wet stone before breaking apart.

The carriage slowed, wheels grinding faintly as it came to a stop.

Rain tapped against the window beside you, a constant, low percussion. Across the street, the building glowed warmly despite the hour. Its windows spilled uneven light onto the pavement, the wood of its façade darkened by rain but sturdy all the same, like it had weathered worse and carried on.

A crooked sign hung above the door, its gold lettering dulled by time but unmistakable.

Weasley’s Wonders.

Ominis stepped down first. He didn’t rush you, but you felt the shift in his attention the moment you followed, his awareness adjusting instinctively to your presence. Rain caught the hem of your coat immediately, cold seeping in before you could stop it.

He held the door just long enough for you to pass close. The bell chimed overhead—bright, cheerful, deeply unserious for the hour.

Warmth met you at once. Not heat, exactly—comfort. The shop smelled faintly of sugar and parchment, layered with something sharper beneath it. Metal. Smoke. The lingering trace of magic that had misbehaved recently and survived the correction.

The space was narrow but deep, shelves stacked high and crowded with objects that resisted order. Labels rewrote themselves as you passed. A row of tin figurines marched along the windowsill, boots tapping in rhythm. Somewhere overhead, something ticked without any interest in keeping time.

It was chaos.

But it was a living chaos—busy, clever, unapologetically alive in a way few places were anymore.

Your shoulders eased before you realized they’d been tense.

A voice drifted from behind a curtain of dangling charms.

“If you’re here to sell me something cursed, I’m not buying it unless it’s interesting.”

A beat.

“Actually—if it’s cursed and interesting, I’ll consider it.”

There was a clatter, a sharp curse, and then the curtain was shoved aside.

Garreth Weasley emerged like a man who had been arguing with an object and lost. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a mess that looked intentional until you noticed the singed streak near his temple. Soot smudged one cheek. His grin was bright, familiar, and unapologetic.

His eyes found you first—quick, warm, and recognizing.

Then they flicked to Ominis.The grin sharpened.

“Oh,” Garreth said. “So it’s that kind of night.”

“Hello, Weasley,” Ominis replied evenly.

Garreth’s gaze moved between you, interest sparking as he took in the rain still clinging to your coats, the hour, the lack of pleasantries. “You wrote like you were being chased.”

Ominis’s mouth tilted slightly. “We may be.”

Something in Garreth’s posture shifted—not fear, but focus. He jerked his chin toward the back of the shop. “Back room. Less chance of someone overhearing. Also less chance of something exploding near the customers.”

As if summoned, a glass orb on the nearest shelf sputtered and released a small puff of glittering smoke.

Garreth pointed at it without looking. “That one’s on probation.”

He disappeared behind the curtain without waiting.

The back room felt quieter the moment you stepped into it—insulated from the shop, the street outside suddenly distant. A single hanging lamp cast steady light over a wide workbench crowded with half-finished projects: brass fittings laid out carefully, parchment weighed down by mismatched tools, a dismantled pocketwatch whose hands lay scattered near a shallow tray.

The air smelled faintly of ink and warm metal.

Garreth sealed the door with a flick of his wand. The latch clicked softly, followed by a faint tightening in the air that raised the hair along your arms. He hesitated, glanced toward you, then added a second charm—slower this time, deliberate.

The room settled around it.

“Habit,” he said, shrugging. “Some things listen.”

You took one of the chairs he indicated. Ominis sat beside you, close enough that you were aware of the warmth at his side when he shifted, though he never touched you outright.

Garreth leaned back against the workbench, arms folding loosely. The lamp overhead hummed quietly.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me what you didn’t put in the letter.”

Ominis angled his head slightly, listening—not just to Garreth, but to the room itself. To the wards settling. To the shop beyond the curtain.

“They’re meeting again,” he said.

Garreth’s brows lifted. “Who.”

“Old families,” Ominis replied. “The sort that prefer closed doors and conversations that never quite say what they mean.”

Garreth let out a quiet breath through his nose, thumb tapping once against the edge of the workbench. “So they’re being careful.”

“They’ve moved past hypotheticals,” Ominis said. “No more discussions about what could happen. They’re planning as if it already will.”

The lamp overhead gave a faint hum as Garreth straightened. “Meaning they think they’re close.”

