Chapter Text
Working in the Law Enforcement Department of the Ministry for Magic perhaps wasn’t the first career choice that Ominis would have made, but after four years behind this particular desk, he found it suited him rather well. Heading the Investigations Department and supervising a team of ten wizards, not to mention four admin staff and a personal secretary, he was spared any of the dubious excitement of heading out into the field, merely directing those under him and reviewing their subsequent reports. One could almost term the position cushy, if it didn’t have the tendency to drag on occasion, and invited snide comments about favouritism or japes about his age.
Ominis sat behind his desk, a large thing of sturdy mahogany, the wide sides holding drawers full of office essentials, the gap under the middle offering anyone who entered his office a clear view of his crossed ankles, neat shoes and exquisitely tailored trousers before their eyes inevitably rose to take in the rest of him. Not that he’d know how that looked. A tiny smile touched the corner of his mouth, fading before it had a chance to become full. Ominis rarely had cause to smile these days.
Yes, the job could be dull, he mused, but it certainly had its perks.
The tiny smile came again, pulling at both corners of his lips this time. His position granted him certain privileges, certain powers, and by Merlin, he’d made use of them over the last few years. He had a personal grudge to settle, and like any nobleman, Ominis preferred to enjoy his banquets of vengeance in small, succulent dishes, exquisitely prepared, served patiently over time to the accompaniment of chamber music. This particular dish, delivered on a parchment-shaped plate and resting in his hand, was a revision of a law he had drafted, one concerning the ownership of Dark objects found on a person’s property, and the hefty fine he proposed for each item held. This was the sixth revision that had come back to him, and each he rewrote and returned had to be reviewed by the Wizengamot in order to be passed into law itself, but Ominis rather felt that they were closing in on seeing it done.
It would go through, even if he had to push the matter up the chain, no matter how many of the council grumbled about ‘special treatment’ and ‘unfair favours.’ He had the ear of Minister Spavin for good reason, after all. He’d proven himself to be a dedicated and capable employee, entering the Ministry as a junior administrator for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes six years ago. Freshly nineteen and not entirely new to the mechanisms of adult society, it was still a maze to navigate. Fortunately (and he realised the irony in feeling in any way fortunate for this), his upbringing had at least instilled in him the ability to listen carefully, remember accurately, and act accordingly in whatever situation he found himself in. As such, he moved swiftly through the various departments of the Ministry before finally settling in Law Enforcement. He found himself with a preference for the Investigations Department, and quickly rose to manage it, all by his skill alone.
Well, not quite.
If he was to be fair to himself, Ominis had a knack for scratching the right backs and bending the right ears, always sticking to his word and following through on any promises he made. He had loyalty at the Ministry, loyalty from those few that he had helped out of a tight corner, those he had protected from a costly mistake, and the occasional arse pulled out of a metaphorical fire had garnered him a bank of favours and debts owed. Minister Spavin held a particular soft spot for him because of all the times he’d bent over backwards to ingratiate himself, to make himself indispensable. That helped. That, and…
The corners of his mouth turned down, and Ominis laid the report back on his desk. He ran a hand over his face and propped his chin in his palm, leaning to the side.
Merlin… he’d forgotten. It was tomorrow.
He could feel them, the storm of emotion and memory pushing against the iron wall he’d built in his mind, undiminished in strength, seemingly growing over the years. Six of them, almost seven. Seven years tomorrow.
Seven years since he’d lost her.
With a low, hissed curse in a language few but snakes understood, Ominis got to his feet and moved over to the kettle resting on a side cabinet, his wand revealing the sense of shapes around him by tiny vibrations. It hummed harder when he neared something, and though he couldn’t see them, he felt the impressions of angular corners, flat surfaces, and the squat shape of the kettle through his hand. He tapped it with his wand, and it whistled instantly.
Ominis made himself a cup of tea, his back straight, his head lowered. It was barely eleven in the morning, and it had begun already. That tightness in his chest. That strange, burning feeling just behind his lungs. The way his jaw clenched unconsciously. It was always the same, this time of year.
