The Karkaroff mansion was anything but quaint.
It stood tall and imposing—majestic in a way that felt cold rather than welcoming, its beauty sharp and unforgiving, much like the Russian winters it seemed to embody. The architecture carried the weight of Slavic heritage, every stone speaking of endurance, of survival.
At the entrance hung the proud crest of the Karkaroff family—a serpent coiled around a willow, symbolizing their devotion to the underworld deity Veles. It was bold, unapologetic, meant to be seen.
Not as grand as the Malfoy Manor. Not as ancient as the Black estate.
But enough.
Enough to command respect.
Enough to remind anyone who stood before it that this was not a family to be dismissed lightly.
Which only made Abarax's question sharper.
*Why, in the name of Lady Magic… would Karkaroff align himself with that charlatan?*
He exhaled softly.
Another sigh.
He had been doing that far too often lately.
*Careful,* he reminded himself. *You still have a reputation to maintain.*
After all, he intended to look his best when he saw Meena again.
With that thought grounding him, Abarax stepped forward just as the gates opened.
Waiting beyond them stood the matriarch of the house—a tall, poised woman, elegance etched into every line of her posture. She carried herself like someone who had turned down countless suitors in her youth and regretted none of it.
Beside her stood her son—Igor Karkaroff.
And if his rigid stance was anything to go by, he would rather be anywhere else.
"It's been a long time, Lady Karkaroff," Abarax said smoothly, stepping forward. "I must admit—it has been quite dreadful, missing your lovely company."
He took her hand and pressed a polite kiss against it.
The matriarch let out a soft, amused sigh, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Ah, Lord Malfoy. Ever the charmer—even with an old woman."
"Come now, my lady," Abarax replied easily. "You still look like you have a line of suitors waiting at your door."
Only then did he turn to Igor.
And in that single glance—
The air shifted.
The faint amusement in Abarax's expression didn't reach his eyes.
They were cold.
Hungry.
And unmistakably dangerous.
Igor felt it immediately.
He was no stranger to danger—he *was* a dangerous man, after all. A Death Eater. Someone who had stood in the presence of darkness itself.
And yet—
There was something about Abarax Malfoy that unsettled him far more than he cared to admit.
With effort, Igor forced a polite smile and dipped his head slightly.
"Welcome to our humble abode, Lord Malfoy. Please… come in."
Abarax's smile returned—pleasant, practiced.
"Magnificent, Lord Karkaroff. There is nothing humble about this place. It is… fascinating. My lady, you truly have exquisite taste."
"Oh, please," she replied lightly. "I have heard far more impressive things about Malfoy Manor. I doubt ours could compare."
With that exchange of refined flattery, they stepped inside.
"I hope my son hasn't caused you any trouble, my lord, for you to visit in person?" the matriarch asked, her tone calm—but direct.
Abarax smiled again as the heavy doors shut behind them with a low, echoing thud.
The wind outside howled faintly, as though aware that something far less pleasant than a simple visit was unfolding within.
"Nothing so troublesome, my lady," Abarax replied smoothly. "Merely a conversation better held in person. After all, one must show proper respect to those who seek assistance."
His gaze slid toward Igor.
Sharp.
Knowing.
Unforgiving.
Igor felt it like a blade against his throat.
"Of course," Igor said quickly. "Thank you for coming, my lord. Mother, we will continue from here. You may retire."
The matriarch hesitated.
Her eyes moved from her son… to Abarax.
And in that moment, she understood.
This was not a social visit.
Not even close.
She had seen the way Igor had panicked after seeing that letter—how he had quietly stationed nearly a dozen skilled wizards throughout the estate.
Precautions.
Desperate ones.
And now, standing before Abarax Malfoy, she realized just how necessary they might be.
Or how useless.
Still—
What choice did she have?
She only hoped—*prayed*—that this encounter would be enough to shake sense into her son. Enough to make him step away from whatever war he was walking into.
Because she did not know the full extent of his involvement.
But she knew one thing.
If this went wrong—
Her son might not leave this room alive.
With a final glance at Igor, she inclined her head toward Abarax.
"It was a pleasure seeing you again, my lord."
"And you, my lady," he replied with effortless grace.
Then she turned—
And left them alone.
The moment the doors closed behind her—
The warmth left the room entirely.
