The Gaunt estate is quiet, its ancient stone walls pressing with the same suffocating weight as the family name itself. Ominis sits rigidly in one of the high-backed chairs of the drawing room, fingers curling and uncurling against the armrest. A fire burns low in the grate, but it brings him no comfort or warmth.

He has been told only a little, that his mother has arranged a marriage with someone of a family “like theirs,” a family steeped in darkness with a name that still holds weight in the less savoury circles of the wizarding world. Ominis had been bracing himself for it, of course; he has long known that his family would eventually demand such a match. But knowing does not dull the sharp twist in his chest as the reality settles over him.

He presses his hands together, thumb worrying against his knuckles. His mind runs through possibilities in endless, tormenting loops. Will you be like them? Ambitious, cruel, proud of the very things he abhors? Will you laugh, as his brothers did, when they forced him to cast curses as a boy? Or will you see through the performance, as he hopes desperately.

A rare flicker of hope stirs in him, though it makes him all the more restless. Perhaps you are the black sheep of your household, as he is in his. Perhaps you understand what it is to live shackled to a family’s name, to fight quietly against the current while pretending not to. Ominis wants to believe that, he has to needs to, the alternative is unbearable.

He stands, pacing in front of the fire, rehearsing words in his mind, though each sounds inadequate. Should he be polite and formal, as his mother would expect? Or honest- painfully honest- about his disdain for what their families stand for? He clenches his jaw. No, too dangerous. He has seen what happens when one bares too much to the wrong person. And yet, if he cannot be honest with you, his betrothed, what hope is there for such a union at all.

The handle is cool beneath his hand as he pushes the heavy oak door open. It groans softly on its hinges, the silence beyond almost oppressive. He cannot see who waits inside, cannot glean the cut of your posture or the expression on your face. He stands at the threshold, his breath tight in his chest, listening.

And then, a shift. The faint rustle of fabric, the scrape of a shoe against the polished wood flooring. Ominis's heart stutters, because he knows you're stood there looking right at him.