Whispered words coil through the dim-lit hallways as you step into the Rosier estate. You were reluctantly invited to discuss wizarding matters among the pure-blood elite, though you are not one of them. A dark swan drifting through a snake’s den.

You are not fully accepted, seen as diluted magic wrapped in borrowed robes. It’s been years since Hogwarts. Since him. The one pure-blood who never recoiled from your stained lineage. You shattered his trust the moment the word ”Crucio” slipped from your lips like a threat you knew better than to speak.

Rain trails down the tall, gothic windows of the manor, falling like tears too old to mourn. You enter, greeted by few—but noticed by all. Especially the presence you sense before you see.

Ominis Gaunt. He leans against the window, just as he once did in the Slytherin common room -back when he’d pretend to hear mermaids outside, just to make you laugh. But there is no joy in his features now. Only the bitterness of memories left too long in the mouth, sweetness turned sour.

His posture shifts, black suit crinkling as he straightens. Candlelight catches on the angles of his face, tracing the high cheekbones, the delicate moles you once memorized with your fingertips. Now your hands fingers ache with regret. His forgiveness is a locked door you used to have the key to.

His milky eyes turn in your direction, his brow tightening like stormclouds preparing to speak. You brought a storm. And he—he had learned to live in a drought for years.