Returning to his desk, Ominis leaned back in his chair, his face tilted towards the ceiling. Idly, he spun a silver bracelet on his wrist, the chain slim but sturdy, the wider, flattened sheet spelling out three words in braille.
I love you.
It had been his gift to her, once. For her eighteenth birthday. He’d been too shy to tell her in words how he’d felt back then. Now, he pretended it had been she that had gifted it to him.
He winced as his thumb brushed over the raised dots. He shouldn’t think about her, but at this time of year, repressing the memories didn’t help. They always found a way through, and in the past, they’d come out as inexplicable rages or bouts of uncontrollable weeping. Fortunately, he’d told his staff not to disturb him unless the Ministry was on fire or otherwise besieged, so surely it wouldn’t hurt to remember just a little, to take away the sting…
A faint scent of caramel, the secret taste of metal and cream. Breath like sweet, summer strawberries. A laugh like a cannon, echoing.
Ominis grimaced, sucking air against his teeth.
Too fresh. Too much. Too painful. Ease back into it, approach it carefully. Take your time.
Ominis let out his breath, sinking back into his chair, his eyelids fluttering. Take a little trip down memory lane, a path well worn and often trod. Where had he heard that before? Had he read it somewhere? Perhaps she had said it once, in that voice of hers that was so carefully refined until she fell into emotion, be it anger or joy or embarrassment or sorrow, then her polished tone would slip, the crasser, more colloquial tang becoming a mix of his way of speaking and Sebastian’s…
Ominis was jerked out of his slow descent into reminiscing when his office door clattered open, the offending entrant knocking rapidly as an afterthought, and Ominis winced at the sound, and the familiar footsteps that accompanied it. It was his secretary, Clara Fleamont.
“Mr Gaunt,” Miss Fleamont gasped, her high voice breathless, as overly-flowery as the perfume she drenched herself in every morning. “I-I’ve brought you… well, I know you didn’t want to be bothered, but I’ve got… it’s some more reports from… you see, Mr Rourke…”
Breathless. She was always breathless, as if she’d been running just before she spoke with him. Why? Ominis had never cared to study her with his wand, and he truly didn’t care. She was a delivery person in his mind, handing over paperwork and carting away completed drafts and reports. Her penmanship was good, which somewhat made up for the eighteen times a day she barged into his office on a whim, sometimes seemingly for no other reason than to ask if he wanted a cup of tea that he was more than capable of getting.
“Leave them on the desk,” Ominis grumbled, a sound that was almost a growl. “Close the door on your way out and warn the next person to try and enter that they will be hexed.”
“I… I-I… yes, of course, sir.”
He heard the light tump of a stack of parchment hitting the desk, her perfume catching sickeningly in the back of his throat, then her footsteps scurried over the carpet, heading for the door. But she paused.
“Sir, is everything alri-?”
“Out,” Ominis snapped, and she dashed away, the door banging closed. He winced again, then sighed. If Miss Fleamont wasn’t as efficient as she was, he’d have fired her long ago for her constant intrusions and questions. Typical bloody Ravenclaw. He’d hired her two years ago, fresh out of Hogwarts, and he’d regretted it ever since. It seemed in their absence from the school, he and Sebastian had gained quite the reputation.
He reached out and tidied the stack, his fingers brushing against the Order of Merlin, First Class, that sat at the corner of his desk. Both he and Sebastian had been awarded the honour in the months after it had happened, and Sebastian had been given a full pardon for his transgressions, the pair of them awarded ten Outstanding NEWTs as well, for their trouble.
She had been posthumously awarded a First Class Order, as well.
Ominis shook his head and sipped his tea, the memories crowding at the back of his head. He sighed once more, then allowed them to breach the dam and flood into his mind.
Rumours still circled, even so many years after the terrible events of his final year at Hogwarts. People still asked, sometimes. New people, usually, or those who were either too bold or too foolish to know any better. They learned soon enough why the Gaunts had such a fearsome reputation, though he was cruel to them only in the shape of his words. The precision of his insults and threats were usually sufficient to send any nosy administrator or undercover reporter scurrying away, nursing the lashes his silver tongue left on their pride.