"Shall we continue this in the study, my lord?" Igor asked.
Abarax gave a small nod. "Of course."
The moment they stepped inside, the last threads of civility began to slip from Abarax's demeanor. He was done playing the polite guest.
"Take a seat, my lord," Igor said, pouring him a drink.
Abarax leaned back comfortably, accepting the glass. He swirled the liquid once before taking a slow sip.
"You know, Igor," he said casually, "I am more of a Scotch man."
Igor stiffened slightly. "I didn't know, my lord. Shall I—"
"No, no," Abarax cut him off smoothly. "It's good to… change tastes once in a while."
Igor sat down across from him, clearly unsettled. His fingers tapped once against the armrest before he stilled them, trying to gather his thoughts. But under Abarax's gaze—sharp, dissecting, almost amused—it felt like sitting before a predator that had already decided how this would end.
"You could start," Abarax said lazily, "by telling me what exactly your *dark lord* hopes to achieve."
Igor inhaled slowly. "Our lord seeks to restore the glory of the wizarding world. We have hidden long enough. It is time we reclaim our rightful place. Magical blood is being diluted, wasted—"
"Mudbloods," he added, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.
Abarax's brow arched.
Igor faltered.
"…continue," Abarax said, voice calm but edged with something colder.
"They need to answer," Igor pressed on, though less confidently now. "For the witch hunts… the killings… the fear they forced upon our kind."
"And you intend to correct that," Abarax asked mildly, "by spilling more magical blood?"
Igor hesitated. "That… would be collateral. They are not pure—"
"Listen to yourself," Abarax interrupted, setting the glass down with a soft *clink*. "You want a world where magical blood is protected… and your method is to destroy it."
Igor clenched his jaw. "They could live—if they support our lord."
Abarax leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"So now it is not protection. It is *coercion*."
Silence stretched between them.
Igor shifted. "There must be order, my lord. Discipline. Freedom without control leads to chaos."
"And you believe fear is control," Abarax said softly.
Igor didn't answer.
Abarax leaned back again, crossing one leg over the other with effortless grace.
"Tell me," he continued, almost conversationally, "has the entire Slavic magical community agreed to this… vision?"
Igor hesitated—and that hesitation said everything.
Abarax smiled faintly.
"There it is," he murmured. "The flaw."
Igor stayed silent.
"You underestimate the Muggles," Abarax went on, voice sharpening. "Do you truly believe they are still burning witches with torches? They have weapons now that could erase entire cities in moments. One mistake—*one*—and we are not reclaiming dominance, we are inviting extinction."
Igor's grip tightened on his glass.
"And second," Abarax continued, "no noble house with even a shred of dignity is going to kneel before a 'dark lord' with no verifiable history."
"Our lord is the heir of Salazar Slytherin—"
"So?" Abarax cut in, almost bored. "Do you think lineage alone commands loyalty? The Blacks and the Malfoys have histories that span centuries beyond that claim. And even then—we *earn* our standing. It is not handed to us because we shout ancestry loudly enough."
Igor had no answer.
"What your lord is doing," Abarax said, voice dropping, "is not revolution. It is noise. Messy, reckless noise."
A long silence followed.
Then Abarax tilted his head slightly.
"Does he know about this meeting?"
Igor exhaled, shoulders sagging just a fraction. "No, my lord. This was… my initiative. He was against it."
Abarax studied him for a moment—really studied him.
"You are not a good man, Igor," he said finally.
Igor flinched.
"But you are not evil either."
That surprised him.
"You have a good mother," Abarax added quietly. "That is the only reason you are still sitting here."
Igor's throat went dry.
"And yet," Abarax continued, gaze dropping briefly to Igor's arm before returning to his face, "you've already marked yourself as someone else's possession."
Igor froze.
Panic flickered in his eyes.
"How—"
He didn't finish.
Because in that moment, instinct overrode reason.
The pressure in the room, the weight of Abarax's presence, the way every word felt like it peeled him apart layer by layer—
He broke.
A silent signal slipped through the wards.
A call for help.
Abarax saw it.
And then—
He smiled.
Slow. Wide. Terrifying.
"My, my, Igor…" he said, almost delighted. "That was *beautiful*."
His eyes gleamed with something dark and eager.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to break."