“Yes.”

Garreth reached for his notebook, hesitated, then left it where it was. “And Viktor’s the one steering this.”

Ominis’s jaw tightened. “He is.”

“That tracks,” Garreth muttered. “He always liked being just ahead of the conversation.”

Ominis’s cane shifted slightly against his leg. “He was older than us. Briefly at Hogwarts. Long enough for people to notice him—then gone before anyone could decide what to make of him.”

Garreth nodded slowly. “Selwyn money. The kind people remember even when the person disappears.”

“He learned when to step back,” Ominis said. “And when to return.”

Garreth’s mouth flattened. “That doesn’t make him subtle.”

“No,” Ominis agreed. “It makes him patient.”

The lamp flickered once, then steadied.

“They mentioned an artifact,” Ominis continued.

Garreth’s fingers stilled where they rested on the bench. “What kind?

“It's an old coercive artifact,” Ominis said. “Not a curse you cast but something designed to persist. It feeds on fear that already exists and reinforces it unitl resistancee stops feeling like a choice. People will obey not because they've been forced false belief...people will obey because pushing back becomes unbearable.”

"Merlin's sake..." Garreth exhaled slowly, gaze drifting over the scattered tools. “So it's not exactly an embodiment of the Cruciatus.”

“No,” Ominis replied.

"You know exactly what's being done to you. This-" Garreth shook his head slightly. "It settles in and convinces you as if it's your own idea, even while it's wearing you down."

Your pale haired companion nods grimly.

“And they think it answers to blood,” Garreth asks closely.

“They believe authority follows lineage,” Ominis said carefully. “That those of pure blood decent are the ones who can use it.”

Garreth scoffed under his breath. “They always think that.”

“They don’t need certainty,” Ominis said. “Only enough confidence to act.”

Garreth closed the notebook with a soft tap. “...Did they name it?

“No.”

“Smart,” Garreth muttered. “Names leave trails.”

“Though...they spoke as if it’s already been moved,” Ominis added.

Garreth looked up sharply. “Moved where.”

Ominis didn’t answer.

Rain struck the window harder for a moment, the sound filling the space where the question lingered. Garreth studied him. “You’re being careful.”

“Yes.”

Garreth nodded once. “Good.”

His nod lingered for a moment longer than necessary. He pushed off the workbench and moved a few steps away, boots scuffing softly against the floor as he crossed the room. One of the brass fittings near the edge of the table rattled faintly as he brushed past it, then settled again.

“All right,” he said at last. “Then here’s the problem.”

He turned back to face you both, hands braced against the bench now, shoulders squared—not theatrical, just focused.

“If they’re confident,” he continued, “it’s because something’s already moving. Either the object itself or the people who think they can control it.”

“I don’t believe Viktor plans around being wrong,” Ominis said.

“No,” Garreth agreed. “He plans around being first.”

The lamp overhead hummed softly as if in agreement. Rain slid down the window in uneven tracks, blurring the street beyond into streaks of muted light.

“I’ve heard things,” Garreth went on, voice lower this time. “Not enough to be certain. Just patterns. Objects changing hands without record. Private collections suddenly relocating. People asking the wrong questions and acting like it’s coincidence.”

Ominis leaned forward slightly, cane shifting with him. “Where?”

Garreth shook his head. “Still confirming. If it’s what you think it is, it won’t leave a clean trail.”

You felt Ominis shift beside you. His sleeve brushed against yours—brief, deliberate, grounding. The contact was gone almost as soon as you noticed it, but it left you more aware of how close he was, how carefully he held himself.

Garreth noticed the movement. His mouth twitched, but he didn’t comment.

“Still,” he said lightly, easing the tension just enough to keep it from snapping, “it’s nice to see you both alive.”

You frowned. “Alive?”

Garreth waved a hand. “Last time this bloke showed up, something melted.”

You turned slowly toward Ominis. “Melted.”

He didn’t answer.

Garreth grinned. “Sebastian was involved.”

Understanding clicked—not the details, just the shape of it. So that was the kind of help Ominis Gaunt occasionally needed from Garreth Weasley.

You bit back a smile.

Garreth continued, waving his hands about, clearly enjoying himself. “There was smoke. There was yelling. There was—”

“Weasley,” Ominis sighed.

