#House of Gaunt

[leonardomagne]

The Princess of House Black and her Dark Lord 💚🖤❤️‍🔥💗 By @Adelika

[radical-ghostface]

MC: “I’m not having sex with Sebastian!”

Ominis: “No one is judging you. It’s understandable. Sebastian is strong and mysterious and sort of compact but well-muscled.”

MC: “I am not having sex with Sebastian. But I’m starting to think that you might be.”

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I'd love to know your thoughts on the Gaunts in Hogwarts Legacy. I loved Ominis as a character, and the story of his family was interesting, but I'd really love an in-universe explanation for how they get to the state they are at when Tom is born in less than what... 40ish years? At most? How exactly do they go from multiple family members functional enough to attend Hogwarts to barely able to speak English (or seemingly use magic) that quickly?

So, the reason I didn't put Ominis and the Gaunts in my big canon contradictions in the HL post, is becouse I can in fact headcanon my way into Ominis' existence making sense (kinda). We only need one big factor that would allow for a very fast decline and we have one — inbreeding.

I mentioned this already here, but Marvolo speaks like he remembers the influence his family once had. Not only that, but he's different from his kids. He acts more like a person who can be somewhat reasoned with than both his barely more than squib children who don't seem capable of much intellectually.

How this might've happened is, say, one Gaunt got obsessed with blood purity and around the 1780s married his cousin.

His children turn out okay since it's just one generation of cousin marriages, but then his son also marries a cousin in the 1810s.

Their children would still seem reasonably fine and marry cousins again. And they have children in the 1840s.

By this point, most of them would be losing prestige and money and many other purebloods would want nothing to do with the Gaunts. This pushes them to keep marrying just a bit too close and shrink down the family to only the main line and maybe another one.

So, these children born in the 1840s would have their own kids with their cousins around the 1870s.

Now, these kids are Marvolo and Ominis, another brother (since Ominis mentions having older brothers), and at least one sister (for the sake of this theory to work). By this point, inbreeding would start to be a problem after 4 generations of first/second-cousin marriages in a row, which would work with Ominis being born blind, for example (which is a possible result of inbreeding).

Now, while both Ominis in the game and Marvolo in the 1920s talk a big game about their family influence, by the 1890s, it's a lie. I think they started falling from grace earlier throughout the century (as I mentioned), losing money and prestige and holding onto their position in the wizarding world by the skin of their teeth. Ominis' posturing about his father knowing the headmaster in HL always came off to me as just that — posturing. His father may have met Phineas Nigellus Black, but they weren't close by any means. Ominis is just threatening you the way he knows and can — which is some of the connections still left for his family since the money ran dry years ago.

The fact we don't see other kids in Slytherin trying to win Ominis' good graces for the sake of his family's influence (blindness or not) again suggests a lot of said influence is posturing more than the real deal. I mean, he's only friends with Sebastian and Anne, two students who are definitely outsiders within Slytherin (even if there's no way they live in Feldcroft, since there's no way that hamlet doesn't exist in the books).

Also, Ominis mentions his brothers and father tortured muggles. There's a non-zero chance that in 1890 most of his family is in Azkaban and he really is just lying and he has nothing he can do against anyone with his connections. Basically, it's a bluff.

I think seeing them like this adds an interesting reason as to why Noctua (Ominis' aunt) would want to look for Slytherin's Scripturium (though I don't think the Scripturium exists in the books, so let's say she looked for the Chamber of Secrets and was eaten by the basilisk since she wasn't the heir it was meant to obey in the 1880s). Becouse she's trying to bring the family back to its place of influence as descendants of Salazar Slytherin in a different way from her brother.

By the 1890s, Noctua is dead, there are no Gaunt cousins, just the main line with Marvolo, Ominis, unnamed brother, and unnamed sister.

Ominis is likely disowned at some point, and it fits his character to decide not to have kids and not pass on Parseltongue, which he sees as dark. I can see his character making that decision. But for this theory to work, he has to die before Tom is born, so he doesn't live a long life unless he left Britain and is living happily in the US or Australia or something.

The unnamed brother might be in Azkaban for crucio-ing a muggle, getting him out of the picture in an in-character way and making sure he has no kids.

Marvolo is where it gets interesting becouse with the state we see with his kids, and the nosedive off a cliff the family took in his time, my theory is that he had his kids with the aforementioned named sister. It would explain why Morfin and Mereope are like that. It would explain why they were completely shunned from wizarding society. How they lost even the measly amount of influence they had so quickly. It would fit with Marvolo's view of blood purity and the Gaunts' blood in particular, being purer than the rest.

So, this is my answer as to how I can headcanon my way into the Gaunt family's fast decline making sense. That being said, do I think Ominis is canon for the books' universe? Probably not, but I can make up shit to make it work, as I illustrated here.

[flamboyantjelly]

It’s been so long since I draw my favorite boi so here’s a quick portrait. I’m having fun with textured brushes recently. Week more and my summer break will officially begin so brace yourselves!

[pheexblack]

Dark Ominis

What would make Ominis go dark? I’d love to hear some theories 🖤

[toctua]

Another failed family tree sketches.

It's funny that of all four, the one who did not inherit the Gaunt surname got a more or less normal life. And then this is rather the Survivor’s mistake...

[bellamortlover]

Wait I am being so serious right now. I just searched Marvolo Gaunt’s tag and apparently people are drawing Ominis and Marvolo as siblings ? I haven’t finished watching the Slytherin playthrough of Hogwarts Legacy, the one I am currently watching is so long because thankfully they did the 100% full gameplay, so I don’t know if Ominis talks about Marvolo specifically yet or if he does at all later on but like what ? He talked about his family and being related to Salazar Slytherin in the introduction but… MARVOLO AND OMINIS ARE THEORIZED AS SIBLINGS ?

Please someone help me out with this pretty please because wow. Someone tell me how this theory started and why they are drawn as siblings because again wow.

[teddyniffler]

I am okay, just thinking about Albus Dumbledore as a young teen knowing his father would die in Azkaban for the crime of protecting his little sister. In the many years that followed, the sadness stayed with Dumbledore. He never got his father's body back, being buried in the grounds of Azkaban(?)

Yet years later, when Dumbledore visited Morfin in Azkaban and discovered he was innocent, he was the only person who tried to save Morfin Gaunt from dying of despair in Azkaban, only to be too late to save him because of the Ministry taking too long to consider the new evidence.

Dumbledore knew from his own father dying in Azkaban what happens to truly innocent people there. Nobody could save his father, as there was evidence that Percival Dumbledore had hurt Muggles for attacking his daughter, but Morfin was innocent and framed for murder. Nobody gave Morfin a chance and threw him to the Dementors because he was a Gaunt. The Auror's from the Ministry looked down on him and Marvolo before as the Gaunts had attacked them in the past, but this time Morfin was innocent, he didnt deserve to die and only Dumbledore knew he hadn't commited the crimes he was in Azkaban for.

We seen in Fantastic Beasts that the Ministry mistrusted Dumbledore, so any word from Dumbledore would be looked upon with suspicion and it did not help that the person he was trying to set free was from the Gaunt family of known Parceltounges (Some claim Parcelmouths are signs of dark wizards even in 1995, so back in 1940s that mistrust would have been worse).

Morfin had nobody on his side except Dumbledore who was too late to save him. Dumbledore would have been told that Morfin had died in his cell, yet another victim of Tom Riddle. He was somebody else Azkaban had claimed from Dumbledore.

