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Published:
2025-09-08
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2025-09-15
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3/?
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The Unabridged Diary of Ominis Gaunt

Summary:

If you picked this up in search of scandal, heroics, or the sort of high drama that leaves readers breathless, do yourself a favor and put it right back down. You've gravely overestimated both the contents and their author.

Still here? I have to ask: are you missing a chromosome, or simply a glutton for disappointment?

You'll find no insight into the grand mysteries of Hogwarts here, you know. Merely a catalogue of the everyday, recorded by one whose chief contribution to the school is not bumping (too often) into the furniture.

If this somehow still qualifies as a page turner, by all means, proceed. I suppose I can't actually stop you.

But Sebastian, if you're reading this, do have the decency to refrain from scrawling in the margins. I fear the world is not yet ready for the annotated edition.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: The Inciting Incident

Chapter Text

15 September 1891

How ironic, that I should suffer performance anxiety while writing to no one.

As if these pages might spontaneously develop legs, parading about the Common Room for public consumption.

As if the world at large lies in wait to pore over my inner workings. What a paranoid conceit. (In the spirit of perseverance and wanting to enjoy this new hobby, I'll resist pursuing that particular rabbit down its hole).

Perhaps in the interest of easing myself into the self-indulgent practice of diary-keeping, I'll begin with an anecdote. The inciting incident, as the dramatists might say.

Last evening, I was audience to Sebastian's latest round of complaints, as is our nightly rite. These were blessedly minor in scope. If not a hair deranged.

Apparently, Lucan Brattleby's spontaneous coronation of Leander as 'the king of Crossed Wands' was not, (as any rational mind might assume), an offhand remark. At most, an innocent flourish of House pride.

No, apparently (though he played no part in that evening's duels, save as a bystander), it was an elaborate barb, a calculated slight aimed at Sebastian.

In his view, Lucan was still licking his wounds from last week's Wizard's Chess loss to the extent that he'd chosen this specific, far flung moment to exact his retribution.

His king, Sebastian explained, had been taken far too soon (he made triply sure I heard the emphasis).

This, apparently, was the full extent of evidence.

I found myself marveling, once more, at the shoestring logic on which so many of my best friend's vendettas are strung.

Though seized by an urge to say Copernicus had sent word that he is not the center of the known cosmos… I held my tongue.

After all, I've made something of a covenant with myself: sixth year shall find me less given to reactionary outbursts.

Particularly if, moving forward, I'm to merit the openness I apparently failed to inspire (or deserve) before.

So, with Sebastian's ego thus bandaged, I thought it only fair to air a grievance or two of my own.

Nellie Oggspire has resurfaced. At least in my case, it's a resurfacing.

Our fourth year, before the hunt for the Daedalian Keys became her reason for living, she and I shared the majority of our classes and an unremarkable volume of illicit notes.

She was extraordinarily fond of holding hands.

(Unfortunately, believing me not merely blind but also stone deaf, she was also fond of shouting her every thought directly into my ear. The intimacy was, at times, pleasant; the decibel range, invariably less so).

Anne was still here back then. (I later learned she and Sebastian worked in tandem to encourage Nellie behind my back; hardly a revelation).

Anyway, I was fond of Nellie in the same way one is fond of a particularly rich box of chocolates. Delightful in theory, but consumed too eagerly, they transform pleasure to punishment.

One finds relief only in finishing the box or secreting it away, ending the internal debate of proper portion control. But I digress.

Yesterday found me in the Quad Courtyard, taking the air. I've recently gotten new shoes and felt it prudent to break them in, rather than permit them to break me.

Enter Nellie, stage left, to announce that I'd grown taller (a fact I must take on faith). And that, should I accompany her to Hogsmeade, Gladrags is sadly off-limits (due to a ban after what she odiously calls 'the receipt incident.' Draw your own conclusions).

Then this morning's post brought a letter from her, bringing news of an autumn market in Brocburrow. In case I possessed an as-yet-undiscovered passion for antiques.

So I admitted aloud to Sebastian that, in all honesty, I'm ambiguous about the entire affair. That I am not at all certain Nellie and I have much in common. Or if indeed, we ever did.

I can always tell when his mind begins to wander; it's as if the air itself gets heavier with inattention. (Still, I rambled on far longer than I meant to, and he graciously bore it).

Right until collapsing onto his bed and remarking, with a finality I might be inflating in my memory,

"Ominis… you need to get a diary."