Garreth laughed. “Short version. Got it.”

He glanced at you. “Sebastian brewed something he shouldn’t have. Ominis cleaned it up.”

“That sounds like you were protecting someone,” you said quietly, hiding a smile.

Ominis’s posture stilled just a fraction, the line of his shoulders tightening before easing again. “It was an impractical situation.”

Garreth snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

The humor thinned naturally, settling back into the room like dust once the laughter faded. The ticking from the shop beyond the curtain seemed louder now, more insistent.

Garreth leaned forward again, palms flat against the bench.

“So,” he said. “Here’s the real question.”

He looked between you, gaze steady, measuring.

“Do you want to stop them from finding it,” he asked, “or do you want to find it first?”

The words hung there, heavy but unembellished. But before either of you could answer, the bell at the front of the shop chimed.

Once.

Then again.

Garreth went still. “I locked that door.”

Ominis didn’t move. Not even slightly.

The air shifted—not panic, but attention drawn tight. Somewhere in the shop, glass chimed softly as if something had adjusted itself without permission. Rain continued to tap against the windows, steady and unbothered. The warmth of the shop felt thinner now, stretched just enough to let the cold press closer.

And whatever Viktor believed would decide things for him was no longer distant.

It was already near.

Your heels struck the stone path with sharp precision as you descended the front steps. The sound echoed too loudly in the open night, each step a reminder that distance did not always mean freedom. Somewhere behind you, the doors of the manor closed—slow, deliberate—sealing the space you’d just left with a finality that felt intentional.

You didn’t turn around.

The grounds stretched outward in manicured submission. Hedges trimmed into obedience. Gravel paths laid with careful intention, discouraging deviation. Even the darkness here felt curated—only allowing what served it.

Ominis walked beside you, cane tapping softly against the stone. He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t reach for you. But his presence stayed close enough to register, his pace adjusting subtly to yours without comment.

You noticed that.

The carriage door opened with a muted creak. Ominis stepped aside, allowing you in first. As you passed him, his hand brushed briefly against your lower back—not guiding, not possessive. Just there. A fleeting reassurance, or perhaps a reminder that he was paying attention.

It vanished almost immediately.

You straightened instinctively, a faint warmth rising beneath your skin, and stepped inside; Ominis following closely behind in pursuit.

The carriage smelled faintly of leather and old magic—something polished but worn, like a place that had heard too many secrets to bother remembering them all. Lanternlight cast long, shifting shadows across the interior as the door closed behind you. The thestrals shifted, wings rustling softly, and with a lurch that settled quickly into a steady rhythm, the carriage lifted into motion.

Only once the manor lights disappeared behind the treeline did you exhale.

“They mentioned Ranrok,” you said at last. Your voice was calm. You had learned how to make it so.

Ominis did not answer immediately. The pause stretched—not in avoidance, but with consideration.

“I didn’t expect them to,” he said evenly. “Not so plainly.”

A beat.

“They’re growing impatient.”

That tracked. You could still feel it beneath your ribs—the way the room had shifted the moment the name was spoken. Polite language abandoned in favor of something sharper. The past, dragged forward and used as justification.

The carriage banked slightly, descending rather than climbing.

You frowned. “We’re not going back to Hogwarts?”

“No.”

The word settled, heavy.

Your first thought was immediate and unwelcome—isn’t that where it was?

Ominis folded his hands loosely over the head of his cane. It was a familiar posture—controlled, deliberate. One he used when he was arranging his thoughts rather than reacting to them.

“I didn’t want to speak freely until we were clear of the grounds,” he finally broke the silence.

“And now?” you asked.

“Now,” he replied, “they’re no longer listening.”

Something in his posture shifted—subtle, but deliberate.

“It isn’t there,” Ominis says calmly. “And it hasn’t been for some time.”

You exhaled through your nose. Of course he would notice what you’d been thinking without needing you to ask. He always did. You glanced toward the window. The night beyond was open and dark, the manor far behind you now. Whatever enchantments had wrapped that estate had thinned, replaced by the ambient hum of the wider world—London’s magic, crowded and restless.

“They wanted you there,” Ominis continued. “Not as an observer.”