[aesthetic--mood]

Tom Marvolo Riddle Aesthetic

[morsmordream]

my random HP family headcanons that i firmly stand by

(not canon compliant)

creature blood was remarkably common in the older family lines that existed before modern-day laws. it is rather rare that these families produce true creatures themselves, even half-blooded creatures, but the blood can often manifest into family gifts. for example, creature blood is how the slytherin line have their ability to speak parseltongue.

the black family are world-renowned in various fields. they’ve produced countless scholars, and some of the finest duellists of each generation. but the family specialty, that everyone learns, is curse-breaking and it’s inverse. there’s a terrible item in the family vault that could kill you if you touch it? contact the blacks. you need an object enchanted to persuade someone into supporting a wizengamot bill? contact the blacks. expensive as their services may be, it’s always worth the money. customer satisfaction guaranteed.

the black family have held their reputation for dabbling in the darkest of arts, even black magic, since their very beginning. their family name comes from their reputation of practicing black magic. this is separate from dark magic, and is a dead art today. whilst books exist in the darkest corners of very few family’s vaults and libraries, the sacrifices required have deterred anyone who picked them up for centuries. a branch of black magic involves the summoning of beings from beyond our world, ‘demons’ as they are often referred to. the summoning of a shape-shifting demon, and subsequent procreation with, is a potential reason why only the black family have metamorphmagi in britain today- though this claim is unproven, and no longer proudly claimed by the family itself.

the malfoys have veela blood, especially these days. it was a rather scandalous affair when abraxas malfoy married a french witch, amelie bonnacord, who had been adopted into a notable pureblood family and happened to be a veela. the malfoys already had distant veela ancestry, making abraxas resistant to the veela allure. their children, lucius and lydia malfoy, were therefore half veela, and her grandchildren, including draco malfoy, a quarter veela. the veela allure seemed to work differently with men, and little was known about it as men born to those with veela blood was rare. the malfoys spend most holiday seasons in france, visiting family, and all speak fluent french.

the potter family never have been, and never should be seen as, a sparkling beacon for light magic. as necromancers by blood, no matter how much time passes since their amalgamation with the peverells, they naturally lean towards darker magic to facilitate practicing the art. not every potter has dabbled in their family gift, it’s not a requirement, but the ancient books in the family vault cannot be destroyed and will always return to the vault after a necromancer passes.

a few centuries into the past, the potter family migrated to india before a couple of branches returned to britain in the early 20th century. fleamont potter and his cousin, charlus potter, were the first potters to be born on british soil for centuries. fleamont potter married euphemia patil, a half-indian british witch, and had james potter. james potter, upon marrying lily evans, had harry potter- who was half indian.

the lupin family have a long history of naturally born werewolves, hence their family name. as time went on, and laws changed, werewolves born into the family would assimilate into packs instead of living as wizards with a dark secret. with time, fewer and fewer werewolves were born into the family, and the werewolf blood appeared dormant. remus lupin became a werewolf through an attack from fenrir greyback- the first werewolf in the family in several generations. his condition did not pass onto his son, but it is possible that remus being a werewolf may awaken the possibility of future werewolves in the lupin line in generations to come.

the weasleys hail from an old irish clan, one which they no longer practice the traditions and magic of- deeming them outdated in an age where they are deemed ‘blood traitors’ for their love and acceptance of muggleborns. the family magic is largely based around the elements, and is only really practiced by bill and charlie- though fred and george dabble in it from time to time. due to turning their backs on tradition, the weasley manor wards refused to grant entry to those in the family who did not practice their family magics- which is why they live in the burrow instead.

the weasleys fall from grace is infamous in pureblood circles. before the first war, they were actually a rather wealthy family. arthur weasley’s auror wage was enough to live off with two less children, and their vault was plentiful. molly added to their income by authoring books on household charms and tutoring pureblood daughters in etiquette. unfortunately, molly encouraged arthur to funnel money into the order of the phoenix to help with the war- they were not active participants, rather financial backers. by the war’s end, the family vault had been halved, they had two more children, and molly had quit authoring books to raise the children. she soon quit tutoring too, turning her back on other pureblood families due to her paranoia that anyone who hadn’t aided the order in the war were all dark and thus contributed somehow to her brothers deaths. soon after, arthur left the aurors and moved to head the misuse of muggle artifices office at molly’s insistence, due to her persistent paranoia- this time that something horrible would befall him as an auror. this caused another significant drop in the family’s finances, gaining them their reputation of being a poor family with more children than they can clothe.

the nott family are descended from viking clansmen in norway, and the majority of the family are still based there today. they’re very proud of this heritage, and every child born into the family is trained extensively in hand to hand combat from a young age. the nott family additional pre-schooling education also includes the language of old norse, nordic history, ancient runes, and runic magic. the england-based branch of the family add norwegian on to this as well.

the gaunt line, and subsequently the slytherin line, are only extinct in britain (the cursed child is not canon to me idc about delphini). a branch of the family, descended from one ominis gaunt, live on in france and have long abandoned their practices of inbreeding. the branch or branches of the family that remained on british soil rapidly squandered all that remained in their vaults by the turn of the 20th century, leading the family to financial and societal ruin with only their heritage and a few heirlooms remaining intact.

the lovegood family are rather notable as one of the few remaining seer lines in britain. pandora lovegood, upon marrying xenophilius ollivander, found her own seer ability passed down to her daughter luna. many overlook their seer lineage and focus more on the family’s eccentricity, forgetting that true seers rarely speak in plain language- they cannot always just speak the truth of what their visions show them, they must relay what they have seen in a way that makes others search for the answer. it’s not that hard to understand when you actually try it.

[findingtruenorth23]

Memories of Noctua

One of Ominis’ earliest and most cherished memories was of his Aunt Noctua comforting him. He would never forget the sound of her voice, the feel of the beaded strings of her dress beneath his fingers, and the faint scent of roses as she promised she would always love him.

TT with video with audio can be found here.

[beware-of-pity]

Pythia Hiereia - VI

Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter five - Chapter seven

Harry James Potter x Reader

Summary :

The night has a thousand eyes, and the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying of the sun.

Chapter VI: Oh beautiful poison tree (Let your power grow in me, Let your sorrow flow in me)

. ⚯ ͛

The morning begins like any other, in a frenzy. The halls are packed with students coming and going in all directions. The egg and toast he devoured at breakfast sit heavily in his stomach the whole way to Herbology. Thankfully, he has Ron talking his ear off to distract him from his feelings. It’s easy to simply listen to him rant about Quidditch now that Harry has finally decided to hold tryouts on Thursday, two days from now, and tune out what he’s saying, letting it pass by. He nods occasionally, letting out huffs of acknowledgement to show that he’s listening.

The greenhouse glistened under the rays of the sun. The wind felt like a gentle mist compared to the cold, harsh weekend that had just passed, but the fog from the mountains lingered still. He takes his post at the long table, by the end of it, where a plant sits before him. Its long leaves move like the serpents on Medusa's head. It is calm, but Harry knows otherwise as he dons the protective goggles next to it. Professor Sprout greets everyone and begins the lesson by introducing the little devil to the class. However, he hears none of it. He’s too focused on how the leaves intertwine and twist in all sorts of directions. 

It looks like a big bush of entanglements. Nothing too peculiar. Until he diverts his attention, paying the plant no mind. All of a sudden, one of the vines wrapped around his finger, trapping it and tugging harshly.  Harry frowned, pulling at the plant, which only seems to grow erratic in behaviour. It wraps another vine on the finger next to the one its squeezing like a sausage.  He cursed silently under his breath. Ron is none the wiser next to him, his attention lost between Sprout’s words and eyeing Hermione beside him. Professor Sprout took no notice of his situation as she continued to lecture her students on the properties of the plant.

Trying to free himself only ends in worsening his predicament. He tugs fiercely, but the vine only tightens its grip around his fingers, coiling itself tighter.

“You have to be gentle.”

The words cut through the air like a hot knife on a stick of butter. Melting his once-hardened exterior and leaving him a pool of buttermilk. He’d know that voice anywhere. His head snaps up to look. Sure enough, there you are, peering over his shoulder at the mess he’s made of himself. Your expression is neutral, but there is a hint of concern in your eyes. Those goggles are too big for you, he ends up thinking.

“Gentle” he huffs, as he tries to tug free again “I don’t think it knows what ‘gentle’ means.” “Neither do you” You laughed softly, which makes Harry’s stomach twist. He laughed, too, his skin heating up ever so slightly as the sound intertwined with his. “Maybe no…” You take a seat next to him and pull off your protective gloves. He watches as you stick one of your bare hands into the plant, gently rubbing the leaves between your fingers. "There, there,” you coo at the plant so gently "You're so pretty, aren't you? No need to ruffle yourself for this rude boy.”

It stops its struggle within seconds, almost melting at your touch. The vines loosen their grip and slowly unfurl around his fingers like silk ribbons. Like the ones securing the two fat braids, you’ve styled your hair into today. Green, the same as the leaves of the plant.

Once the plant has finally disentangled from every part of him, you remove your hand from the pot and reach out towards him. “Hold out your hand,” you say. Your voice leaves no room for argument. He obeys without a second thought. His heart picked its pace as you held his hand in yours, turning and examining the thin red marks the vines had left behind. Your touch is gentle like a ghost, softly brushing over his skin.

The contrast of your hands is evident. Your skin is smooth and rid of imperfections. Your nails are filed and round-shaped while his hand is rough, with little cuts riddling up his skin and nails cut off up to the white free edge. Your fingers linger and trace them. You brought the flesh to your lips to kiss, your soft lips meeting the reddened, abrasive skin.

