"So… why was he like that, Uncle Malfoy?"
Regulus's voice was tentative, careful — as though afraid the answer itself might break something fragile.
The question pulled Abraxas out of his trance.
His thumb still rested against the photograph, tracing the faint curve of the woman's smile before he slowly lowered it.
"Does he not know the truth about his mother?" Regulus pressed, his voice tightening.
Abraxas exhaled slowly.
"No," he said at last. "I have not told him anything yet."
Silence fell.
Heavy.
And then something inside Regulus snapped.
A sharp, broken laugh escaped him — utterly unlike the composed heir everyone knew.
"I thought you were better than my father, Uncle."
Abraxas looked up sharply.
"When I learned about my mother," Regulus continued, voice trembling, "I understood why Father locked himself away. I thought grief had broken him."
His breathing grew uneven.
"But you…" His eyes burned. "You were still there. You were raising Lucius. You were functioning. I thought at least you remembered you had a son."
The words struck harder than any curse.
"But even you are a coward."
Tears began falling freely now, uncontrolled, unchecked.
Regulus Black — the boy who never faltered, never lost composure, never allowed emotion past his noble mask — was breaking apart.
"I just wanted to know who she is!" he cried.
His hands clenched into fists.
"Why did she leave us? Is she alive? Is she dead? Why does Father speak as if she still exists but refuses to say her name?"
His voice cracked completely.
"How does no one remember her? If she married into the House of Black, why isn't she on the family tree?"
His breathing hitched violently.
"She gave birth to Sirius and me… so why does history act like she never existed?"
The final question came out as a whisper shattered by sobs.
"…why doesn't she love me?"
His legs gave out.
Regulus collapsed onto the floor, shoulders shaking as years of silent grief poured out at once.
The mask was gone.
No heir.
No noble composure.
Just a child who wanted his mother.
******************
Just as Abraxas moved, intending to place a comforting hand on Regulus's shoulder, silver light burst into the room.
An otter Patronus leapt forward, its form shimmering softly.
Madam Pomfrey's voice followed, professional yet unmistakably relieved.
"Lord Malfoy, I am very delighted to inform you that Heir Malfoy has awakened and appears to be in stable condition. You are most welcome to visit him."
The Patronus dissolved into drifting sparks.
Silence followed.
Regulus and Abraxas both stared at the empty air where it had vanished, neither speaking for several seconds.
Abraxas was the first to move.
"Do you want some time, Regulus?" he asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
He helped the boy to his feet and guided him toward the couch. Regulus allowed it without resistance, moving mechanically, eyes fixed downward.
"You may come once you have dealt with your emotions," Abraxas said softly.
No reply.
Regulus simply stared at his hands, fingers clenched loosely in his robes — not rejecting comfort, yet not ready to accept it either.
Abraxas sat beside him.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly:
"One thing I can swear upon my soul… Vishaka loved you with everything she had."
Regulus's shoulders stiffened slightly.
"You were never unwanted," Abraxas continued. "You were the most desired thing in her life. Both you and Sirius."
His voice thickened despite his control.
"You were the living proof of their love. Never… ever question that."
Regulus's breathing faltered, but he still did not look up.
Abraxas stood.
"Take your time, Regulus."
And with that, he left the room.
*******************
The Corridor.....
The door closed softly behind him.
The moment he was alone, the composure slipped.
His steps slowed.
Then slowed further.
For the first time in years, Abraxas Malfoy — feared politician, calculating patriarch, master of composure — found himself reluctant to move forward.
Lucius was awake.
That should have brought relief.
Instead, dread settled heavily in his chest.
Because Lucius was older.
Older than Regulus. Older than Sirius.
Old enough to notice inconsistencies.
Old enough to remember fragments others dismissed.
And worst of all — intelligent enough to connect truths no one had spoken aloud.
He might remember her.
Abraxas swallowed.
His son had always been sharp. Observant. Quietly analytical.
If even a fragment of memory had returned…
He would ask questions.
Questions Abraxas had spent years avoiding.
He deliberately dragged his steps along the corridor, robes whispering against the stone floor, as though walking slower might delay the inevitable.
He almost wished — absurdly — that another crisis would appear to stop him.
Because he did not know what he would do if Lucius broke the way Regulus had.
Regulus had cried like a child.
But Lucius…
Lucius did not cry.
He endured.
And that frightened Abraxas far more.
Because Merlin knew — beneath the perfect heir, beneath the polished composure — his son had always longed for his mother with a quiet ache he never voiced.
A child who learned too early that asking questions brought silence.
Abraxas stopped just outside the infirmary doors.
