Abarax entered the Malfoy Manor like a storm given form—every step sharp, every breath heavy with something dangerously close to destruction. The air itself seemed to recoil around him, magic flickering at the edges of control.
For a fleeting second, he wondered if Orion would follow him—try to reason, to steady him.
But no.
That wasn't Orion.
Orion would never sit and console heartbreak.
He would *hunt it down*… tear it apart at its roots… and make sure it never rose again.
Abarax's jaw tightened.
*If he said he would bring Meena back… he would.*
And that thought alone kept him from completely unraveling.
Still, the rage inside him churned—restless, violent, clawing for release.
*What to do… what to do…*
A soft *pop* broke through his thoughts.
"Dobby greets Master Abarax. Does Master wish for refreshments?"
"No, Dobby," Abarax snapped, not even looking at him. "I don't want anything. You may leave."
Dobby bowed quickly, about to disappear—then paused.
"Master Abarax has a letter."
That caught his attention.
Dobby handed over the sealed parchment and vanished, leaving Abarax alone once more.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.
"Please don't be another political nuisance," he muttered. "I don't have the patience… I just want to see blood."
He broke the seal.
And as his eyes scanned the contents…
His expression changed.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
A smile spread across his face.
Beautiful.
Deadly.
The kind of smile that made women sigh—and men who *knew* him take a step back.
Because that smile meant one thing:
Something had gone *exactly* the way Abarax Malfoy wanted.
"Well… well…" he murmured softly.
His fingers tightened around the letter.
"Would you look at that… Karkaroff biting off more than he can chew."
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Though… Slavic men do have a reputation for being stubbornly foolish."
He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming now with something far darker than before.
"But what did that self-proclaimed Dark Lord offer him, I wonder… to pull him to his side?"
The name lingered unspoken for a moment—but the weight of it was unmistakable.
"Interesting…" Abarax whispered.
"So interesting that he thinks he can approach *me* next even after both the Black's and Malfoy's publically declaring the so called dark lord as an enemy?"
A sharper smile curved his lips.
"It didn't work with Orion… and now he dares try his luck here?"
A quiet laugh left him—colder this time.
"Bold."
There was a pause.
Then—
"Or stupid."
His grip on the letter loosened as he let it fall onto the table beside him.
"Either way…" he continued, voice dropping into something almost pleased, "this is perfect."
His eyes darkened.
"A chance to… *destress*."
The magic around him pulsed—hungry, eager.
"And," he added softly, almost thoughtfully, "to do Orion a favor."
Abarax straightened, the storm within him no longer chaotic—
But focused.
Directed.
Deadly.
Because if someone thought they could manipulate him… use him…
Then they were about to learn—
Exactly why crossing paths with men like him… and Orion…
Was never a mistake one survived twice.
He strode into his study and dropped into the chair behind his desk with a controlled sigh. The room responded to him instinctively—quiet, dim, obedient.
With a flick of his wrist, parchment and ink slid neatly into place.
He didn't hesitate.
The quill moved swiftly.
---
Igor Karkaroff,
Your letter has reached me.
It is… *interesting* that your lord—who so boldly claims the title of Dark Lord—seeks an audience with me. Though I must ask… is it truly *him* who seeks it?
Or are you attempting to secure support for your lord without his knowledge?
There is also the matter of his rather public position as an enemy of both the Black and Malfoy families. Surely, a man of such… *proclaimed* stature would not take such an insult lightly.
Then again, I know very little about your so-called lord.
A remarkably clean background. Almost *too* clean.
And we both understand what that usually implies.
I trust a man of your standing would recognize the difference between absence… and erasure.
If your lord truly desires this meeting, I find it curious that *you* are the one writing to me.
Still—
I am known to be a lenient and merciful man.
We shall meet.
At your residence.
Since it was you who extended the invitation, I will come to the Karkaroff Manor two hours after this letter reaches you.
And do convey my regards to your mother.
A remarkable woman.
I do hope she is not… disappointed in your current associations.
**Abarax Malfoy**
Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy
---
The quill stilled.
Abarax leaned back slightly, reading over the letter once—twice—before a faint, satisfied smile curved his lips.
Where Orion Black was swift, decisive, and ruthlessly direct—
Abarax Malfoy was something far more dangerous.
He *waited*.
He *observed*.
He *played*.
He thrived on being underestimated—on letting his enemies believe they were in control, only to pull the ground out from beneath them when it mattered most.
Words, to him, were sharper than blades.
And far more useful.
He was a politician, a businessman—a man who understood that power wasn't just in magic or strength, but in influence, leverage, and timing. Monetary capital. Human capital. Fear. Loyalty.
All tools.
All expendable.
He didn't just fight battles.
He orchestrated them.
And now—
He wanted to see exactly what kind of loyalty this so-called Dark Lord had built.
If it was fear alone, then it was fragile.
Easy to fracture.
People driven by fear always ran—toward the next strongest shelter.
But if there was loyalty *mixed* with fear…
His smile deepened slightly.
Well.
There were always ways to break that too.
Abarax exhaled slowly, the earlier chaos within him now refined into something colder… sharper.
More controlled.
But not gone.
No.
He was still out for blood.
And the unfortunate souls at Karkaroff Manor—
Were about to learn that the hard way.
With a flick of his fingers, the letter sealed itself and vanished into thin air.
"Dobby," he called.
The house-elf appeared instantly. "Yes, Master."
"Get me some food," Abarax said calmly, though there was an edge beneath it. "I'm going to need the energy."
Dobby bowed quickly and disappeared.
Abarax leaned back in his chair, eyes dark, calculating.
Two hours.
That was all it would take—
For a meeting that might very well decide the direction of an entire war.
And perhaps…
Give him exactly what he needed.
An outlet.