As they do, his heart stops. 

This was new…and sweet. It didn’t fail to make his cheeks burn, and his heart beat ever so faster. He would have heart attacks before the age of thirty at this pace. He watches, mesmerised, as you slowly kiss every red mark on his fingers. Your lips soft but purposeful.

“There" you smiled "Muggles believe that kissing their injuries will make them heal faster, no? Then they will. But, to make sure, I'll ask Madam Pomfrey for an ointment later.”

Harry could only stare as he tried desperately to calm the rapid beating of his heart. There’s something different about you today. Something that makes him want to sit and watch you all day...and yet he’s scared the spell will break if he does. There’s something incredibly sweet about you taking care of him so intently. So lovingly. It made him feel a little weak, and he thought his legs could give way if he lost the momentum. Like the ground beneath him would cave in and swallow him up whole. 

“Then, I’ll be waiting for the cream,” he said, his voice breathless. “I’ll send my cat to fetch you.” “Your cat?” He asked with an amused smile. “Yes. Selene, my most trusted companion.” Harry chuckled, his smile growing wider. The memory of your cat in the library suddenly pops back into his mind. Surely, it was the fluffy thing always sitting beside you or on your lap. He’d seen it just yesterday, curled in the library window, blissfully napping even without you beside it.  “Is that the one that naps all day in the library window?” “That’s the one,” you say, the smallest of laughs coming from your mouth. Your eyes are soft, and the smallest of smiles played on the corner of your lips again. Harry’s heart stuttered a bit at the sight. “She likes naps and chasing mouses when she gets too bored.” “Not too pampered for that?” “Only sometimes, when she can be bothered. She’s a very free kitty.” “I shall see for it myself.”

The fact that he so eagerly volunteers to be her friend warms your heart. That something so dear to you could be appreciated by someone else makes you happy in your own way.

“Good luck with that; she picks and chooses her friends rather carefully" “I can be persuading. I’ll let you know that.” "Is that so?" You raise your eyebrow, sceptical of his boasting. He’s rather cheeky today, and you would lie in saying you’re not quite fond of it.

You missed this. Whatever this was. This nameless situation between you two. "I'm a rather convincing person”, he continues with a big smile, his green eyes flashing mischievously, "if you just give me a chance.” You’ve never really seen him like this before. So blatantly bold with his words. You find it endearing — adorable even — as it tugs at that part of your heart that you had locked up tightly in a little box. You look at the messy state his hair is in, and you have to stop yourself from reaching up and brushing it out of his face. 

Thank god the both of you are at the back of the greenhouse.

You look at him as if entranced by his words, lips slightly parted and cheeks lightly flushed. He is somewhat taken aback by the returning look. With your mouth ever so slightly parted and your cheeks dusted pink, you look unbelievably pretty.

“She likes getting her belly scratched and just about her tail.” “That sounds like good news for me then" he murmured. You're still caressing the two fingers gripped by the plant, sending his mind into an agitative turmoil. "You need to be more careful, Harry. How many times must I come to your rescue?” "As many as it takes, I’m afraid" he chuckled.  You hummed, giving him an all-knowing look, before returning to the plant that had settled, almost bristling in all its glory at the praises you'd previously given it. Your eyes are soft as you stroke the plant, and Harry can practically feel your care fill the air around you two as you murmur words of adoration to the plant.

“Sometimes, all someone or anything needs is a gentle touch,” you said. “It can go a long way.”

The leaves twist and fold, like silk, to reveal green buds coming forth, and as if the season had come, open, gushing forth little white and pink flowers, coming to life for its true self and what once was an unassuming bush of any other slowly blossoms into a beautiful little garden.

"Everything needs a touch of love every now and again.It’s…just not used to being treated well. It doesn’t know better; therefore, it acts out to protect itself.”

He doesn’t question what hides between your words because something in your tone tells him there’s no need; it’s his time to listen.

"Oh, well done, Mr. Potter! Just perfect, I would say." Professor Sprout’s exclaimed praises break the air around you two as she watches in utter delight the blossoming plant "Good, good. Ten points to Gryffindor.”  He swallowed both words and thoughts. He smiled up at the professor.  "Thank you, Professor,” She smiles in that sprouty way of hers before moving on to check other students.  ”You did splendid work" he murmured, his eyes roaming over your face, "but why didn't you tell her you did it?" “What you cannot do, let others do for you, Harry.”

He thinks of those words for the rest of the morning after you two part ways. Lunch is a lighter affair than those of the previous weeks. The warm carrot soup served today warmed his insides and settled far more easily than the toast this morning. But while he was blissfully enjoying himself like a star-struck fool, Ron kept on complaining to Hermione about how the plant had nearly pulled his pinky off.

"How'd you do it anyway?" Ron asked Harry "Professor Sprout was most delighted.” Harry shrugged, his eyes still roaming the room, looking for you. "I don't know, I'm just a natural, I guess.” "Or perhaps you just got lucky" said Hermione, but there was no malice behind her words. If not, a hint of annoyance at Harry’s sudden rise as a top model student into another subject apart from Potion. "Lucky, me? No. I simply have a gift," he smirked, his eyes still searching the room. Ron huffs out a laugh as Hermione sends him a rather annoyed look. "Oh, yes, the chosen one is gifted, alright,” she said, her voice filled with sarcasm. "And so very humble, too. Anyway, we have a double free period after lunch. Library?” "Please," said Ron, "I need time to recover from that stupid plant" he let out a pained moan, massaging his wrist where the plant had grasped him. "Honestly, Ron. It was a couple of vines; that’s all. You act as if they were snakes the size of elephants the way you complain.”

Harry lets them have it out. This is out of his hands now. With one last bite of bread, he's done with his lunch, and one little surprise awaiting at his feet seemed all the more happy for it.

A sudden soft 'meep' from under the table startles him. Purs so loud he could feel their vibration scurry the cat’s body. She looked up at him with green eyes, dashing with bits of yellow, her tail swishing back and forth on the floor, thumping softly against the ground. A tuxedo with a coat so big it almost swallowed her. She rubs her little head against his leg and meows softly. He chuckles, his hand lowering gently to brush her fur. “Hello, Selene.” He greets her with a smile. It’s almost as if he’s flipped a switch inside the cat. The purrs only grew louder, the sound like the engine of a car, as she rubbed her head back against the palm of his hand.  "Aren’t you a sweet thing?" he murmured, and he couldn’t help but smile as she closed her eyes ever so slightly at his touch. "Right," he said to the two as they stopped their banter to look at him "I'll see you too later. I got...someone to meet," he said, gathering his stuff as he hurried on his feet. Ron and Hermione both raise a curious eyebrow, but before they can ask more, Harry turns on his heel and heads out of the hall. “We’ll be in the library!” Hermione calls out. “Right!” He only called out to let her know he’d heard her.

It sounds stupid. Following a cat as she led him around. But she seemed to be stealthy and resolute in her missions. He follows her with some curiosity. She moved with grace and ease. Her head held high as she navigated through the many halls. Her tail swished back and forth as she walked in front of him, looking back every once in a while to make sure he was following. 

Eventually, they’re outside. Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the celandine at the hill’s edge. Under the hazel rods, they spangled out bright and yellow. They would soon wither with the upcoming winter. The grass was still, stiller, but yet gusty with the crossing sun. All the green covering the ground seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones sprinkling the shaken floor. Cold breaths of wind came and overhead as he walked down to the banks of the river of the Black Lake. He furrows his brow but doesn't ask the cat, the suspicions growing in his head since..well...she cannot answer him. The sun is still warm, its reflection glistening in the clear water, and the air is crisp as they reach the shores.  There you are, feet deep, low in the water, your socks and shoes left abandoned beside your bag and cloak by the weeping willow tree whose leaves hung and rippled like shed tears, and some dipped in the water. Your back is to him, and your hands are on your front as if something’s in your hands. The sun creates a halo on your hair, now free of its previous confines, blowing along the breeze of the wind, your head tilted downwards as you’re fiddling with something, completely unaware of his presence.

“Come forward.” You broke him of his reverie “I don’t bite, as I’m sure you know.” He swallows, his throat parched and his skin perspiring.  “I’ll never know. You’re unpredictable.”

You turned to face him, your feet undulating in the water. Your hands hold out what’s in them. A frog, as green as spring grass. It lets out a soft croaking sound as it rests in your hands, looking wide-eyed at you two as it moves along your hand.

