With Lucius and Abarax…
The infirmary was quieter than usual.
Not silent—never truly silent—but filled with the soft clinks of glass, the rustle of sheets, and the faint hum of magic working in the background.
Madam Pomfrey moved briskly between beds, her heels clicking just a little faster than necessary. She didn't look at them directly, but her awareness lingered—sharp, cautious.
She knew better.
Some conversations were not meant for witnesses.
Abarax sat beside Lucius, the chair pulled close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"...we do need to talk, my son," he said, voice low, controlled—but tired.
Lucius said nothing at first.
His silver-grey eyes, so much like his father's, watched him carefully. Not with defiance.
With expectation.
With hurt.
Abarax exhaled slowly.
"We will talk," he continued, softer now. "But not here. Not now."
Lucius's lips parted slightly—ready to argue.
Abarax cut him off gently.
"No."
The single word held no anger. Only finality.
"You are not in a state to strain your mind further," he said. "Whatever you saw… whatever you felt—it was enough to put you into a coma, Lucius."
A flicker.
Something passed through Lucius's eyes at that word.
Coma.
As if the memory was still there—just out of reach.
"I will tell you everything," Abarax added, quieter now. "But I need time."
He leaned forward slightly, meeting his son's gaze fully.
"Give your old man that much, will you?"
There was something unguarded in his expression.
Something rare.
Lucius hesitated.
For once, he didn't have a calculated response ready.
Didn't have a perfectly crafted sentence to maintain composure.
He just… nodded.
Barely.
And then Abarax did something unexpected.
He pulled him into a hug.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't measured.
It wasn't the kind of controlled, distant affection expected of a man like him.
It was firm.
Real.
Desperate, even.
And that—
that was what broke Lucius.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Lucius Malfoy did not sob.
Did not collapse.
Did not make a sound.
But something inside him cracked open—
clean and silent.
Like glass breaking underwater.
He leaned into the embrace before he even realized he was doing it.
His hands clenched slightly into his father's robes.
His breathing hitched—once.
That was all.
From the outside, he looked the same.
Composed.
Still.
Perfect.
But Abarax felt it.
The dampness seeping slowly through the fabric at his shoulder.
Tears.
Silent.
Hidden.
Contained so deeply that even now, Lucius refused to let them exist in the open.
And in that moment—
Abarax understood.
Not as a lord.
Not as a strategist.
But as a father.
How long…?
How long had his son been carrying this?
The confusion.
The gaps.
The unspoken questions.
The loneliness.
All hidden behind polished words and perfect posture.
All buried beneath expectation.
Abarax's grip tightened just slightly.
Not enough to be overwhelming.
Just enough to say—
I'm here.
Too late, perhaps.
But here.
A sharp ache settled in his chest.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
I failed him.
The thought came uninvited.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
Lucius should never have needed to hide from him.
Should never have felt the need to wear a mask in front of his own father.
And yet—
here they were.
Abarax closed his eyes briefly.
And for a fleeting moment—
his mind went to her.
Meera.
Her laughter.
Her warmth.
The way she would have handled this with ease he could never replicate.
"She would know what to do…" he murmured under his breath, almost inaudible.
Because she always did.
She had been the one who softened edges.
Who carried the emotional weight neither of them acknowledged.
Who made their house feel like more than power and expectation.
Lucius shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to breathe—but not enough to fully break the contact.
He didn't look up.
Didn't speak.
Didn't trust his voice.
But he didn't move away either.
That, more than anything—
terrified Abarax.
Because it meant his son needed this.
And had needed it for far longer than he had realized.
Madam Pomfrey paused across the room for a brief second.
Then, deliberately—
she turned away.
Giving them what little privacy she could.
And in the quiet of the infirmary—
for the first time in years—
Lucius Malfoy was not the heir.
Not the prodigy.
Not the composed, untouchable figure everyone saw.
He was just a child.
Who wanted his parents.
And only had one left.
*********
By the Black Lake…
The surface of the Black Lake was unnervingly still.
Smooth.
Untouched.
A perfect mirror reflecting the pale sky above—
as if nothing beneath it could possibly exist.
Regulus knew better.
There were creatures in that lake that could drag you down without a trace. Depths no one had fully explored. Darkness that didn't need to show itself to exist.