You let out a quiet breath, staring at the faintly glowing city lights below. “I gathered.”

“They were testing me,” you said after a moment. “Through you.”

“Yes.”

“And me?”

Ominis hesitated—not long enough to betray himself, but long enough that you noticed.

“They believe you’re persuadable,” he said carefully.

You laughed once, softly. There was no humor in it.

The lantern flickered as the carriage passed through a pocket of turbulent air, shadows warping briefly before settling again.

“They don’t know what you believe,” you said.

“No,” Ominis agreed. “They believe I’m indifferent.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And are you?”

He turned his head toward you—not fully, but enough that his attention settled squarely in your direction.

“Indifference,” he said, “is a useful misunderstanding.”

You studied his profile in the lanternlight. His hair was no longer slicked back the way it had been at Hogwarts; platinum strands fell loose now, catching softly in the glow as they brushed his temples. His eyes were still pale, unfocused in that way that reminded you he wasn’t looking at the room so much as listening to it—but somehow that only made the way he turned toward you feel more intentional.

He wore a dark suit, tailored close, the fabric sitting broad across his shoulders when he shifted. Sitting this close, you were painfully aware of him—the warmth at your side, the near-touch of his knee to yours, close enough that you could feel it every time the carriage moved. He never closed the distance, never pulled away either. It felt deliberate. Controlled. And for a brief, unwelcome moment, you wondered if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“And here I thought it was just your natural charm,” you murmured.

A pause.

The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close enough to feel intentional.

“Careful,” he said quietly. “People might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

“I wouldn’t want to give them the wrong idea.”

Something in his posture shifted—not away from you, but closer. Not touch. Just awareness.

“And Viktor?” you asked, breaking it before it could sharpen further. “Does he believe that too?”

Ominis’s jaw tightened, just perceptibly.

“Viktor believes most things can be leveraged,” he said. “Including people.”

You thought of Viktor’s gaze. Measuring. Patient. The way he’d spoken about certainty as if it were mercy.

“He knows about my father,” you said quietly.

“Yes.”

“And my mother.”

“He suspects,” Ominis corrected. “That is not the same thing.”

The carriage dipped lower now, the air growing warmer, heavier with layered enchantments. You could feel it—the city’s magic bleeding upward, crowded and alive.

“He called it inevitable,” you said. “That artifact.”

Ominis’s fingers stilled against his cane.

“They believe it removes uncertainty,” he said.

He paused, as if choosing his words with care.

“Not by changing what people believe,” he continued, “but by changing what they’re willing to endure.”

His voice remained even, but there was something deliberate beneath it now.

“It responds to fear that hasn’t been named,” he said. “The exhaustion people carry quietly. The point where resistance begins to cost more than compliance.”

Your chest tightened as your mother’s face rose unbidden in your mind—the way her voice had softened over time, not from persuasion but because she grew tired.

“It doesn’t issue commands,” Ominis went on. “It limits perspective. Until every choice but submission feels irresponsible.”

A pause.

“By the time someone gives in,” he added quietly, “it feels like relief.”

Your fingers curled against the seat.

“And blood?” you asked softly.

“They believe it requires a pure-blood,” Ominis said. “To them, lineage means compatibility. Those can approach —wield—this artifact without being harmed.”

You swallowed.

In the hands of someone like your father—unyielding, righteous, convinced of his own authority—it would not be restraint. It would be justification.

And someone like your mother—

You didn’t finish the thought.

“My mother didn’t change because she believed,” you said quietly. “She changed because it became easier not to resist.”

Ominis did not interrupt. His silence felt intentional.

“They would call that order,” he said eventually.

Order. The gravity of his words settled uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. How twisted it was—to make something so cruel sound reasonable.

The carriage slowed, wheels brushing stone as it descended. The subtle jolt of landing reverberated through the frame.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” you said.

Ominis turned fully toward you now.

“I wrote to Weasley,” he said.

You blinked. “Garreth?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… odd.”

Ominis’s mouth tilted slightly, not quite a smile. “Only if you assume this is the first time I’ve needed his help.”

You wondered what kind of trouble Ominis Gaunt had ever found himself in that called for Garreth Weasley of all people. Whatever it had been, you suspected it wasn’t a story he intended to tell easily.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Rain tapped steadily against the window, blurring the warm light that spilled onto the street below. The shopfront glowed warmly, familiar even through the downpour. A crooked sign hung above the door ahead, its gold lettering flickering faintly in the rain.