Through the glass panes, he could see movement.
Madam Pomfrey adjusting something.
A pale figure sitting upright.
Long blond hair catching the light.
Lucius.
Alive.
Awake.
Waiting.
Abraxas closed his eyes briefly.
His hand hesitated over a simple door.
Because beyond it waited not a political opponent—
—but a son who might finally ask:
Where is my mother?
He exhaled slowly and pushed the doors open.
Inside the Infirmary
Lucius Malfoy sat upright against the pillows, unnaturally still.
Too still.
His grey eyes turned immediately toward the entrance.
Sharp.
Aware.
Searching.
For a brief moment, neither father nor son spoke.
Then Lucius tilted his head slightly.
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
…but carrying something unfamiliar beneath it.
"Father."
A pause.
"I believe," he said slowly, "we need to talk."
And for the first time in many years—
Abraxas Malfoy realized he could no longer delay the truth.
*******************
Dumbledore's Office — After Regulus Left
The door closed behind Regulus with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.
Silence settled across the circular office.
The portraits along the walls pretended to sleep, though several pairs of painted eyes followed the remaining occupants with poorly concealed curiosity.
"I didn't know," Orion said at last, lifting his cup with deliberate calm, "that you were so interested in beginning a blood feud with the Blacks, Lord Dumbledore."
His tone was polite.
Too polite.
His grey eyes shimmered faintly — molten silver beneath restraint — and magic rolled off him in controlled waves, heavy and ancient, pressing subtly against the wards of the office.
The instruments on Dumbledore's shelves trembled almost imperceptibly.
Dumbledore did not flinch.
If he felt the pressure, he gave no sign.
"No one," Dumbledore replied mildly, "would willingly seek a feud with your House, Lord Black. You have cultivated… a formidable reputation."
Orion placed his teacup down.
Clank.
The sound was sharp enough to cut through the room.
"And yet," Orion said quietly, "you had the audacity to attempt Legilimency on my heir. In front of me."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"That," he continued, each word precise, "is not something I take lightly."
Dumbledore folded his hands atop the desk.
"My intention was merely to understand the circumstances surrounding Mr. Malfoy's condition."
"Intent," Orion interrupted smoothly, "does not negate law."
His magic surged again, restrained but unmistakable.
"If you behave this way when I am present," Orion continued, voice lowering, "one must wonder what liberties you take when we are not."
For the first time, several portraits opened their eyes fully.
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Hogwarts must ensure the safety of its students," he said. "Even heirs of ancient houses are not exempt from concern."
A faint smile touched Orion's lips.
It held no warmth.
"And ancient houses," he replied, "are not exempt from defending their blood."
He stood.
His movements were swift, sharp — yet carrying that strange Black elegance, as though violence and grace had learned to coexist within the same body.
"Let us continue this discussion," Orion said calmly, adjusting his cuffs, "at the next Council meeting."
A pause.
"I will make certain to review Hogwarts' legal statutes beforehand."
His eyes met Dumbledore's fully now.
For a brief moment, something ancient flickered there — the thing whispered about in old wizarding circles.
The Black madness.
Not insanity.
Conviction sharpened until it became dangerous.
Then he turned and walked toward the exit, robes sweeping behind him like a shadow given form.
The door closed.
For the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore did not immediately return to his work.
He remained seated.
Still.
The ticking instruments resumed their rhythm, but the office felt different — heavier.
One of the portraits cleared its throat softly but received no response.
Dumbledore stared at nothing.
At least, it appeared that way.
Inside, his thoughts moved rapidly.
He replayed the moment.
Regulus's unwavering composure.
The resistance in the boy's mind — far stronger than expected.
Orion's immediate recognition of Legilimency.
The protectiveness.
The anger.
And most troubling of all…
the magic surrounding recent events.
A Malfoy heir collapsing from memory exposure.
Gaps in recorded history that should not exist. Yes he had noticed.
Old families moving like pieces on a board he had not realized was active.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly.
For perhaps the first time since becoming Headmaster, a quiet doubt surfaced.
Had he overstepped?
He had always believed intention justified action when greater dangers loomed.
But intention, as Orion had said, did not negate law.
Nor did it guarantee righteousness.
His gaze drifted toward Fawkes, who watched him silently from his perch.
"Tell me, my friend," Dumbledore murmured softly, "have I begun mistaking necessity for permission?"
Fawkes gave a low, questioning trill.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly.
Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had changed.
For the first time in a very long while,
Albus Dumbledore wondered whether he was no longer the one guiding events—
but merely trying to keep pace with them.