As far as Ominis was concerned, no one but he and Sebastian would ever know what truly happened when the warmth of the sun was stolen from them both.
The immediate aftermath had been terrible. It had been worse than terrible, it had been an exercise in pure torture. Like a living Crucio that had taken up residence in his chest where his heart once lived, the loss had torn into him over and over, and it was only out of sheer necessity that Ominis had been able to keep going. It hadn’t been for himself. If he had succumbed to the darkness that called to him in a honeyed voice each night, then Sebastian would have no family left. He couldn’t leave his chosen brother to suffer the grief alone.
It had been through a befuddled mind and a stuporous state that Ominis had led them to Radich Alley when they had arrived in York, five days after it happened. The entrance was in a small brick underpass halfway down the Shambles, reached by tracing the outline of a rose embedded in the brickwork with his wand, and once through, neither of them had stopped to take in their surroundings, merely stumbling through, searching for the post office. The kindly witch had pointed them in the direction of the small Ministry outpost, and the wizard there had helped them find their dream home.
Her dream home. The one she imagined, speaking of it with them, long ago.
Perhaps sensing that the two young wizards with the extraordinary amount of money could do with a little help, the Ministry wizard had even set them up with their own house elf to help run the huge place, a charming little fellow called Whimsy, who had been more a godsend than they first realised. He took care of all those little things they just weren’t capable of in the early days, things like cleaning, cooking healthy meals, and making sure they stayed alive.
Sebastian had cried himself to sleep for a solid month after they had left Hogwarts, continuing the pattern he begun when she had first left them. He still did sometimes, even almost seven years later, the muffled, agonised sobs creeping through the winding corridors and under Ominis’ door, setting his heart to aching anew. Ominis too had wept himself unconscious more times than he could count, though at least he had the foresight to cast a silencing charm. He didn’t want Sebastian to think he was still suffering as greatly as he was.
Ominis’ chest began to ache, and he realised he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly, taking another sip of tea.
They’d meandered around their new house in a daze for weeks, occasionally crossing each other’s way, neither daring to venture much further than the end of the path leading from their front door to the street. There had been a flurry of owls in those first weeks, letters from their friends and former professors piling up on the side cabinet in the entrance hall. Ominis had tried to read them, but he found he could only stomach a few words of condolences and heartfelt declarations of adoration for the one he lost before he couldn’t bear it. He had to read them in short bursts, drafting blunt replies that were woefully short and void of all emotion, but it had been all he could manage.
Many of their friends had asked to visit, or offered for he and Sebastian to visit them. To get them out the house, around people who cared, around those who understood. But neither of them had been ready.
Then came the reporters. Wizards from the Daily Prophet descending on their house, shouting questions through the letterbox, wielding these strange, boxy devices that Sebastian had told him were something called cameras, a relatively new invention that caught a person’s likeness at a moment in time. They’d ignored them as best they could, but stories still appeared in the papers, outlandish claims of heroism and ridiculous notions of bravery setting his teeth on edge, driving him into a fury when he read what they’d written about them, and about her, butchering her character completely, no matter how much they tried to paint her as a hero. She had been nameless, faceless, described only in her deeds, none of which were accurate. Small wonder. All those who had known her best would never betray her by speaking of her to reporters.
At least the stories had drawn a small jot of Sebastian back to the surface. He’d laughed when he read about their woman being described as a good student.
‘She was bloody awful,” he’d remarked. “She broke more rules than I did. Skipped more classes than I’ve skipped showers. She was hardly there at all in our fifth year.”
“I miss her,” Ominis had said, the simple statement stripping away the warmth of her memory.
“Yeah… me too, mate. Me too.”
After a month in their new home, cabin fever soon began to get to them. As the months slid by, the air growing colder as autumn approached, Sebastian began to get twitchy. He ordered Whimsy to get him some books from the store in Radich Alley, and he set to work. In the beginning, Ominis helped. He’d promised, after all.