And though his hypocrisy was nothing short of dazzling, I had to concede the exercise did have practical merit. (Herein lies the end of that establishing anecdote).

As I write this I realize… if I am truly to make good on my promise to be less reactive this year, then a diary is not only prudent, but positively vital.

Case in point. No sooner had Sebastian dispensed the diary advice than he deigned to tend the neglected Owl Post in the corner, and thereafter began dashing about with purpose.

True to form, he did not bother telling me where he was going. And frankly, I didn't bother to ask. Not out of any hollow pretense at tolerance (as you might reasonably suspect, given my new resolution). On this particular occasion, I genuinely didn't want to know.

Only last week, Sebastian managed to drop something on his way back to bed.

A ladies' stocking, of all things, abandoned near the doorway, crumpled in a manner that suggested abduction, a clandestine getaway.

The reek of floral soap said the Prefects' bathroom. And the place I found it, in everyone's sight but curiously unclaimed, screamed guilt.

If this is truly to be my year of unflinching non-judgment, I am to be sorely tested.

Until next time,

O.G.

(I've always found my initialed signature humorous, but the reason escapes me).

Chapter 2: In the Shadow of Throatwort

Chapter Text

17 September 1891

Today's events… well. I'm genuinely glad I was present, if only to stand as a bulwark against the conspiracies and condensed retellings swirling through corridors in the hours since.

We were nearing the end of Herbology, embroiled in a lecture on foxglove. A plant relevant mostly to Potions.

(And one I've honestly always regarded with a certain suspicion… never you mind why).

Professor Garlick, who has never met a tangent she didn't like, seized the moment to list magical and nonmagical names for foxglove over the centuries:

Fairy fingers, ladies' thimbles, rabbit flowers, cow-flop (a crowd favorite), Scotch mercury, witches' gloves… you see where this is going. A veritable smorgasbord of folkloric excess.

No one ever interrupts, of course. Her rambles have a certain charm (for my part, I've learned more from her digressions than the text).

Somewhere between witches' bells and rabbit thimbles, Garlick invoked Herpo the Foul, who insisted foxgloves ought to be named for their resemblance to mouths.

Their telltale freckles, he claimed, evoke the image of inflamed throats.

And thus:

"I've always found throatwort the most amusing name, though I couldn't say why. Hold on, sprouts. I seem to have left the lesson plan with the Chomping Cabbages. Do carry on!"

As ever, I'd stationed myself near the trellis, back to the class, minding my patch of workspace.

Today (thanks to the inability of certain people to remain seated), I was perfectly positioned to hear Leander's latest foray into public humiliation:

"No wonder she likes throatwort… bet she's got a gift for it."

A woman's gasp. Even to me, it was obvious: Professor Garlick had materialized behind him, returning with stealth a Niffler would envy.

There was silence so complete you could practically hear Leander's ego crawling off in search of shelter.

Violet McDowell observed, dry as merlot, "Amazing he's still single, that one."

And Sebastian (never missing a chance to mount the pulpit) cut across, "Can't do better than 'she said throat, please clap?' Enviable wit."

Professor Garlick wasted no time in dismissing us; not a soul lingered.

Whatever became of the man I've privately dubbed Perverted Prewett is, for now, a mystery.

Sebastian assures me there are cleverer nicknames. The Herbology puns alone, offering 'a cornucopia of lower-hanging, but sweeter' fruit.

Having endured enough plant taxonomy for one day, I trusted his judgment.

Moreover, in this case, I don't share his zeal for refining Leander's roast; he's never inspired strong feelings in me, positive or negative.

In fact, I'm hard-pressed to think of anyone in Gryffindor I'd cross a corridor to avoid. (Except Nellie).

And, while it's not my job to dispel rivalries, I'd say Slytherins are far too busy waging civil war among ourselves to bother provoking Gryffindor or anyone else.

The number of feuds and fracases reaching fever pitch in our Common Room gives me secondhand embarrassment. (For a Gaunt, that's saying something).

One of many reasons I so often retreat to the Undercroft.

It's here, in my favored corner, with a bowl of dried fruits and harvest nuts, that I finally claim a measure of blessed silence.

Every so often, I wonder what'll become of this shadowy corner after I leave Hogwarts. Will it be discovered by the loud, the clumsy, and the irredeemably extroverted?

For the next two years, though, it's mine. Come what may, I'll—

17 September 1891 (later)

Well, that was quite a chunk of my evening.