He raised a brow, amused.

His eyes roamed from the creature to the water from the lake drowning your naked skin. He swallows once more, something stirring inside of him.

“What are you doing with a frog?” he asked, his voice strained as he looked at the creature in your hands. It’s as small as your palm, its small legs stuck to your skin as it moved around. Its beady eyes looked at you both.  “I’m showing him the world,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips. “He’s never seen it from this height before, so I’m showing it to him, all the beauty it holds.” “You think he’ll appreciate that?” “I hope so" You looked down at the frog "He’s a rather quiet companion. But he’s sweet. He’s curious, too. Wouldn’t you be too if you’ve only known darkness, soil and water?” You brushed your fingers over the frog's slimy back as if to pet it, the little creature relaxing in your hands. "I suppose I would be," he said, sounding almost resigned. A stray strand of hair fell forward, and while you did not seem to mind it, Harry's hand twitched involuntarily as he took and pulled it behind your ear. You paused as nimble fingers brushed over your cold skin. For a brief moment, you forgot how to breathe. His hand was gentle, almost reverent. You stared at him impassively. "I suppose Selene guided you well," you said "Seems like she likes you"  Your little lady who had settled on your robe rested her head on your bag, snoozing off.

He managed to divert his eyes to look at the sleeping feline. His fingers trailed over the smooth skin of your neck, just above where a heart pendant hung from a black velvet choker. Little bolts of electricity coursed under his skin as he did.  "Seems so," he murmured. “Madame Pomfrey gave me a cream for your fingers.” He hummed, his fingers still tracing the soft skin of your neck lightly, like a ghost. He did not seem to want to stop, although he knew he should have. "That's good.”

He had to ask, and he had to do it now. Otherwise, he didn’t know when he’d find the ease that would tip him over and draw him closer. He has to ask; he has to know. The words were at the tip of his tongue. 

"I have to ask you, and you know we have to talk about it too. But...Dumbledore has told me everything," he sighed "Why you did...what you did. And I…owe you an apology for how I've acted towards you and some of the thoughts I've been pondering about.”

You only stared at him, your eyes wandering over every inch of his face. From where his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose to his long, thick lashes that framed those beautiful eyes of his, so striking and so very much like his mother's. You pursed your lips before whispering a broken plea of understanding.

”Do I look like him?”

He swallowed thickly, his heart thudding in his chest. He knows exactly who you’re talking about, and the notion hurts him to the core. He shook his head, his eyes locked on your face.

 "No, you don’t," his voice soft, gentle, reassuring, but most of all, sincere.

"But it scares you, doesn't it?" you asked, "that I might.”

He closed his eyes briefly, feeling his heart clench in pain when he heard your words. He nodded, not having the strength to deny it. 

"Yes," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.”It does.” But before your heart could break more than it had been broken already, he said, "But I see you. I know you. And I know that you’re nothing like him.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest. A strange feeling rushed through you. He looked at you, his eyes mimicking you almost. He’d picked up on a few perks of yours over the time he’d known you. Not that he’d noticed, but your influence had been rubbing on him. His attentiveness over Draco’s movements is as serpentine as yours have been over him. His eyes roamed over your face, and for some strange reason, you couldn’t decide whether it was full of pain or fondness. 

"You make me feel like a fool most of the time," he said, shaking his head.  “And here I thought you’d begun to like it" you mustered "I certainly do.” “And why is that exactly?” He smiled his way through a snort. “You're more like yourself”, you smiled in turn “, like your true, unadulterated self. Fragile, vulnerable. What you don't allow yourself to be.”

He swallowed. Heart in his troath.

“Is that really a good thing?”  “I like to think it is” Your eyes lingered on his wounded fingers “Sometimes allowing ourselves to be weak is exactly what we need — regardless of what we think.” “Weakness is often taken advantage of.”  “If you need to break your opponents into their weaknesses, that only means that you’re not strong enough to oppose them at their strengths. But you…I’ve always wondered what your greatest fear would be, and last year has shown me. I've seen it; It's not that no one will hear you. It's that they'll hear you...just won't care. And he knew that and drew weakness from that.”

It sickened him. All of it. Being unravelled like this. It was an ugly feeling. He bit the inside of his cheek, his teeth digging into the gummy skin of the inside of his mouth. How dare you look inside him and then tell him what you’ve seen? How dare you so clearly see his innermost thoughts?

"He's a plague. The kind of dirt that sticks under your fingers. That enters crevices of your body even you are unaware of, and that is hard to wash away. He penetrates you in all the most painful ways so you'll feel the pain to its core. You have your right over your doubts, I do not begrudge you of it," you argued "All my life, I've endeavoured to serve my house and my family" A rogue anger simmers under your skin ", and somehow none of it matters. We're asked aside....or hated....because of the likes of him. He ruined our lives and expects us to be well with that.”

Your words echoed in his heart, each one slicing through the pain. A deep, burning, righteous anger that had been sat deep-seated within him for what felt like an eternity stirred and boiled once again. He could see the anger, the desperation in your eyes, the bitterness your words were laced with. He’d never seen you so fired, and his body ached to soothe the tension radiating off you.  “You have helped me,” he reassured, “More than you know. And I do trust you.” “Then you truly are a fool, Harry Potter” you smiled bitterly “and I'm a bigger fool than you.” “I find that hard to believe.”

The words made you laugh. A genuine laugh that fluttered his insides with a strange, wonderful feeling of warmth.

You smiled in that cat-like, Cheshire way of yours. The same way the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland did when Harry would catch a glimpse of the movie being broadcasted on the TV whenever it was Dudley’s time to spend hours upon hours just sitting in front of the device. “I suppose you have many questions left unanswered by what you were shown last night.” You said, “What is it you want to ask me?”

Oh, there are so many. Harry didn’t know where to begin, even as he sorted them out in the present moment. But push comes to show, and the one that asks for precedence is the one Dumbledore has asked him to inquire about. And so he must.

“I have to ask,” he swallowed “How do you do it?” “Which?” You asked, “The dreams or the knowing things?” “Both" his voice sounded rougher than he expected, more breathless.

You don't answer, not immediately, at least. It's like you're searching for the answer yourself, looking in the deepest parts inside of you for where you'd locked all your secrets away. You moved, the water surrounding your tendons rippling as you did so. You take a few steps, letting the stones and little fishes move alongside you from under it.

"It comes like a dream, but I am awake. I see things that have not yet happened, but I don't see them. I'm told, but it's not spoken. They're not clear, they're hidden. Meanings, words, significances.”

The birds chirped, and the leaves rode along the wind. It's as if you and he were becoming one with the surroundings of the scene before his eyes.

"Nonsense until the blood is spilt, and then they remember my words. They are not normal dreams, like the brain and the subconscious. It's like... a millipede...always moving, always crawling forward. I speak, but no one listens. They only hear when it is too late. Time is a river, but I do not walk along its banks like the rest. I stand in its depths as the current swells around me. The past, the present, the future. They're all the same water...touching me at once.”

You thread through the water like a siren swimming along the water of the lakes. The water splashed around your ankles. Your legs moved gracefully through the shallow waters. Water surrounded you like a cloak, like a mother welcoming her child. Each word washed over him. Although he barely understood what most of what you were telling him meant, he hung onto your every word. The sound of your voice soothed like a gentle caress upon his skin.

Suddenly, the brown leaves at his feet are swept by the wind — but it is no gentle caress. It blew, strong and heaved as it picked its pace. You turned to him, the strong gush sweeping your hair harshly away from your face as your features turned hard and serious.

"I've been watching you. All of you. All of your lives, your pasts, presents and futures. However unclear they may be. With the thousand eyes and one.”

He had to shield his face from his hair picking at his eyes. What's in front of him is the true horror of the body. Your eyes have turned to the back of your head. White pupils stared at him. In between your forehead, a four-pointed star glowed in the same colour. Little pointy triangles litter the outline of your eyes. They map your soft skin as if a constellation of stars weaved itself on it. The leaves pick along the wind, creating a tornado of anything but violence in nature. 

"My ancestor did this to us. It is a curse we chosen must carry from birth. Every time a blessed one dies, a new one is born. It is the greed of men to seek greater things that the human body is not designed for. I call it weakness!” you spat “What is the power of magic next to the power of prophecy?”