Weasley’s Wonders.

“You trust him,” you said, staring at the glowing sign.

“I trust his instincts,” Ominis replied. “And his discretion.”

“And why involve him?”

Ominis’s posture tightened—just slightly.

“Because Weasley knows how artifacts move,” he said. “Who trades in them. Who asks the right questions when something dangerous begins to circulate.”

You understood then.

Not a movement. Not yet. But an informal alliance of people who recognized the same warning signs and acted without drawing attention.

“And because,” Ominis added, “he is not afraid of making enemies he cannot see.”

The carriage door opened. Warm air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of sugar and smoke.

“You don’t think it’s surfaced yet,” you said, the thought settling uneasily as the conversation replayed itself in your mind.

The artifact.

“No.”

“But it will.”

“Yes.”

“And when it does?”

Ominis stepped down first, then turned back toward you. He offered his hand—not because you needed it, but because the moment asked for something grounding.

“Then,” he said quietly, “we will need to know who reaches for it first.”

You took his hand.

Not for balance.

And as your feet met the stone, the awareness lingered—not just of the danger ahead, but of the fact that he did not let go immediately.

Just long enough.

Whatever that thing was—whatever name it would eventually be given—it wasn’t meant to convince.

It was meant to decide.

The manor smelled of old wax and damp stone; A scent that never quite left no matter how many fires were lit or how many windows were cracked open to let the night air breathe through. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed – its deep groan echoing throughout the manor.

You had learned long ago that certain places wanted you to feel small.

The corridor was narrow, lined with portraits whose eyes followed sound more than movement. Their oil painted faces looked too pleased with themselves as though the hushed whispers of conversations they eavesdropped on lived within their frames and fed them. The sconces along the wall burned with a steady tinged flame that cast sharp shadows in the hollows of the carved molds within the walls. It was tasteful in the way that wealth was tasteful – clean, expensive, and indifferent.

Ominis walked half a step ahead of you.

He didn’t need to look back to know that you were there. He never had.

His cane tapped softly against the wooden floorboards as you followed closely behind him; Your footsteps at careful rhythm that matched the measured pace of his breath. You could hear it when you focused. The quiet steadiness of someone who refused to betray himself even when the air tried to squeeze the truth out of his lungs.

“You don’t have to come in,” he said, voice low; his words articulated carefully.

“And miss the opportunity to watch you tolerate a room full of people you despise?”

He pauses. “You’re being generous.”

The corner of your mouth lifted faintly.

At the end of the corridor, the doors to the drawing room stood partially ajar. Warm light spilled through the gap – gold and green, candlelight and fire – accompanied by the low hum of hushed voices, too quiet for you to make out what was being said.

Ominis stopped just short of the threshold.

Not with hesitation. But with calculation. You recognized it from years ago – The stillness that preceded his decisions.

As the crowd shifted inside, someone laughed. Another voice followed – smooth, confident, practiced.

Ominis lifted his hand slightly, his fingers brushing the doorframe as he oriented himself. Then, almost without thought, his other hand settled at your lower back.

It wasn’t possessive. Nor lingering. Just enough to guide you forward, out of the narrowing press of the corridor and into the room.

The contact vanished quickly as it came. Unfortunately, you noticed it anyway.

Instinctively, you straightened, heat rising faintly beneath your skin, and told yourself to focus on the room rather than the echo of his touch.

The drawing room was larger than it had any right to be. A vaulted ceiling stretched overhead, painted with figures entwined with serpents and stars, its beauty enough to disguise the warning beneath it. Crystal decanters lined a polished table. Heavy emerald drapes framed tall windows that stared into blackened gardens.

The people inside were arranged with care. Old families. Old money. Old convictions dressed anew.

Conversations paused subtly as the two of you entered.

“Gaunt,” someone said, as though the name were a title rather than a burden.

Ominis inclined his head, polite and distant.

You felt eyes shift then shift to you, assessing with quiet interest. Some curious. Others calculating. A few already dismissive.