Sebastian spent his days researching, even now, more often than not tucked away in his library, his study, or the basement, only ever venturing out under his own steam to hunt down obscure books, sometimes leaving for weeks at a time to fly to some far-flung corner of the world, or occasionally to drink himself stupid down some local tavern. It was rare to find him in their shared living room, rarer still for him to actually sit down and eat a meal with his best friend. On occasion, and usually when the frustrated swearing from the depths of the house got too loud, Ominis would physically drag him away from his work and out into the street for some fresh air, despite his protests. It did them both good.
That is, until Sebastian’s admirers found them.
Where Ominis had learned quite well how to affect an intimidating presence, using his height, manicured appearance, family history and devastating glare to ward off nosy witches and wizards, unleashing his vicious tongue only when that failed, Sebastian’s scruffier, mildly distracted aura and natural charm seemed to draw people in like moths to a flame. As time passed and they were able to recover somewhat, resuming the pretence of ordinary people, Sebastian’s pleasant, affable, indeed cheerful nature invited questions, comments, flirtations and invitations.
People wanted to know Sebastian. His story was perhaps the more interesting of them both, the boy who had taught himself the Dark Arts, who was expelled from Hogwarts and spent a year of penance in Azkaban, before returning for his final year and redeeming himself by helping Ominis and-
His breath caught, and he clenched his jaw, baring his teeth.
It had been six years. Six long, torturous years, seven tomorrow, and still, whenever she snuck up on him, the pain rose as fresh and new as it had when he first lost her.
Ominis clenched his fists at the heat rising behind his eyes. He mustn’t weep, not here, not in his office where anyone could walk in at any time, despite his orders. Merlin, if Miss Fleamont found him slumped and sobbing at his desk, she wouldn’t leave unless he hexed her, and hexing one’s secretary was frowned upon for some reason. He drew a short, sharp breath, and shoved his mind back down the ambling path it was following.
Sebastian’s redemption had catapulted him into wizarding history. Where once, perhaps, he would have revelled in the spotlight, laughing and joking and playfully flirting with all and sundry, charming each and every person who desired his attentions, and even those that didn’t, Sebastian instead preferred to withdraw, to read, to research, and to write, mildly baffled by the attention.
This, if anything, made the wizarding world’s interest in him even greater, especially when Ominis took some of his more stimulating theories not concerning Ancient Magic and Memory Recovery, polished them up a bit, and published them under Sebastian’s name. Quite by accident, it seemed, Sebastian became one of the world’s leading minds in Advanced Magical Theory, his wild, enigmatic ideas lighting on areas of magic never before considered, even rising to the rank of the fabled Dracus Fotheringham. Hell, some of the spells he invented seemingly on a whim had even entered the curriculum at Hogwarts. But to Ominis, he was the same old Sebastian. Still stubborn. Still determined. Still his best friend in the whole world.
Ominis, not a man to sit idle, had tried to help with Sebastian’s research to begin with, but he found he had little patience for rambling theories, for ifs and for buts, for hours poring over nonsensical tomes in the hopes of finding something that might spark a fresh idea, or link two pieces of information together to form a new piece of the jigsaw they were trying to build without a guide.
Besides, it made him think too much of her.
His frustrations with the lack of clear direction and results tested his temper, his irritation and snide comments sparking Sebastian’s anger, and when the two found they were fighting more than working, Ominis decided to leave well enough alone, and went to find a job.
So here he was, almost seven years later. He didn’t need the money. Hell, he’d never have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to. Dracaena had seen to that.
Ominis’ expression clenched and he pitched upright, resting his elbows on his desk and putting his face in his hands.
Dracaena.
The only person he had ever loved, wholly and completely. The only one he had ever allowed in, ever allowed to touch his soul. Taken from him in a selfless act of sacrifice to save the world from the Ashwinders and his lunatic family. A selfish act. She’d left them. Left him, just to save this poxy world. A world that didn’t deserve her, especially as no one truly knew what she’d done.