It was… familiar.
Too familiar.
He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect—just as he had been taught.
But his mind was anything but composed.
Nothing is ever what it seems.
His life—
his memories—
his family—
Everything felt like a carefully crafted illusion.
And the worst part?
He didn't know if he wanted it to break.
Because once it did…
there was no going back.
Yes, he wanted to know.
He needed to know.
Who his mother really was.
Why no one remembered her.
Why her existence felt like a secret the world itself was trying to bury.
But with that desire came something colder.
A certainty.
If the truth came out—
his life would never be quiet again.
No more controlled dinners.
No more predictable expectations.
No more safety in ignorance.
Something was coming.
He could feel it.
And his instincts—
the ones he trusted above all—
had never been wrong.
A hand landed on his shoulder.
Regulus flinched.
Hard.
He turned sharply, wand nearly slipping into his grip—
only to stop.
"...Father."
Orion Black stood beside him, gaze already drifting back toward the lake as if he had always been there.
Black robes.
Of course.
His father always wore black.
It wasn't just preference—
it was identity.
Authority.
A statement.
But today—
Regulus noticed something else.
Something he should have noticed long ago.
A waistcoat.
Muggle-made.
Perfectly tailored.
Subtle.
But undeniably there.
Regulus blinked.
And suddenly—
everything started clicking into place.
The cigars.
Not wizarding.
Muggle.
The weaponry.
Not just wands—but guns, knives, hidden steel.
The music Sirius listened to.
The contraptions.
The… acceptance.
His father had never enforced hatred.
Not truly.
Not like Walburga.
Because—
nothing in that family happened without Orion Black allowing it.
I wasn't observant…
The realization stung more than he expected.
He had prided himself on seeing everything.
Understanding everything.
And yet—
he had chosen not to see this.
"I know I am handsome, son," Orion said suddenly, completely serious. "But there is no need to stare."
Regulus choked.
Actually choked.
His composure cracked for a split second as he stared at his father in disbelief.
Did he just—
"You have certainly inherited my features," Orion continued casually, glancing at him with a faint smirk, "and are, I must admit, a very handsome young lad."
Regulus spluttered.
Confusion.
Indignation.
A hint of horror.
"Father—"
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Orion cut in, amused. "What? Did you think I lacked a sense of humor?"
Yes.
Regulus did not say that aloud.
But it was written all over his face.
His father chuckled softly.
Low.
Rare.
And utterly disorienting.
"It seems you are more like your brother than you care to admit," Orion added, watching him.
That—
that hit somewhere deeper than Regulus expected.
"Father, I—" Regulus started, the words catching in his throat.
The questions.
The anger.
The confusion.
The need to understand.
Orion's expression shifted.
Not fully serious—
but something steadier.
Grounded.
"It's fine, Regulus," he said quietly.
That stopped him.
"I knew it would come to this."
The words weren't dramatic.
They weren't heavy.
But they carried weight nonetheless.
"I will tell you everything," Orion continued. "You and your brother."
A pause.
"During the holidays."
Regulus frowned slightly.
That was… too far away.
Too much waiting.
Too much not knowing.
"Until then," Orion added, turning to look at him properly now, "I ask you to be patient."
Not a command.
A request.
That alone was enough to unsettle Regulus more than anything else.
"Don't you have classes to attend?" Orion said lightly, the moment shifting just like that, as if the previous conversation hadn't held the weight it did.
Regulus blinked.
"Yes, Father."
He straightened automatically.
Familiar ground.
Routine.
Control.
"I will be leaving."
Orion reached out, patting his shoulder once.
"Go on," he said, a faint smirk returning. "Enjoy your time while you can."
That—
that didn't sound like a casual statement.
Regulus hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
Then turned and walked away.
Measured steps.
Perfect posture.
Controlled breathing.
Behind him, Orion's robes flared dramatically as he turned in the opposite direction—
toward the infirmary.
Regulus exhaled slowly once he was out of sight.
His mind racing again.
His chest tight.
His thoughts louder than ever.
"…well," he muttered under his breath, adjusting his robes slightly, "at least now I know where Sirius gets his narcissism from."
A pause.
"…definitely not from Mother."
And with that—
he walked back toward his classes.
But the calm he once relied on—
was already beginning to crack.