A woman near the hearth rose from her chair, her hair pinned in a style that looked painful. Her jewelry caught the firelight and returned it in small, cold flashes.

“You came,” she said, pleased. “We worried you’d grown…indisposed.”

There it was – a blade tucked beneath a compliment.

Ominis’ expression didn’t waver. His voice remained calm and clean. “It’s flattering to know I was missed.”

Soft laughter circulated the room. Not kind nor unkind. Simply, entertained.

Your gaze drifted, taking in the rest of the room. Young men with too straight posture, older women whose eyes skimmed the room like predators, and a handful of guests who looked as though they’d been invited purely as decoration – pleasant bloodlines and compliant smiles.

Then you saw him.

Viktor Sewlyn had never been invisible. His name was no stranger to the periphery of old families and newer whispers; His reputation preceding him – in the Daily Prophet , in passing conversations, in the way people spoke of his family as though it were a certainty rather than a name.

He stood near the mantle, fingers turning a ring slowly around his thumb. He didn’t look particularly imposing at first glance – tidy hair, neat robes, and an expression that was composed into something almost gentle. The sort of man who could convince you that he meant wheel while he tightened a noose.

His eyes found you immediately.

You had never liked the way certain people looked at you like this. As if they were reading a book they believed belonged to them.

“Ah,” Viktor stepped forward with a smoothness that felt practiced. “And you brought her.”

The word brought, made something sour twist in your stomach.

Ominis’ jaw tightened, a small shift you would’ve missed if you hadn’t learned to pay attention to the way he tried to hide emotion.

“She’s not an object,” Ominis said, his tone mild yet cold.

Viktor’s smile sharpened, amused. “No, of course not. Forgive me.” His gaze lingered on you again, too long. “It’s simply…unusual.”

“Unusual,” you repeated, letting the word roll around your tongue as if it were a flavor you couldn’t decide whether you hated. “In what way?”

Several faces turned toward you now. Interest sparked – not curiosity, exactly, but that that hungry delight people got when they sensed a social misstep and hoped it would entertain them.

Viktor’s cerulean eyes didn’t leave yours. “A young witch of your…lineage – attending these circles willingly.”

Your lineage.

You kept your face neutral, though your fingers curled once at your side.

Your father would have smiled at that. He would have taken it as praise – as proof that he’d done something right. Your mother would have sat very still, her hands folded as though a prayer could keep the room from turning even more cruel.

“It’s always interesting,” Your voice light and your gaze unwavering, refusing to back down. “What people assume I do willingly.”

A pause.

Then Viktor laughed. “Sharp. I like sharp.”

Something in Ominis shifts beside you. Not with movement, but his presence. He didn’t touch you. Nor pull you back or shield you with a possessive arm. Ominis wasn’t that type of man.

He angled himself closer to you, like a door closing quietly. Viktor’s gaze flicks to him, noticing. Cataloguing.

“You trust her,” Viktor observed, voice mild.

“I do,” Ominis replied. The simple certainty of it changed the air. Not dramatically but just enough.

Viktor’s attention shifted to you again, as if the confirmation made you more interesting rather than less.

“I’ve often wondered,” he said calmly, “How much of your father you inherited.”

The name of your father landed with quiet weight, like stone settling into water. You kept your expression composed, though something in your ribs tightened.

“In what way?” you ask evenly.

Viktor studied you, unhurried.

“Conviction,” he said after a moment. The air tightens in your throat. 

“Composure.” 

His gaze lingered, measuring rather than dismissive. “An instinct for restraint.”

You recognized it for what it was—not conversation, but calibration. The kind that pretended to be polite.

“And yet,” he continued, tone unchanged, “you managed to avoid the choices that ruined him.”

You met his gaze without flinching. “You’re assuming the outcome was the problem.”

The corner of Viktor’s mouth lifted, pleased. His eyes swept over you—not careless, not consuming, but deliberate, the way he looked at the ring he kept turning between his fingers. Something already owned, at least in his mind.

“Your father relied on conviction,” he said calmly. “You rely on something more disarming.”

His eyes met yours.

“Beauty has a way of lowering defenses.”

The observation settled between you—too composed to be a compliment, too personal to be incidental.

Ominis did not move. But something in his stillness sharpened, precise and deliberate, like a blade sheathed just a moment too tightly.