Those that needed to know knew, of course. There was a reason Minister Spavin favoured Ominis so much. He knew the extent of what Dracaena had done, knew that Sebastian and he had been instrumental in protecting the world. He knew that without them, he would never have returned to his position, and the world they knew would have been a much fouler place. It was a pity that only a select few knew how far Dracaena had gone to in order to protect the world, but it was vital that it remained this way.
She hadn’t died because of what she did. That, perhaps, made things worse. She was still there, somewhere, out there, unknowing and uncaring of those two men she had once adored as they still adored her. She’d sacrificed both her memories and her magic, leaving her as little more than a muggle with no knowledge of the magical world she had saved. She’d gone back to live with Nana, another person that Ominis and Sebastian sorely missed.
They couldn’t see her. They’d been told that if they sought her out, told her anything of their world or revealed magic to her, it might damage her further. It might even kill her. They couldn’t risk it. But Sebastian still researched. He read everything he could, forming theories based on the little he knew of the Source and its connection to Ancient Magic, theories that chased their tails until they crashed into a wall and crumpled, or fizzled out, or stopped in midair, stalled by something or another. Ominis held onto the agonising hope that somewhere out there, there was a theory, a book, hell, even just a word that would help get her back, and she would be in his arms again, her breath at his neck as he held her, the shape of her hip a perfect fit for his hand…
Ominis shook himself. He couldn’t think of her fully, not now. She had to wait. She would wait, hovering always in the wings of his mind, waiting to take her place centre stage whenever he was alone. He had to focus on other things now.
He picked up the report again, tracing his wand over the parchment, though the words didn’t register in his mind. This job was more to keep himself occupied without overworking him to the point of exhaustion. It enabled him to keep an ear to the ground, to rub shoulders with those in power, to ensure that whenever Sebastian’s research took him to places that threatened his freedom, a little nudge here and there, a forged signature or two and the occasional page held too close to a candle meant that Sebastian remained free of both suspicion and Azkaban.
The parchment trembled in his hand, and Ominis hissed a soft curse as the backs of his eyes prickled. He clenched his teeth, grasping at the growing tide of emotion, trying to force it back down. He was only marginally successful, and it was with a shaking breath that he tidied his paperwork and swept his hair back, rising once more. There would be no point in continuing here today, when reports would remain unread regardless of where he was, no matter how much his mind screamed for distraction. Leaving his half-drunk tea on the desk, he plucked his long overcoat off the hanger and swung it about his shoulders. The weather was too warm for it, but Ominis had noticed long ago it seemed to increase the intimidating presence he affected when he wore it. He straightened his shoulders and strode from his office.
“Sir, is everything-?” Miss Fleamont called to him from her desk by his door, tucked away in a little alcove, but Ominis ignored her. He ignored how the hallway opened up into a wider space, the desks of his staff scrunched together. He ignored it all, passing into the second-floor corridor, turning his back to the Auror office at the far end, heading for the stairs.
He passed through to the Atrium, a glower fixed on his brow as he listened to the occasional whoosh of witches and wizards arriving or departing via fireplace. He’d never bothered to connect his home to the floo network, it would have meant running the risk of random people just showing up in his living room, so he had to head outside, where he could call his personal carriage. Yes, it was a frivolous expense, but it certainly beat the alternatives, even if it meant the journey home took over an hour. Plus he could afford it, so what did it matter? It’s not like he could apparate, blind as he was.
His wand hummed in his hand, warning him away from walking into anyone in the noisy crowd thronging the Atrium, the sounds harsh on his sensitive ears. He fought an outright grimace, preferring to keep his expression stern, inviting no one to approach, making a beeline for the Visitor’s Entrance, where he would step out into warm air, thick with the smog of London, tolerated only momentarily until his carriage arrived.
But it seemed there was a person oblivious to his cautionary glower, and they stepped right in front of him, forcing him to stop. Ominis increased the intensity of his glare, until a familiar voice swept it from his brow.
“Hello, Ominis!” Amit Thakkar said, reaching to grasp his hand. Ominis slid his wand up his sleeve and returned the handshake. “You seem to be in a terrible rush, I hope I’m not keeping you?”