Harry doesn’t know. He’d wondered why that prophecy was so important that Voldemort had need of it. How could mere words spoken by a woman as mad as March Hare truly be taken for anything but words spoken in a mental frenzy? Sybill Trelawney did not have the reputation of being a reasonable woman. But you….you never forfeited the opportunity to show him that you spoke truth, never deceiving the words you spoke of. 

You held your hand out for him to take “Come.”

Every bone in him screamed for him not to do so. This was different; you weren’t merely asking, you were commanding. And it wasn’t the girl that he was speaking to merely seconds ago doing so. But it’s as if a spell has been cast on him. His body obeyed immediately at your command, against his better judgment. His hand reached out, his skin tingling and almost burning as his fingers brushed across your skin, soft and warm under his touch. Lines as white as snow weaved through your interlocked arms, sealing what he’d just allowed himself into.

He's falling. It's slow, his descent in the water of the lake with you was feather-light. When he’d hit the water, instead of his lungs filling with it, it was air that greeted him. When he opened his eyes, it was not water that graced and burned at his irises. No, it's darkness. He was falling, but it was not a painful descent. His head was empty, the air around him clear and light, the waters gently carried him through. He tried to look around but could not see anything but darkness. Even so, he was strangely calm. It washed over him when he grabbed your hand, gripping at the smaller flesh. His body was strangely heavy as he floated, his limbs soft and sluggish.

It’s dark, eerily dark. The inky blackness that surrounded him was the only thing he could see. He’s unable to understand where he was or where he was been standing. All around him was devoided, a dark and endless void. He took a few steps, treading slowly as he looked around, standing in absolute nothingness. He tried to move, but it was slow and difficult as if he moved through something thick and viscous — making him grow nauseous. His heart beat against his chest, the sound loud and prominent in his ears. His breathing grew heavy. For a moment, he just floated in the darkness. But the moment he looked back at you, you two were no longer in the nothingness of everything and nothing.  He's in a cave or rather a cavern, he thought. The great place that opened on the abyss was as black as pitch, black as tar, blacker than the feathers of a crow. The moon shone down upon the great hole in the ceiling, a black hole in the sky. Tree roots grew all around his feet. White and of all shapes and forms as they twisted and waved through his feet. The moon was fat and full. Stars wheeled across a black sky. Rain fell and froze, and tree limbs snapped from the weight of the ice. Down here, no wind, no snow, no ice, no dead things reach out or exist - only dreams and rushlight and the kisses of the ravens. And the whispers in the darkness.  

"Steady" he felt you slither your hand into his, locking your fingers together "and breath." His hand gripped your own in a deathly grip. It’s hard to do so, as you say, but your presence reassured him that things would be well because you were there with him. His hand trembled in yours, but he tried to steady it, holding onto you like a lifeline. His eyes dilated wide as he took in every detail around him, trying to comprehend what was happening. The place was odd. He was not meant to be here. The wrongness of the whole thing crawled under his skin and made him uncomfortable.

“There is someone I wish you to meet,” you whispered in his ear. “Show no fear. He does not like it.”

It’s hard not to — fear whatever you want him to face. He knows better than to not listen to your words. You smiled when you noticed the slight slump of his shoulders, the tension in him coming down. He knew there’d be no use in showing any weakness, and whatever you wished him to face, he would — as long as you’d be there with him. Standing tall before you two is a dead willow tree, its branches have withered, no leaves hanging from them. A throne of limbs sat at the centre, and upon it rested a man lounging about it. His hair was white, a wispy thing, full in some parts and as fine as a line in others. The cloak dropped over his form and almost made him broader than he was, for the skinny and scrawny by the age he hid under his clothes. His eyes were an empty white, like those yours turned to just moments ago. The same star scarred the skin between his brows, printed on by a hot brand.

No mark could be left in that way otherwise. It was raw, red, blotchy and dripped blood. The star did not glow the way yours did. He was old and wrinkling with age. He regarded Harry with chill disregard. The man was unearthly in a way he had Harry doubting whether he was of flesh and blood and not made of the same bark as the tree he sat before. His eyes held a cold glint in them.

"Defiance in the eyes. Like his father.” he made a ghastly sound that might have been a chuckle. He spoke in parseltongue, a husk, serpentine slick of the tongue. His grip on your hand tightened. 

No fear, you said. No fear. 

"Do not speak of my father.” "So much arrogance in the face of something so much larger than you.” the voice reverbed about the cavern. It echoed off the walls, bouncing around him like a trapped chamber. Each word hit him like a wave, washing over him and making his skin crawl. He wanted to turn away, to cover his ears and block out the sound of the man's voice. But he stands firm, his gaze locked on the stranger, refusing to show any signs of weakness. "Foolishness" the man hissed, his white eyes fixed on Harry. "Bravery without wisdom is foolishness. How can you stand there, so sure of yourself, when you are no more than a child, lost in the darkness?” “It is courage" you spoke against the accusation "An endurance that shows his prowess.” 

Your parseltongue was an individual melody combined into a multivocal harmony shared by their voices. No fear laced your words, holding strength as the tongue of snakes rolled off your lips like it was meant to do so.

Harry’s grip tightened around your hand. His heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing was heavy, but he refused to let go. The nameless man turned his gaze on you, his pale face and white eyes set on studying you with an air of curiosity. 

“He is not one of us.” he said “This place is for the blessed ones.” “He will soon be worthy,” you said, chin raised “This place belongs to those worthy to enter.” “He is no Gaunt!” the man bristled. “No blood of mine flows in him. This is our paradise! Where the blessed children of Gaunt prosper. No one else shall be let in.” “I am your blood. This is my paradise too. I shall let in who I wish, grandsire.” “That you are, girl. You’re part of me, true. But you speak of treachery! Allowing outsiders in this place. Here, we are safe. This is our sanctuary. No one else is allowed in. This is but too dangerous to reveal our secret. Everyone else understood that. You and your pride thought you could prepare him for what’s to come.” “Was I wrong?” You challenged the man, walking past Harry, your hand leaving his, as does your presence at his side, as you approach the man and the wooden throne of rotten limbs. “He is the chosen one, after all. He holds to him a cause never seen before, and for him to succeed, we must convert the nonbelievers one by one. We shall start with the one that does not believe in himself the most.”

The man considers your words as he returns to regard Harry.

“The chosen one.” he spat the words as if the taste was bitter on his tongue. “As fated by the prophecy: Harry Potter.” he chanted his name. “The chosen one. You don’t look chosen to me.” “I didn’t ask to be chosen,” said Harry. “We don’t choose our destiny. It chooses us,” the man lectured “We don’t ask to be chosen, we just are.”

This nameless man held the same wisdom as you did. The same calm and quiet understanding. But he was different. He was a snake, and Harry felt weary of him.

“But I understand the will to escape the unwanted. I chose my own destiny. Drawn by my own hands, from the ashes from which I was reborn.” “And what are you, exactly?”  “Why, I am but the thousand eyes and one”, he said. “The gift I blessed my family with.” A scrawny finger lifted from the armrest of the throne, using it to point at his bleeding scar of flesh. The movement looked almost painful, and you, who’d come to stand beside his throne, reached out almost as if to help him. “Did they brand you with that mark?” “They branded me once I was finally able to open my eyes,” he said, sounding tired. “And I was worthy of finally seeing. Of being given that which I was deprived. My sight.” “Your sight?” “I was blind” he gestured vacantly with his finger in the air “By birth. My mother…used to tell me I was cursed. She tried everything, but it was never enough. She hated me. I was the imperfect one. The defective one in the sea of healthy sons she’s had.” Harry gulped heavily, heart in his troath. “You’re Ominis Gaunt.” “I wore many names when I was quick, but even I once had a mother, and the name she gave me at her breast was Ominis, true.” “H-How are you still alive?” “He has lived beyond his mortal span, and yet he lingers. For us, for you, for the realms of men. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. He has a thousand eyes and one, but there is much to watch. One day, you will know.” You answered for the man.

Harry looked your way, his eyes moving frantically. But you only stared at his smallness from where you now stand, eyes as white as the milky trail of the stars, the stars under your eyes shining as brightly. You nodded at him as if to confirm the words of the man.

“You must have realised now what is happening.” Ominis said, “This is but another dream, Harry Potter. We stand now in between time and space. Where everything is true if we will it. The subconscious is the innermost part of our brain that connects to the hidden eye. It is a blessing that I’ve bestowed upon my bloodline. Our paradise. Our sanctuary of wisdom.” He must speak true. The undeniability of the very fact he stood here gave the man all the cards to hold. A weird feeling settled in his bones. “But the girl spoke true. You must be converted.” He said “So many men, the risk so little. They spend their lives avoiding danger. Then they die. I risked everything…to get what I wanted. Would you? Would you sacrifice everything to have what you wish for? Are you strong enough to leave foolish mortal fantasies about having it all when the dark comes knocking at your door?”

