The Serpents Hold | Ominis Gaunt

Chapter Seventeen

Ministry of Magic Headquarters

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Whitehall

London

Witness Details

Name: Nova Jean Fenwick

Occupation: Apprentice Healer

Date of Birth: 11 Oct 1873

Wand Registration Number: W-2738-UKR

Trial Details

Case Number: C-1892-27861

Date of Incident: 7th February 1891

Date of Trial: 23rd December 1891 [Delayed]

Date of Trial: 25th April 1892 [Delayed]

Date of Trial: 23rd August 1892

Nova fought to drown out the overwhelming sea of robes swarming in her peripheral vision. There were typically fifty or so Wizengamot members present during trials. Still, it felt like an endless parade of magical law enforcement poured through the doors draped in pretentious plum-coloured velvet. Each gown had a flamboyantly embroidered silver 'W' stitched into the chests, most of which were puffed out in an ostentatious display of self-importance.

Forcing herself to ignore the judgmental stares that loomed overhead, Nova used whatever time remained to skim through the details of her statement. Despite the countless rehearsals with Sebastian, she still felt like she was set to crumble the moment she faced questioning. As always, she was drawn to the sentence that frightened her beyond belief—hovering just above her scrawled signature.

I understand that any deliberate misinformation can result in severe consequences, including prosecution for perjury, termination of magical privileges or imprisonment in Azkaban.

In courtroom protocol, the Ministry legal team typically claimed their seats second only to the accused. Nova sat alone on the witness bench, holding onto the hope this meant the other key witness had chosen to abstain due to his family's current circumstances. That optimism was crushed as the ornate doors gracefully parted open.

In less than a heartbeat, she had dissected Ominis from head to toe, silently suppressing the unease that churned in her gut.

He had shed his youthful features, standing taller and broader, the contours of his cheekbones and jawline now chiselled into sharp angles. He had traded his guiding wand for a sleek black cane, which he clutched tightly at his hip.

His mother trailed closely behind him—an ashy-haired, skeletal woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to an inferius drenched in a thick layer of makeup.

Doesn't he bear a striking resemblance to his father?

...Speaking of, I've heard he's not showing any signs of improvement. If he's too unwell to attend his own son's murder trial, it must be dire.

The son's fiancé is missing too. All the delays they've caused, and only half of them bother to show up.

Ominis retaliated with a cutting glare in the direction of the scandal. The ruthless intensity of his ashen eyes efficiently silenced the judgmental wizards, forcing them to clear their throats and divert their scrutiny.

Faris Spavin, the Minister of Magic, wobbled to his feet. The cavernous wrinkles of his sunken face stretched with the taut grin that spread across it. He shook Ominis' hand and escorted him and his mother to one of the benches erected around the room in tiers.