Scarcely had I arranged myself in a posture of scholarly repose than Sebastian arrived, heralded by a dramatic sigh and the faint scent of trouble.

He began ranting about an encounter with Peeves en route (and while I agree that his caterwauling rendition of The Ballad of Sallow, the Lonely Twin gets old, it seemed this had merely been insult to injury).

When asked what was really going on, Sebastian told me I wouldn't like what he had to say.

Despite my freshly minted vow to keep my unsolicited theories to myself, I couldn't help suspecting he had lapsed into yet another harebrained scheme to save Anne. So, violating both my better judgment and my new rule, I asked if Dark Magic was involved.

He assured me, with the wounded dignity only Sebastian can summon, the matter was not, in fact, criminal but emotional, by way of Nellie asking him to the antique bazaar (you'll recall she wrote me first).

I reminded him (with what, I felt, was too much patience) he was the person I'd told, not forty-eight hours ago (explicitly, and with no performative sighs) I feel nothing for her.

Of course, he'd deemed this a ruse, some elaborate bit of faux humility. I pointed out, not unreasonably, that it sounded like precisely the sort of thing he would do.

Sebastian had the grace to be amused. Promptly snatching a handful of nuts from my bowl (brazenly, I might add, as though the sheer force of drama entitled him to light refreshments).

I was actually enjoying the lull. Until he spoiled it with a pivot as mercurial as anything from Shakespeare, announcing that he was now losing interest in Nellie.

With the thrill of imagined rivalry disappearing, so too was her allure. (in his words, "By the second, exponentially.")

There's a lesson somewhere in all this, though I'm not convinced either of us is equipped to learn it.

Then something happened that made me wonder if I'd become the Pied Piper, everyone who knew of the Undercroft running toward the sound of my relaxation.

Someone singing. I recognized the voice, but had to verify: was it MC?

It was, and she apologized for the intrusion, explaining (with the weary air of one who's checked every broom cupboard and alcove) that all other quiet corners were colonized.

Finding this both impossible and all too believable, I assured her, quite honestly, that she was welcome; after what we all weathered together, how could I deny her sanctuary?

Then I joked about instituting a formal log for occupancy (hourly appointments, perhaps, with a strict "no singing after midnight" clause). Just to fill the silence.

Comforted and unable to resist, she inquired about Perverted Prewett. Giving a cobbled-together version she'd managed to get quite accurate… save for the abrupt, tire-screeching rewrite that had Professor Garlick flirting back.

Having known it was nonsense, MC laughed. Assuring me that, having opted for Potions this year, she's been stockpiling firsthand tales of those humbled for trying their luck with Professor Sharp, should I ever want to hear them.

I admitted: I do miss his staunch, occasionally terrifying command of a classroom. Though I can't say the same for the chemical burns.

After she left, it occurred to me that Sebastian hadn't spoken for the length of the encounter. Rustling sound telling me he'd busied himself with what was left of the nuts.

Which, truthfully, was a mercy. Last year, whenever those two got going, I could all but feel myself dissolving into the backdrop. A ghost haunting this same Undercroft.

Not that MC isn't likable. She's clever, with a brand of nonjudgmental empathy equally inspiring and perilous. A Shakespearean figure in her own right (perhaps Ophelia with a better therapist, or Rosalind after a cup of strong tea).

Still, if I'm to maintain this new gospel of non-judgment (and Sebastian is to see graduation), we'd do well not to cast fresh chaos into our little drama.

Old debts should be acknowledged and honored, of course, but new mayhem? I think we met our lifetime quota in that Catacomb.

One mystery remains: how anyone, even in the wildest reaches of collective delusion, could believe Mirabel Garlick would abide by (let alone reciprocate) the advances of a nasally, loudmouthed wannabe like Leander Prewett.

The mind reels.

Yet somehow, that particular fever dream found fertile ground, even with those as discerning as MC.

A castle full of the credulous, ready to believe the most outlandish absurdities when told with enough conviction.

If that's the zeitgeist we live in, then I am ever more troubled.

(And frankly astonished at how much I've written today. A triumph of verbosity, if nothing else).

Perhaps I'll sleep in the Undercroft tonight. Steal back the peace that the peanut gallery thieved away… even if it was strangely nice to all be together again.

O.G.

Chapter 3: The Shoe Story

Chapter Text

20 September 1891

Back in my inaugural entry, I mentioned breaking in a new pair of shoes.

For me, this is a biannual event, and in fact a welcome challenge.