His spine shivered. Ominis’ words rang with truth, and he weighed heavily on how to answer him. A simple affirmation will not convince this ancient being. He let the words hang in the air, a heavy weight pushed against his shoulder like a great burden. He understood all too well what was being asked of him.

“Being chosen is one thing.” Ominis reprimanded, “Abiding by the role is another. Harry Potter, will you be able to vanquish the darkness of the Dark Lord?”

He took a shuddering breath, looking from you to Ominis, only to be met by the same pair of eyes wherever he looked. It turned him insane. His heart ached at the heavy, almost forewarned words. But he’s made it this far, and to give up now, felt wrong. “I will.” His voice was steady, and his words held certainty even if his conviction was wary. “A man’s vows are but words. Easily spoken, easily broken” Ominis tapped his fingers on the wood of the throne as if pensively “Men forget. Only the wind remembers as it carries their words at the far end of the world.” He swallowed “They will be kept.” “As I said, endurance” you smiled “He does not lack in determination.” Pride blossomed in his chest, your words only strengthening his predisposition. It made him want to do better. To prove you right in your words. To become someone worthy of being called the Chosen One. “You can’t make up for what you lack with determination.” Dismissed Ominis “He who you’re destined to fight grows stronger while you grow weaker. How will you make for that on your own? That Old man of yours won’t live forever. Flesh and bones, frail and weak. He is only one man, child. Even the strongest man can be felled by a single dagger.”

Again, he spoke true. Sure, he was harsh, but the harsh reality of the time he was living in is something that Harry had to face. He’d been mulling on it for a while now, but the blackened skin on Dumbledore’s hand did raise in him all the alarm bells and his sixth instinct telling him something was gravely bad. Ominis’ words only confirmed what his heart already whispered at him.

“I have to try. If I don’t, then what have I been fighting for?” “We all have our battles to fight. Some not of our choosing. But it’s how we decide to fight them that’s most important.”

How he chooses to fight will decide wether he defeats the Dark Lord or not. He had to be wiser this time.

“You can’t do it alone” instructed Ominis “You need people. Strong people. Convincing people. With the hearts of lions and wills of steel to stand by your side even as the hours grow dark and the end seems far. Even when you’ll have to choose to sacrifice yourself for others.”

In front of his very eyes, the past seemed to flash before them. The faces of the people he trusted most, of those he thought most nobly of, appeared before himself. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Lupin, Tonks, Moody, the Weasleys, members of the Order and Dumbledore’s army. They all believed in him, put their trust in him, and supported him. People that loved him and that he loved in return. People who had stood beside him every step of the way. People that he considered family.

“There are more people willing to help you out there than you believe, Harry.” Your voice reassured in its reassurance, “You just have to let yourself be helped.” He couldn’t win the war alone. That kind of burden was not meant to be carried by one pair of shoulders. You were one of those people, he thought.“Always optimistic, aren’t you?” Ominis scoffed at you. You definitely were, but Harry knew you had your reasons to be. It warmed his heart to see how much you saw the world through rose-coloured glasses. He looks to you, his heart suddenly full. “He needs optimism.” You prided on your words, “In this world of darkness, let him be the light.” “Optimism will not help him when in danger.” Ominis said, “Security in the path he’s taking will.”

Optimism couldn’t be enough to keep him safe from danger during the difficult time ahead. Security is what he needs. But he craved the encouragement your optimism gave him. A real morale boost.

Ominis turns to you, and you nod. 

“My granddaughter here speaks greatly of you, and she does believe you can heed into the danger that forfeits your life. I don’t know whether I should call it juvenile naivety or she has seen something which has evaded me. Which impossible. She’s not as strong as she believes herself to be. She can trick the mind but cannot predict it.”

You turn your cheek to the man, head tilted to the moon in wounded pride. A sore spot the man perhaps touched too much.

“We’re not seers. We don’t make-believe the future. We are the future. We don’t make false readings. We speak what the gods give us to believe.” The man chuckled weakly “I will tell you a funny story if you’re willing to listen to an old man like me.” “Please,” Harry said quietly, eager to hear him speak. “I was a boy like you once. A student. Never did my professors look down on me for my inability to see. But I knew. I could feel that they worried about the way my blindness would affect my future. Hogwarts was like my home, but the world outside wasn’t. When I graduated, I wanted everything but to return home. To my family. To my parents, that would torture muggles for the fun of it. I disappeared and travelled to the hidden corners of the same world that I couldn’t see. I paid passage with a stolen necklace of my mother, and the ship I sailed on took me to Greece. I had heard many stories of the place my aunt Noctua was most fond of. She, too, took to the same aversion for our family’s perversions. She was like me. An outsider. Despised and a despiser in turn. She took to travelling. Under false pretences, of course. She told me stories of the friends she made along her journeys and said that one day, they would welcome me just as they had her. And so I sought them out. Thought they would help me find my place in the world. In the end, I received more than I bargained for. My aunt’s friends lived near the mountains. I was stubborn and decided to hike there on my own, the same as the villagers on their mules did. But I never reached the peak. I fell down a hole and went in and went out of consciousness for days. Until someone found me.”

The picture that painted Harry’s mind was not a kind one to the eye. The idea of hiking the mountains without the ability to see settled a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The idea of the dangers that Ominis had put himself up to and must have exposed himself by travelling alone and on foot was so immense that Harry thought of never considering doing something like this at any time in his life.

“But what found me was no villager or paesant. No, it was a woman. Old as I am now before you. She nursed me back to health, right where I’d fallen, and once I’d recovered, she took me to the others.” He said, “They were no ordinary humans, but not quite wizards either. They of a magic so ancient, older than the one I was taught, worshipped destiny. Living the fate of everything. They told me they knew of a way that would make me see. To gain the sight no eye could possess. Tribulations and trials, hard on the body, mind and soul, broke the boy who fell into the cave and turned me into a man. The hands of the gods became my witness, and I turned into the voice from the outer world. The thousand eyes and one.” Ominis smiled. Madness bordering insanity. “Where no one could stand against me. The one that would lead my blood into paradise!”

Ominis made the power sound so glorious. But the insanity which he spoke with hung in the air like a dead rat. Rotting the air and blackening the lungs.

“Women, men, children have long suffered too much under that spawn that comes from my brother’s blood. Tom Riddle! Fear the moment, Harry Potter, but we will not lay our wands for a man who thinks he can have it all until we have liberated the people of the world from the evil within which he fills with!” Ominis raged, “Will you break the chain with me?”

Despite the fear the man provoked in him, the anger he emitted was one he shared. It radiated off him, and the passion with which he spoke was almost infectious. Voldermort’s true name was spoken with no fear and with such disdain, such hatred, that he too felt it come alight inside him. The idea of a world free was an appealing one.

“Never fear the darkness, Harry Potter.” Ominis’ words were accompanied by a faint rustling of wood and leafs “The strongest trees are rooted in the darkest places of the earth. Darkness will be your cloak, your shield, your mother’s milk. Darkness will make you strong. We will help you with that. Kill the boy, Harry Potter, and let the man be born.”

Darkness. Such a constant in his life. Something that had hung over him since his parents died. But the way Ominis spoke of it gave him a new perspective.

‘Maybe it’s not a curse,’ he thought, ‘maybe it’s a blessing.’ And when you smile, he does so too. Darkness. A cloak and a shield. The milk of his mother would nurse him through life and death. Darkness - he knew it better than anyone; the feeling of it enveloped him. But you, you smiled at him, a sight to his weary soul that only determined him more.

With another gush of wind, you two are nigh returned to the shore of the Black Lake. Your hands are interlaced as they were before you were transported into the cavern. Your feet had grown pruney under the water, lounging still in it — but now so are his too. His shoes were wet, outside and inside, the soles were filled with water, and he knew two days best for them to try completely. The hem of his trousers stuck to his socks underneath, but he doesn’t care; he’s too busy staring at you. Your eyes, those beautiful, striking eyes, stared back at him. The star between your brow and those sticking under your eyes are gone for good. He never wished to see a sight like that again. It frightened him too much. You smiled at him still “Do you see now?” He nods, now certain and at peace with his mind. He felt dazed but so alive. So unfocused but so in the moment. As if he could go against Voldemort ahead now and puke at the same time.