“Some things,” Omnis said quietly, “Become dangerous the moment they are admired aloud.”

Viktor turned his head then, curiosity flickering across his expression before smoothing into something amused. For a heartbeat, he studied Ominis as though seeing him properly for the first time.

“How fortunate,” Viktor’s lips turn upward, almost challengingly, his attention immediately returning to you, “that I’ve always had an appetite for dangerous things.”

A low murmur rippled through the room, subtle as breath. Someone poured more wine. Someone else smiled as if they’d just witnessed the beginning of a story.

The woman by the hearth clasped her hands. “We were discussing the matter of restoration,” she said smoothly, turning the conversation with practiced grace. “The old ways, returning. What was stolen, reclaimed.”

Restoration.

Such a pleasant word for rot.

“We’re not speaking of childish nostalgia,” she continued. “We’re speaking of inheritance. Of power returning to those who know how to wield it properly.”

Her gaze flicked to Ominis.

And stayed there.

Ominis’s face remained composed. His cane rested against his leg, unmoving.

“Properly,” he echoed.

“Yes,” Viktor said, voice softening into something almost reverent. “There are artifacts. Methods. Proof of what blood can awaken.”

A ripple of contained excitement moved through the room — approval disguised as restraint.

You felt it, too — not excitement, but recognition, sharp and unwelcome.

Artifacts.

Your eyes drifted toward the far end of the room where an archway led into a smaller chamber. It was darker in there. The light didn’t reach properly. The air looked heavier, as though it had been taught to hold secrets.

A memory pressed at the back of your mind — stone corridors, a different kind of cold, candlelight trembling.

Ominis spoke again, this tone mild enough to pass as curiosiity. "Tell me more about this artifact."

Viktor smiled.

"It doesn't persuade," he said simply. "It doesn't inspire belief or loyalty. That would be inefficient."

He took a slow step, the ring on his finger catching the light as it turned.

"It recognizes fear." Viktor continued. "Unacknowledged hesitation. The part of a person that wants certainty badly enough to surrender choice."

A ripple of approval moved through the room.

“The artifact amplifies that instinct,” he said. “Focus it. Once engaged, resistance collapses. Not through force — through inevitability.”

Your stomach tightened.

“So obedience,” someone murmured approvingly, “without dissent.”

“Without confusion,” Viktor corrected.

Ominis inclined his head slightly, as though following the logic.

“And blood?” he asked lightly. “Where does that factor in?”

Viktor’s gaze sharpened, pleased by the question.

“Blood determines access,” he said. “Compatibility. Who can wield its power safely.”

A pause.

“Blood is the key.” Viktor’s voice darkens. “ Only pure-blood witches and wizards can wield it without consequence…it was made for our kind.”

Ominis considered this for a moment.

“And loyalty,” he asked, tone conversational, “still matters — when obedience can be compelled?”

This time, the silence held. Viktor studied him, something like admiration flickering beneath the calculation.

A man near the window spoke then, his voice edged with impatience.

“We’ve seen what happens without it,” he said. “Ranrok made that clear enough.”

The name landed heavily. A few heads inclined. Others stiffened.

“Our influence eroded while we debated philosophy,” the man continued. “Goblin rebellion. Ministry concessions. Bloodlines questioned in public courts. I could go on.”

“Authority challenged,” someone else added quietly.

Viktor didn’t look away.

“Ranrok exposed a weakness,” he said. “Not in magic—but in control.”

He gestured vaguely, as though referring to a problem already solved.

“We relied on loyalty,” Viktor continued. “On belief. On tradition holding simply because it always had.”

A faint smile. “That was naive.”

“The artifact corrects that,” the woman by the hearth said smoothly. “It removes uncertainty.”

“It ensures compliance with the masses,” Viktor added. “Where persuasion failed.”

The logic of it settled cold and heavy in your chest. Not loyalty. Not belief. Compliance, stripped of the dignity of choice.

An object that didn’t need persuasion. Didn’t need trust. Didn’t need faith. An object that could reach into the part of a person that wanted peace badly enough to surrender their will — and tighten.

You thought of your mother. Not as she was now, careful and quiet, but as she had been before. Opinionated. Principled. Unwilling to bend. You remembered the arguments — not loud, not violent, but relentless. How resistance had worn her down slowly, until agreement became easier than defiance. Until silence felt safer than truth.

