In an unnamed, shadowy mansion belonging to the Carrows, a long, dark table stretched the length of the room, its surface polished like glass. Flickering candles cast an eerie glow across the gathering, illuminating a series of cloaked figures seated before their lord. This was a time when the Dark Lord had only just begun his rise to power, and not all of the noble dark houses had yet pledged their allegiance.
Lord Voldemort's red eyes glittered with a dangerous light as he leaned forward, his gaze resting icily on the head of the Avery family, whose nervousness was palpable. Voldemort's fingers twitched, his grip on Avery's mind tightening with a subtle, terrifying ease.
"Tell me, Avery," Voldemort drawled, his voice as smooth as silk yet laced with venom, "if you were merely a classmate, a passing face in the corridors, why would you support someone's political stance?" His words dripped with disdain as he held Avery in his thrall.
Avery stammered, clearly struggling to form a coherent answer. "I-I don't know, my lord. I thought… I thought the Malfoys and the Blacks were rivals."
"So you *thought*, did you?" Voldemort's voice dropped, cold and sinister. "*Crucio!*"
Avery's body contorted as the curse hit him, his screams piercing the heavy silence of the room. Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he watched Avery writhe in pain, making no effort to raise his voice. His power was felt not in shouts or threats, but in his very presence, in the dark mark burning on each follower's arm, a searing reminder of his dominance.
"We are the Death Eaters, not some band of fools blundering about without a plan," Voldemort said quietly, releasing Avery from the spell. He turned his gaze to the rest of the gathering, who watched in silence, the dark mark tingling on their arms as a warning. "And what's more, it appears some think to insult me." He let his power speak, dark magic rippling through the room, each follower feeling its chilling pressure as if it were wrapping around their throats.
"Karkaroff," Voldemort said sharply, shifting his gaze. "Perhaps you can enlighten us. Tell me, what is it the Black family primarily deals in?"
Igor Karkaroff, seated a few chairs down, straightened at the address, eager to please. "My lord, the Black family deals mainly in information trade. They have powerful connections in France, where their origins lie, and a number of political ties. They command influence through their extensive networks, though their magic leans more towards what some call 'death magic.' The Blacks have connections with most of the noble houses, either through marriages or blood feuds, though their feuds are always short-lived… and they emerge as victors."
Voldemort allowed himself a small, cold smile. "You never disappoint, Karkaroff. But tell me, my dear Avery"—his gaze swung back to the pale, trembling man—"how is it that one from Europe knows more about Britain's own political structure than a man born and raised here?"
Avery attempted a response, but Voldemort's expression darkened as he cut him off with a flick of his wand. A wordless curse struck Avery, shattering the bones in his leg, the sickening crack filling the room as he fell to the floor, gasping in pain.
Voldemort looked away from Avery, dismissing him entirely. His gaze fell on Dolohov, his expression growing thoughtful. "So, Dolohov, what do you make of the Malfoys and Blacks aligning themselves with the neutral faction?"
Dolohov cleared his throat, his tone respectful and wary. "My lord, by shifting to the neutral faction, the Malfoys and Blacks have made it the most powerful faction in Britain. Traditionally ignored, the neutral faction has now become a refuge, attracting both dark and light families. It has no single leader but instead consists of families with strength in their own right. Those looking for shelter are like birds seeking refuge from the storm."
Voldemort nodded, his mind clearly working through Dolohov's words. Then Carrow spoke up, his tone sycophantic. "The Malfoys are known to be… very wealthy, my lord. Wealthy enough to buy even the Minister, some say. The neutral faction now holds immense power."
Voldemort tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze calculating. "So, it seems we cannot afford a direct confrontation with them just yet."
"But, my lord," Avery spoke up, gasping through the pain of his broken leg, "you must demonstrate your power. If you hesitate, people will think you fear the Blacks and Malfoys. They won't respect us, and they won't fear us."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "Avery, do you think I need a show of power? If you want to dominate the world, you do so by gathering powerful allies, not simply cowing your enemies." He rose from his chair, his voice lowering to a chilling whisper. "It's time to pay a visit to our dear Walburga Black."