It’s the same feeling as when he’s woken from your dreams. He felt bizarre but good, nonetheless. “Yes” his voice is no more than a whisper.  “Allow your fears to pass you and through you. What remains will be your strength, and only you will stand again in the end.” You said. He let out a shuddering breath. He took another before squaring his shoulders, slowly letting it out. He repeated the mantra in his head. 

“Open your eyes to what you’ve been blinded, and you will finally see that you’re stronger than he wasn’t you to believe you are.” His heart thrummed against his chest, wanting to escape its confines and the enclosure of its cage. The words seep into him, and like a sponge, dry and deserted, he engorged them all, thirsty for more. He felt them in his bones. He was stronger than Voldemort would like him to think. He was stronger than he himself believed. 

He stood there in the water, determination washing over him in the same way the water of the lake washed over the shore. He is strong. He can see that now. ‘Through the ashes, I was reborn’. Ominis had said and Harry felt the same.

He’d been reborn.

. ⚯ ͛

Taglist: @dovellici @thehufflepuffwife @llunarpotter @xxxyukitoxx @stvrlavs @b4tm4nn 

[radical-ghostface]

Sebastian : "I can explain."

Ominis : "Can you?"

Sebastian : "If you give me thirty seconds to think of a lie."

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I just finished going through Tales of Beedle the Bard and I have a few notes

First: There's a weird timeline discrepancy with the Tale of the Three Brothers as a whole and it bothers me

In Dumbledore's notes, he traces the first historical reference of the Elder Wand to Emeric the Evil:

The first well-documented mention of a wand made of elder that had particularly strong and dangerous powers was owned by Emeric, commonly called “the Evil”, a short-lived but exceptionally aggressive wizard who terrorised the South of England in the early Middle Ages

(Tales of Beedle the Bard, Dumbledore's notes on the Tale of the Three Brothers)

Now the period referred to as the "early Middle Ages" is between the 5th and 10th centuries. Way before Beedle wrote down the story (15th century).

We also know (thanks to irl history) that the name Peverell is one that arrived with the Normans to England, meaning the story of the three brothers could only have taken place after the Norman conquest in 1066, which usually isn't referred to as "early Middle Ages" and it's kind of odd to do so. So, someone has to be wrong here because Emeric couldn't have had the Elder Wand before it was made.

It's possible Dumbledore is referring to the 11th century as "early Middle Ages", which would make the timeline make more sense if we assume Emeric is the wizard mentioned to slit the oldest brother's throat to steal his wand in the story (possible, but doesn't sound like Dumbledore, so I consider this unlikely). It's also possible Emeric didn't have the Elder Wand at all, but a different powerful wand (also unlikely). Or that the Peverell brothers weren't the brothers in the story (even less likely). Or that the Peverell brothers arrived in South England before the conquest (possible, maybe, not super likely either).

I don't really have an answer for this discrepancy so I'd be happy if someone has an idea how this could make sense... (looking for a Watsonian explanation, not a Doylist one)

Second: Why are we all saying the Gaunts are descendants of Cadmus Peverell?

I mean, Marvolo says this:

but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden’s eyes. “See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it’s been in our family, that’s how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?”

(HBP, Ch10)

From this we know two things:

The Deathly Hallows symbol was known as the Peverell Coat of Arms at one point in time, at least among UK purebloods. Which, makes sense with the same symbol being carved on Ignotus' grave.

The ring was in the Gaunt family for centuries, but that's hardly a clear timeline, neither does it indicate dependency, even though, it's what Marvolo is implying.

Now, why do I doubt the Gaunts are actually related to the Peverells? Well, I'm not. They might be distantly related since all purebloods are, but I think they might not be the descendants of the second brother. Why is that?

Simple, it's implied he died without children.

The tale of the three brothers literally says he asked for the stone to summon the girl he wished to marry who died before they married:

To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry before her untimely death appeared at once before him.

(Tales of Beedle the Bard, the Tale of the Three Brothers)

Unless he fathered some child outside of marriage before (which I don't think is the case), then Cadmus died before he had any kids.

Now, the tale as we see it has some inaccuracies (such as Death being a character) for the sake of embellishment or due to time. After all, Beedle wrote the tale down in the 15th century and the story of the Peverells happened in the 1070s-ish or earlier. By the time Beedle wrote down the story it's been long enough that the story could've gotten corrupted. Also, Beedle seems to take some creative liberties in his stories even if there is likely some truth to all of them (like in Babbity Rabbity). But I feel like the creative liberties had more to do with Death giving them the items and less to do with the fate of each brother, considering he was correct about the cloak and how it passed from father to son and the violent transfer of the Elder Wand. Like, why would he be wrong just about the second brother?

I mean, all we know is that the Gaunts had the stone for a few centuries and were clearly unaware of its actual power and purpose and we have the implication from the tale that Cadmus had no children. So, why are we assuming Marvolo is correct about being a descendant of the Peverells from a millennia ago?

It's possible a Gaunt received the ring from Cadmus, or that they are descendants of an unnamed Peverell sister, but I don't think they really do descend from Cadmus himself. Like, the tale mentions him killing himself to be with the girl he wanted to marry, idk, to me, this implies he didn't have kids, so I feel this assumption (which was confirmed by JKR) is kinda weird.

Anyone else was bothered by this or is it just me overthinking things?

[txyloria]

Saw someone say "no one cries for tom riddle" on tiktok.

oh yes I do.

The ministry of magic has such a horrible system. Why don't they make an orphanage for magical children? They have the possibilities. Or why don't they help parents when they are struggling financially / mentally? At least give your people the basic human rights.

Merope gaunt was absolutely miserable. When the ministry workers came to arrest marvolo and his son, they didn't even bother giving merope the healthcare she needed? my girl was so traumatized that she wasn't capable of doing magic until marvolo and morfin got arrested.

[savingsallow]

—A Melody Reawakened—

[HCU Christmas Oneshot: featuring Valentine and Callan]

Summary: In the silence of Christmas Eve of 1891 (at Hogwarts), two long-separated childhood friends unexpectedly found solace through a familiar melody.

Pairing: Valentine Black × Callan Gaunt ( @girl-named-matty )

Rating: General Audience

Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Fluff (?), Second Chances, Childhood Friends, Sentimental Gifts, Christmas Theme, Fulfilling Promises, Bittersweet Past, Slow Burn, Soulmates.

Content Warning: This story contains themes of childhood trauma, emotional struggles, and feelings of isolation. It explores complex family dynamics and the impact of loneliness during the holiday season. Reader discretion is advised for those sensitive to themes of abandonment and personal loss.

★ word count: 2.1k

There was serene silence that cloaked the corridors of Hogwarts as the holiday spirit echoed softly through the ancient stone walls. It was the Christmas eve of 1891 and most students had already departed to celebrate with their families, laughter and warmth filling homes across the wizarding world and beyond.

Yet not everyone reveled in this joy or feels lucky to be a part of something worth celebrating for. At least that's what our resident Grinch—Valentine Black—felt.

Val never liked the Christmas holidays. 

To be fair, she used to love it not until her uncle Phineas Nigellus Black raised her in a household where she was made to feel invisible and invalid, especially on Christmas.

Gifts? Gifts for Valentine? What is that? I have no idea.

As she wandered through the empty halls of the castle, her heart felt heavy with the quiet solitude that was all too familiar. But then again, there was a sense of freedom that sparked somewhere in the guarded walls of her heart that reminded her that maybe things wouldn't be as bad this time. 

Entering the Slytherin common room, the flickering flames of fire danced cheerfully in the fireplace, casting warm, golden light over the plush green and silver furnishings. The chilly air nipped at the girl's cheeks as she silently wandered through the common room, the dim glow of the fire casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. 

As the Slytherin girl wanders through the space, her gaze drifts to the grand piano nestled in the corner, its polished surface inviting her to escape into her world of music. 

With a soft sigh, she approached the instrument. Taking a seat on the chilly bench, she gently brushed her fingers over the keys and began to play a melody, allowing its familiarity and comfort to wash all over her. Each note resonated with longing and solitude, wrapping her in a cocoon of bittersweet memories; she had loved this song for as long as she could remember.

With most of her housemates gone for the holidays, the solitude wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, yet the absence of festive chatter and laughter left an ache in her chest. The soft notes she played resonated in the stillness, each chord a tender reminder of happier memories. Her heart fluttered as she recalled the faces of her friends, or, as she calls them her 'newfound family.' They may be away for the holidays but Val is happy that they get to spend their time with their loved ones.