This artifact wouldn’t have argued with her. It would have finished the work. The realization made your stomach turn.

And your father — you knew, with a sick certainty, that he would have admired it. Not for its elegance, but for its efficiency. For the way it removed dissent without needing to justify itself. For the way it could force alignment without ever calling it force. This was power he would have called necessary. Order he would have defended. Control he would have claimed was mercy.

In their hands, the artifact wouldn’t just enforce obedience. It would completely erase the possibility of refusal.

You felt something cold and sharp settle behind your ribs as you understood what Viktor was truly offering — not loyalty, not belief, but a world where surrender itself became inevitable.

If they ever turned this thing outward — if it were ever used the way it was meant to be — there would be no one left to argue.

Only people who agreed.

Your gaze flicked to Ominis. The flames from the fireplace casting dancing shadows across his handsome face.

He nodded once, thoughtful.

“So the artifact doesn’t create loyalty,” he said calmly. “It makes loyalty unnecessary.”

Then the woman near the hearth smiled — thin, controlled. “You always were clever,” she said. “Your father would have been pleased.”

Something inside you tightened at the mention.

Ominis’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him did, subtly — like temperature dropping by degrees.

“I don’t make decisions to please him,” Ominis replied.

Viktor’s attention returned to you, as though you were the easier target, the more entertaining one.

“You must understand,” he said gently, “we’re offering an opportunity. For you both. A place in what comes next.”

It was always the same invitation, you thought.

Be what we made you to be.

“We are not our blood,” you said, the sentence landing softly in the room like ash.

Several faces turned.

Viktor’s eyes gleamed, intrigued.

You continued, voice steady. “But we are responsible for what we do with it.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that made candle flames seem loud.

Viktor’s smile returned slowly. “Beautiful…and naïve.”

Naïve.

You had spent your whole life being called that by people who confused cruelty for intelligence. Before you could reply, the woman near the hearth lifted her chin toward the darker chamber beyond the archway.

“Come,” she said. “If you wish to speak of responsibility, you should see what we mean. There are things preserved there that would… interest you.”

Your skin prickled.

Ominis’s cane tapped once against the floor — a soft, involuntary sound, quickly controlled.

He didn’t move toward the chamber.

Neither did you.

But you felt the past stir anyway, impatient and awake, like something sealed improperly.

Viktor’s voice lowered, velvet-dark. “They say,” he murmured, “that once, at Hogwarts… something responded to your blood, Gaunt.”

Ominis went very still.

Not like a statue.

Like a man standing on the edge of something he’d once survived.

Your mouth went dry.

And before you could stop it, memory rose — unbidden, sharp as winter air.

Stone steps spiraling downward.

A corridor that smelled of damp and ancient dust.

The faint hum of something old, waiting.

And the moment you first understood that magic could remember fear, long after its spell was cast.

⸻

Hogwarts | 1891

The dungeons of Hogwarts were colder than the rest of the castle — not simply in temperature, but in temperament. Sound traveled differently there. Footsteps echoed longer. Whispers felt louder. Even the torches burned as though they were reluctant to waste warmth on stone that didn’t appreciate it.

You adjusted your grip on your wand as you descended, the air tasting faintly metallic, like rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

Ominis Gaunt walked beside you, expression unreadable.

“Tell me again,” you said under your breath, “why we couldn’t have done this in daylight like sane people.”

His head tilted a fraction in your direction. “Because sane people don’t volunteer to investigate cursed artifacts.”

You huffed softly. “I didn’t volunteer.”

“You did,” he corrected, tone maddeningly calm. “You simply did it with less enthusiasm than Sebastian.”

There it was — the name, spoken like a bruise.

You opened your mouth to respond — and then the air changed.

The sound of your footsteps dulled, as if the corridor had swallowed it.

The hand around your wand tightened instinctively.

Ominis stopped. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just… stopped.

His voice lowered, careful and flat. “Do you feel that?”

You swallowed. The cold crept higher along your spine.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The darkness ahead seemed to thicken, and for the briefest moment you could have sworn the castle itself held its breath

Ominis Gaunt

Gender Neutral Reader