With Abarax and Orion…
"Well," Abarax muttered as the portkey released them into the familiar opulence of Malfoy Manor, "that could have gone worse."
Orion let out a slow breath and dropped onto the couch in the drawing room, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yes—but it still could have gone better."
House-elves appeared almost instantly, moving with silent efficiency as they began preparing refreshments, though neither man so much as glanced at them.
"Given that Rajveer lost his sister," Abarax continued, loosening his cuffs, "and how fiercely protective he is of her… it's a miracle he even let us in. Forget helping us—he gave us a solution. That alone—"
Before he could finish, the air shimmered.
A silver otter burst into the room, skidding to a halt atop the table. Madam Pomfrey's voice rang out—professional, clipped, but threaded with an urgency that neither of them could miss.
"Lord Malfoy, there has been an… incident involving Heir Malfoy that has resulted in his admission to the infirmary. It would be wise to inform you of your ward's condition. I strongly advise your presence to assess the situation and determine future action."
The Patronus dissolved the moment the message ended.
For half a second, the room was utterly silent.
Then Abarax was already moving.
He summoned his wand, sending out his own Patronus in a sharp, efficient motion. "I'll be there immediately," he said into the spell, his voice tight with restraint as he grabbed his cloak.
"I'm coming with you," Orion said at once, rising from the couch.
Abarax paused, looking at him.
"After all," Orion continued calmly, though there was steel beneath it, "he's my nephew. And he's about to wed a Black."
That settled it.
Moments later, the flames in the Floo roared to life—green, violent, and impatient—ready to carry them straight into whatever storm awaited at Hogwarts.
*******
In the room with Sirius…
Sirius stared at the television—the strange Muggle contraption—blankly.
He didn't like the silence.It was too still, too deliberate, broken only by the faint, looping tune drifting from another device in the room. The music felt wrong somehow, like it was waiting.
He stepped closer and pressed one of the buttons beneath the screen.
Click.
Nothing.
He pressed it again.
Click.
Still nothing.
A little more force crept into his movements—not quite impatience, not quite courage—as he began pressing several buttons in quick succession. Then—
Screech.
The video player jolted open, the slot for the video tape yawning wide.
Sirius jumped back instantly, heart hammering.
The memories of the Room of Requirement were still far too fresh in his mind. That sense of being watched. Of something responding too quickly. He swallowed hard.
We should've told the adults, a small, traitorous voice whispered.
But then they'd have questions.Too many questions.Questions he wasn't ready to answer—not to the staff, not to the Board, not to Dumbledore.
Shaking off the thought, Sirius reached for one of the tapes.
The first one his fingers brushed against.
Duelling Championship – Year 1945
His breath caught.
That was it.
Luck—or fate—because he knew the date instantly. His father would've been in his sixth year then.
My age.
Maybe this would show something. A glimpse. A hint. Something about the woman everyone had somehow forgotten—about the mother no one spoke of.
Carefully, almost reverently, he slid the tape into the slot.
Click.
The machine accepted it without protest.
Before Sirius could fumble for more buttons, the television flickered to life.
The screen glowed.
DUELLING CHAMPIONSHIP – 1945
His heart began to race.
He backed away slowly and sank onto the couch, hardly noticing when the room shifted again—soft cushions appearing, a small table forming beside him, snacks arranged neatly as though the room knew he'd be here for a while.
The eerie tune faded, replaced by something lighter. Playful. Anticipatory.
Like the opening of a Muggle film.
Sirius swallowed and leaned back, torn between anxiety and a strange, reluctant excitement.
Whatever waited on that screen—
There was no turning back now.
*******
Regulus was midway through Potions when the classroom door creaked open.
Every head turned.
A first-year Gryffindor stood at the threshold, pale, stiff, and very clearly terrified.
Why in Lady Magic's name would a first-year be sent to a sixth-year class?
Professor Slughorn paused mid-sentence, blinking in mild surprise."Well? What seems to be the problem, my boy?"
The child swallowed hard."P-Professor Dumble—Professor Dumbledore wants Mr Black to come to his office."
The words tumbled out in a rush, and before anyone could question him further, the boy bolted—nearly tripping over his own robes as he fled the room.
Regulus raised an eyebrow faintly.
Were they truly that frightening?
Slughorn turned to him, eyes glittering with curiosity. Regulus merely smiled—pleasant, practiced, harmless.
"Well," Regulus said smoothly, already gathering his things, "that was quicker than I anticipated."
News travels fast, he thought, especially when ancient noble houses are involved.
"May I, Professor?" he asked politely.
"Of course, Mr Black," Slughorn replied warmly. "And should you require assistance catching up on today's lesson, you are always welcome in my office for a one-on-one session."
Regulus's smile didn't waver.
They both knew that one-on-one was Slughorn's way of extracting information.
He reached the stone gargoyle without incident—and then paused.
Ah. The password.
For a moment, he considered the absurdity of it all. Then—
"Lemon drops?" Regulus offered calmly.
The gargoyle stared.
He was just about to try another of Dumbledore's ridiculous confections when the statue suddenly sprang aside, revealing the spiraling staircase beyond.
Regulus stepped forward, unfazed.
The office greeted him with its usual clutter—whirring instruments, softly glowing objects, and the watchful eyes of former headmasters lining the walls. One portrait, an unmistakable Black ancestor, inclined his head in greeting… and silent inquiry.
Regulus acknowledged him with a brief nod before a voice cut through the air.
"Mr Black," Dumbledore said quietly, "I assume you know why I have called you here."
Gone was the twinkling smile. Gone was the eccentric warmth.
This was Albus Dumbledore—the man.
Regulus sat across from him with deliberate ease, folding his hands in his lap.
"Professor," he said smoothly, "I can assure you that nothing offensive occurred on my part. It would appear that Heir Malfoy was… triggered by something."
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened.
"You see," Regulus continued, unhurried, "he wished to be a better fiancé to my cousin Narcissa. I was merely giving him what one might call a brotherly talk. Nothing more."
He met Dumbledore's gaze directly.
"When he fainted, I immediately brought him to Madam Pomfrey."
A perfect lie—wrapped around just enough truth.
Before Dumbledore could respond—
Fwoosh.
The Floo flared to life.
Orion Black and Abraxas Malfoy stepped through the emerald flames.
Abraxas didn't even pause—his expression dark, controlled, and razor-sharp as he strode straight toward the infirmary.
Orion, however, lingered.
His gaze swept the office—and then settled on Regulus.
Surprise flickered across his face.
Not Sirius.
Regulus.
And suddenly, the room felt much smaller.