His followers nodded in submission, eyes averted, as Voldemort shifted the meeting's focus to a planned raid on a nearby Muggle village.
*****
"So what exactly are you expecting to find, Orion?" Abrax finally asked, voice low but steady as he wandered deeper into the room.
His steps slowed in front of a photograph hanging neatly on the wall. His gaze softened—almost painfully—at the image. It was their seventh year. He and Orion sat in this very room, younger, reckless, and full of things they never questioned.
On Orion's lap was Vishaka—regal in an emerald saree, looking every bit as untouchable as she had been. She was laughing—head thrown back, joy brighter than the fairy lights floating behind them.
Next to them, Abrax stood with a scowl in a violently loud pink robe, the result of a lost bet. His partner, Meenakshi, sat nearby on the couch laughing at him so hard she was wiping tears. He remembered how she had insisted they take that picture.
"For memories," she'd said.At the time, he'd rolled his eyes.
Now he would burn entire worlds just to protect that single frozen moment.
Orion was across the room, running his fingers along a shelf of well-worn books. Vishaka's books. Romance, poetry, soft things he had mocked—but she had adored.
He picked one up slowly.A simple story—two neighbors falling in love.
No tragedy.No destiny.Just peace.
She'd carried it everywhere because it was what she wanted for them—quiet, ordinary, contentment.
His thumb brushed across the worn spine… then froze.
Inside the book—ink.
Handwriting.
Vishaka's handwriting.
"Abrax," Orion said quietly, voice tight with something he refused to name."You need to see this."
Abrax crossed the room, more irritated than curious."It's just a book she carried around. You gave her dozens. What could possibly—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because the writing shouldn't have been there.
Not anymore.
For years—letters, notes, journals—anything tied to Vishaka or Meenakshi had turned blank. Their belongings became hollow. Their photographs washed into empty parchment. Their existence unspooled—like someone was rewriting reality without them in it.
Only memories remained—and soon even those began to fade.
Abrax swallowed.
"Everything disappeared after that incident," Orion said quietly. "Anything connected to them—gone. But now…" He turned the page, fingers trembling—not visibly, but enough for Abrax to notice.
His voice dropped.
"Things are returning."
Abrax stared at him."People questioned whether they ever existed because there was no proof left."
"Exactly," Orion murmured. "But recently—things have been appearing again."
He nodded toward the room.
Photos reformed.Books regained handwriting.Personal items—once erased—were back in place.
"This room shouldn't exist anymore," Orion whispered. "But it does."
Abrax slowly sat on the couch, letting the weight of the realization sink in. Then—without warning—a slow grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"The curse is lifting."
Orion exhaled—almost a laugh, almost disbelief—and sat beside him.
"For whatever reason… yes."
Silence hung between them, heavy and electric.
Then Abrax stood abruptly—alive in a way he hadn't been in years."Then we can't waste time. If the curse is unraveling, this is our chance—our only chance—to bring them back."
Orion laughed under his breath—dark, unhinged relief cracking through his usual cold composure.
Abrax was practically bouncing now. "Do you understand what this means? We can get them back. Everything—everything—could finally be right again!"
Orion raised his hand, conjuring two glasses of firewhisky with a flick of his wand.
"Calm yourself," he murmured. "This wasn't a simple curse. If we rush this—"
"Oh, shut up," Abrax cut in, grabbing his glass. "Even if we die trying, it's worth celebrating."
Orion's lips twitched."Fine."
They clinked their glasses—quiet, deliberate, binding.
Firewhisky burned warm through their veins.
They drank in silence—two war-hardened men sitting in a room that shouldn't exist, staring at memories that shouldn't remain.
Not hope.
Not chance.
A promise.
They would bring them back—no matter the cost.