“I… no, Amit, I have time.” Ominis forced himself to offer his old friend a smile that might have passed for warm, once. He noted the two missing fingers on his left hand as Amit grasped his palm in both of his, a testament to his bravery at the end of their seventh year. “How are things in the Goblin Liaison office?”
“Oh, the same as always,” Amit said, his voice cheerful, wavering slightly to indicate he was rocking a little on his heels. “And yourself? How’s keeping the peace?”
“Terribly dull,” Ominis replied. “Just paperwork, mostly. How’s Natsai? She’s back at work now, isn’t she?”
“Indeed,” Amit said brightly, his smile evident in his tone. Natsai, a talented Auror, had taken the last three years or so off work following a difficult pregnancy and even tougher birth, her life and that of her daughter hanging by a thread. If it hadn’t been for Amit’s almost neurotic concern for his wife and Sebastian’s timely visit… Ominis threw off a shudder.
“How is she? Your… uh…” Ominis scrambled to remember the name of their child. He’d never particularly cared for children, but it was polite to ask.
“Nyasha? Oh, she’s simply marvellous, a really bright girl,” Amit said, his enthusiasm causing him to almost rock into a crowd of passing dignitaries from Japan. “Oh, sorry!” he called, and Ominis heard him fumbling in his robes for something. “Here, isn’t she the most beautiful little thing ever?”
He felt a square of glossy parchment pushed into his hand, and Ominis held it a moment, his head slightly tilted, waiting for the penny to drop.
“I… oh, goodness,” Amit took the photograph back. “I’m terribly sorry, sometimes I forget…”
“Many do,” Ominis said. “It was good to see you.” He made to move away, eager to get home.
“Uh,” Amit cleared his throat, and Ominis fought not to roll his eyes, turning back to face him. “It’s… forgive me, my old friend. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? Are we all meeting in the Three Broomsticks again?”
Ominis drew a slow breath. A tradition borne first of grief, then of necessity, and now, it seemed, as a simple excuse to meet with old friends.
“Yes, I believe so,” he said carefully. “I presume you or Natsai will remain behind to…?”
“We have the maid,” Amit said. “She can look after Nyasha, or we might bring her with us.”
Ominis avoided wincing by only a small margin. “Ah… are you sure that’s wise? A small child in a tavern…”
“Oh, it’ll be fine, it’s not like Sirona will mind!” Amit clapped him on the arm. “I’ll let you get on, you must be busy.”
With that, he walked away, whistling merrily, the tune soon lost in the babble. Ominis remained a moment, torn between a sense of gratitude that his friends still remembered that fateful day, still wanted to celebrate her memory with him and Sebastian, and a hope that Amit would see sense and not bring his toddler to an event not meant for them. It would mean he or Natsai or both would have to leave early, and Dracaena’s memory was worth more than only a few hours of conversation, the freedom of their topics undictated by a tiny terrorist with the communication skills of a fire alarm.
But he shook his head, resuming his journey out of the Ministry. He wasn’t being fair. Dracaena had never meant as much to them as she had to him and Sebastian. At least their friends did still respect her memory, and Ominis was grateful for the excuse for everyone to gather together, just for her.
It was with no small amount of relief that Ominis called his carriage and clambered inside, feeling the familiar jolt as the Thestrals carried it into the air, bearing him home. On a fair-weather day such as this, it shouldn’t take much more than an hour, unlike those days when the sky crackled and stormed, rain lashing the windows, a powerful wind buffeting the carriage, making it rock so severely Ominis often feared he might be sick.
He relaxed into the plush seat, swaying slightly with the motion of the Thestral’s flight, his eyes closing as he folded his hands in his lap, allowing his mind to fill with memories of her, his Dracaena. They were soft things, tender touches and gentle laughs, quiet jokes and even quieter moments. Tender, loving moments. He kept the other memories at bay, preferring to stick to safer times, when his life was not so turbulent, when things were warm and safe. Lying by the stream in the small forest of Winnodown, talking of nothing, waiting to head home to Nana and the delicious dinners she made. Safe things. Kind things.
He saved the rest for the night.