There's a minor art to persuading leather to behave. The toe-box finally relaxing, the insole giving way, blisters making their expected cameo before being upstaged by comfort…

(Though I could obviously go on, I'll spare us both).

Anyway, after two weeks spent limping around like a tragic stage extra, I conceded defeat. Gladrags would have to take the pair back, along with my pride.

Sebastian's devotion to the sanctity of the weekend lie-in meant that, for once, I had the rare pleasure of solitude.

To linger in Hogsmeade at such a pace is to indulge in a little symphony of the senses.

I roamed the shop at will (wand reading labels, fingers tracing fabric; tweed and calfskin for the broke and bespoke alike).

Some people believe blindness sharpens the other senses. Personally, I find it's less a matter of heightened faculties than of forced attendance.

That to say, so absorbed was I, that I nearly missed the commotion brewing at the counter… until it reached a pitch that made portraits as far as Splintwitches prick up their ears.

Augustus Hill, radiating gentlemanly yet cutting panic, matching the volume of the irate patroness at the counter.

I'm almost certain it was Calliope Snelling (momentarily at liberty from bob cuts and barbasol), come to chastise the couturier about a late order.

The two vendors talked over each other, the record player got stuck; a bizarre and screeching soundtrack.

Since mannequins are seldom drawn into these sorts of dramas, I bowed my head (appropriately, among the hats) and did my best impression of a shop display.

Eventually, peace returned, the door swinging shut behind Madam Snelling's exit. Reflecting on this impromptu theatre, I wondered if I might need a haircut, and absently scratched my scalp.

Mr. Hill took this as his cue to announce that not only could he see me, but that if my head itched, his hats were not the culprit.

Shoes exchanged, ego only mildly bruised, I decided The Three Broomsticks was the only sensible next stop.

There, over a cup of cider in my favored corner spot, I took up the Prophet.

(As an aside, I'm grateful for their latest formatting change. The new all-caps approach everyone's been deriding lately suits my wand. What the sighted call garish and blocky, I deem mercifully legible).

Among the day's offerings: a particularly breathless profile of Professor Black. Who, according to the author, is a polyglot. German, Arabic, French, and Mermish (the last, I suspect, conversational only).

The piece also insists he met his wife at some windswept Beast preserve "on safari," marrying her immediately. Perhaps exchanging vows over the sedated back of an Erumpent.

Yet even those not entangled in the hedgerows of pureblood genealogy know… as Black is married to his first cousin, their acquaintance predates any "safari" (possibly even the invention of the tent itself).

For my part as an insider, I know the only suspense ever attached to Phineas Nigellus' union was the matter of which cousin he'd picked.

But such is the way of consanguineous families. Reputations are passed around like the salt cellar; never entirely one's own. Reinvention was a fantasy, apparently best left to the Prophet's readership.

Still, I have to admire the effort. (I am, to quote Sebastian, 'a simple bear,' and if nothing else, this latest fiction gave me a good laugh).

A laugh that apparently caught the attention of Violet McDowell, who then asked me what I was doing out without my boyfriend.

Admittedly, as far back as third year, Sebastian and I have been the punchline of jokes about suspicious inseparability.

In my teenage experience of this castle, men hold their friends at such cautious distance that you'd think Spattergroit was endemic to the halls.

To these minds, any two failing to maintain a requisite coldness must be knocking boots.

Sebastian is well aware of this, too. He's just too fond of stirring the cauldron; too keen on mastering the narrative to let the matter die a natural death.

A small, impish part of me was tempted to lean into it, tell Violet I was in the village to buy flowers for him (a little surprise for my beloved, you understand). Let her drop her teacup.

Instead, I simply lifted my glass in her direction and she returned, without ceremony, to her usual circuit of gossip.

Of course, these things have a way of coming full circle. When I made it back to our dormitory just now, I managed to catch my foot (yet again) on that infernal stocking.

Sebastian's bed lie neatly made. As such, it felt not only appropriate but necessary to place the hosiery on his pillowcase (in lieu of flowers).

I can almost hear him saying, "Oh, Ominis, you shouldn't have," perhaps blushing at my spontaneous gift. Just not the way Violet McDowell envisioned.

If this pair of shoes causes me the same misery as the last, it may be my thirteenth reason.

O.G.

Notes:

I figured if there was an author to do this whenever the mood strikes, it would be me. (& for my subscribers wondering about other fic updates - they're coming. I'm just feeling like a silly goose).

recommended listening.