'Lucky them,' she mused while a playful smile tugged her lips.

—

Meanwhile, on the other side of the dormitory lies Callan Gaunt staring out of the frosted window, watching the snowflakes swirling playfully in the icy air beyond the glass. 

In the silence, the boy is haunted and tormented by his thoughts—mainly driven by the constant urge to escape his family. A Gaunt by blood, he felt a deep sense of disconnection from his heritage and so does his cousin, Ominis Gaunt, who's situated a few feet away and is already asleep. 

Despite his love to celebrate such an occasion, the boy can't help but feel worried about the possibility that his family would nag him about staying in the castle again. 

'Not like they actually care,' he shrugged.

However, Cal has no ounce of regret left in him about choosing to spend the holidays in the castle. After all, Ominis is staying, so why shouldn't he? 

Amid the boy's war with his mind, a familiar tune echoed into Cal's ears once again, the sound that he had been anxiously trying to search for in the past few days. 

'That sound...' he thought while turning his head in the direction of the music playing.

Intrigued and guided by the melodic echoes, he left the comforting solitude of his room and made his way toward the sound, the thrill of anticipation quickening his pulse.

As he crossed the threshold into the common room, he found Val seated at the piano, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys, a serene expression of concentration gracing her features. It was a scene bathed in golden light, illuminated by the flickering fire and the soft glow of enchanted candles lining the walls. 

Cal's heart raced, a mix of nervous energy and admiration flooding his senses. She didn’t notice him at first, so he gathered his courage, sweating under the weight of his shyness.

"You’re… you’re playing my favorite song,” he managed to stammer, stepping cautiously into the room, his heart racing. The tension hung in the air, thick and sweet, but Val's playful nature quickly shattered it.

“Is that so?” she teased, a smirk dancing on her lips. “I didn’t know I had a fan.”

As Val beckoned him closer, he felt a mix of exhilaration and apprehension. “Want to learn how it’s played?” she asked, her voice light and inviting.

As he settled beside her, the tension between them thickened the air like the scent of festive pine. Cal tried to keep his composure as he placed his hands on the keys but fumbled through beginner mistakes. Each misplayed note felt like a betrayal, but the brightness in Val's eyes made him want to try harder. 

“Ah, let’s try that again,” she said, gentle laughter peppering her words. It was more soothing than the song itself. 

They resumed, and with each failure, a palpable tension simmered around them. Each time their hands brushed—his clumsy reach colliding with her nimble grace—his heart raced with a jolt of electricity. Val's laughter danced in the air, each giggle striking something deep within him, and he found himself enchanted.

“Come on, you can do it,” she encouraged, her voice a soothing balm. “You just need to relax.”

“I can’t believe I’m so bad at this,” Cal feigned annoyance, his smile brightening the room. 

Val rolled her eyes playfully, but there was an unspoken weight in the air, something that lingered just beneath their shared laughter. As she leaned closer to demonstrate the next part, the warmth of her presence enveloped him, and he felt a longing to bear his heart surged within him.

For a moment, the laughter faded, and the atmosphere shifted. “You know,” Cal began hesitantly, “I haven’t heard this song in years. Who taught you to play it?” His tone softened, curiosity alight in his eyes.

Val hesitated, her expression growing contemplative as she looked down at her hands resting on the piano. “A friend,” she whispered, her voice dipping as a shadow crossed her features. 

The moment hung heavy between them. He watched as her expression shifted, a veil slipping over her eyes. And in that instant, she opened up slightly, revealing a glimpse of her guarded heart. “After everything happened, it became my comfort when I felt lost.”

Cal felt a pang of longing echo in his chest as she spoke, and he desperately wanted to bridge the gap—to reach the part of her that was still hidden beneath layers of protective armor. “What happened to your friend?” he asked quietly.

Val's fingers hesitated over the keys, emotion pinching her features. “I…I really don't know... One day, my uncle told me that I was not allowed to visit my friend anymore."

Silence enveloped them leaving only the flickering fire and their steady breaths. It was a silence laden with a space of shared vulnerability that made the world outside fade into oblivion.

“Is that why you play?” he asked softly, earning her undivided attention. “To remember?” 

“Yeah,” she replied, the confession of a mere thread of sound. “And to feel less alone.” 

"I think…” Cal started, but the words slipped through his grasp as their hearts raced together in the quiet of that moment. The air crackled with the unfulfilled promise of connection.

“I’m sorry,” Val said suddenly, a mask of uncertainty crossing her features. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” he interrupted, leaning slightly closer, daring the space between them. “No, it’s okay. It feels good to remember. To share.” 

Just then, as if drawn by an unseen force, Cal reached over to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers barely grazed her skin, causing a spark to flit through the air between them. Val's breath caught, and their eyes locked in a gaze that spoke volumes of the unsaid words dancing on the tips of their tongues.

But tragedy struck in a moment of clumsiness; he shifted at the piano, accidentally bumping against the edge, and the necklace nestled beneath his shirt slipped from its hiding place, revealing the emerald ring that hung on a silver chain. He quickly grasped it, but not before she noticed; a gasp escaped Val's lips, curiosity painting her face.

“Where did you get that necklace?” she asked, her voice slightly breathless, eyes wide with curiosity.

“It was a gift from my childhood friend,” Cal shared, trying to keep his voice steady in the heat of vulnerability. “I loved her dearly, and I wanted to keep a piece of her with me.”

She leaned forward slightly, a look of recognition flickering across her face, sending his heart into a wild rhythm. “That's sweet,” Val said with a soft voice, almost like a whisper.

“I wish I had a chance to tell her how much she means to me,” he said, as a few tear drops threatened to spill from beautiful dark brown eyes. “But I never got to say goodbye.”

Val inhaled deeply, summoning courage, and reached into her pocket. A teasing smirk played on her lips as she revealed a music box. “I promised I would return, didn't I?”

Cal's heart raced, memories flooding back to the day in their childhood when he exchanged gifts with Val; they were only five years old when it happened. It was a summer business soiree in the Gaunt Manor when the young versions of themselves met. Their friendship was an instant click and they bonded over their favorite hobbies.

They may never have had the chance to say it to each other (since they were children), but they were both each other's sunshine at that time; they just didn't know it yet. Before their decade-long separation, the two children exchanged sentimental gifts from the people that meant the most to them at that time: the music box from Aunt Noctua and the emerald ring that belonged to the late Mrs. Black. The last words they exchanged were: “Promise you’ll be back?” “I promise."

“You… It was you,” Callan stammered, eyes wide. “You’re the one I gave it to!” 

The air felt electric now, heavy with their memories, and the flames in the fireplace crackled louder as if echoing their discovery. The barriers they had both built around themselves began to crumble in that moment of shared intimacy, like the walls of Hogwarts that sheltered them.

Eventually, they decided to leave the piano behind and find new surroundings in the glow of the soft fire. They settled on the couch, hot cocoa warming their hands as they spoke about everything and nothing, the stories of their childhood merging into the fabric of this special night.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Val confided while looking at him with awe, all her limiting beliefs being proved wrong as she spoke. "Yet here we are."

"Am I dreaming?— This certainly feels like a dream; one I wouldn't dare to wake up," their eyes locked into a gaze full of unsaid words but enough for only the two of them to understand. They both let out a quick laugh as the warmth of the fireplace embraced them.

The next thing they know is that Val found herself resting her head on Cal's shoulder; a gasp of surprise welled up within him, panic mingling with elation. His heart slammed against his ribcage, each beat a reminder of this delicate moment that felt as if it would shatter with the slightest movement.

But Val was warm and secure, and he melted into the moment, letting himself breathe. She felt so right against him, his nerves quieting as they embraced the calm. 

For the first time, the shadows of loneliness began to lift, replaced by the flickering warmth of connection, the promise of something beautiful unfolding between them by the fire’s gentle embrace. 

Who would've thought that after all this time, the person they were searching for was just right in front of them? And it took a cherished shared melody to awaken the memories that their mind had forgotten over the years — but the heart always remembers.

— thank you for reading! 🫂✨

[additional notes]

🥞 i'm not a writer but i have free time and a brain full of ideas 🤪 so if my style ain't your cup of tea, just kindly skedaddle in peace ♡

🥞 non-native english speaker here! so teeny tiny grammatical errors are possible 😅

🥞 this one-shot is written by me: @savingsallow

🥞 coordinated the ideas with: @girl-named-matty ♡