"I… found more photographs," Sirius began, voice softer than his usual swagger. "Never knew you had a past like that, Father."
Regulus quietly joined him on the couch, sitting close enough to make it clear he wanted answers too.
Orion stood from his desk, lifting the framed wedding photo as though it were something fragile. Something living.
"It's been years since I last saw this," he murmured.
Regulus frowned. "What do you mean? It looks like it's always been here—and you've clearly spent a lot of time in this place."
Orion blinked—then froze.
"…Wait. What do you mean you found photos?" His gaze sharpened. "Where exactly did you find them?"
Sirius cleared his throat.
"Slughorn's office. In one of his cabinets."
"And what, exactly, were you doing rifling through his cabinets?" Orion's tone was flat—not angry, just knowing. He sat opposite them, loosening his cuffs and unbuttoning his collar with a tired sigh. A flick of his fingers summoned butterbeer for the boys and whiskey for himself.
"What did you do to earn detention, son?"
Sirius lifted both hands defensively. "Not me this time. James. They were told to clean the cabinets and found the photos in an old album."
A relieved grin slipped through—one Orion didn't miss.
"Hm." Orion took a sip. "Do you still have them?"
"I do," Regulus said immediately.
And for a heartbeat—his mask slipped.
Regulus wasn't holding those photos because he was curious.
He was holding them because he was hoping.Hoping the woman with the warm eyes—the one whose smile felt like sunlight—could be his.
Not Walburga.Not coldness.Not duty masquerading as parenthood.
Just… a mother.
He passed the photographs to Orion.
Orion looked at them—and something changed in his expression. The sharp edges softened. His eyes warmed. A small, private smile formed—one neither son had ever witnessed.
Sirius hesitated before speaking.
"Well… we want answers."
The words snapped Orion back. He placed the photographs on the low table with deliberate care.
"She is Vishaka," he said quietly. "Vishaka Orion Black. She was—is—my wife. Your mother."
Both Sirius and Regulus froze.
"And I will bring her back," Orion murmured. His voice was soft—yet there was something dangerous beneath it. A spark of the infamous Black madness. The kind whispered about in pureblood circles.
An unmistakable reminder:
Power and insanity ran in their blood in equal measure.
Regulus swallowed. "…But the family tapestry says Walburga is—"
"She." Orion's voice cut across him—sharp, final. "Is. Not. Your. Mother."
Silence fell—thick and electric.
"I wasn't present to keep the house in order. And when I vanished, others took liberties they had no right to take." His jaw tightened. "All of this began because of that curse."
He leaned back, gaze distant—memory flickering behind his eyes.
"Your mother and her cousin, Meenakshi, crossed into our world through a rift. They weren't meant to be—not here, not this universe."
"Her maiden name is Rathore. And the Rathores… well they are known to walk between worlds. They always have. That could be one of the reasons they had stumbled upon here."
Sirius frowned. "But the Rathores—here—don't practice magic like us."
Orion stared at him.
"How do you know that?"
Sirius rubbed the back of his neck. "A few days ago, I got a letter. Crest of House Rathore. It asked me if I truly knew my mother."
Regulus's head snapped toward him, betrayed that he wasnt told about this.
"And it was delivered by a bloody eagle," Sirius added.
Orion let out a humorless laugh.
"Yes. That would be them."
His face darkened.
"They cut ties with me years ago. They believed… correctly, perhaps… that I failed to protect their jewel." His fingers brushed the wedding photo.
"They wanted to take the both of you. You carry Rathore blood—and that matters."
"So why didn't they?" Regulus asked quietly.
Orion's answer was immediate.
"Abarax."
He took another sip of whiskey.
"He convinced them I deserved another chance."
********
The moment Abarax returned from Hogwarts, he didn't bother removing his cloak or gloves. He moved through the marble halls like a man pursued—by memory, by fear, by hope he refused to acknowledge.
He reached his private chambers, shut the door with a flick of his wrist, and went straight to the tall glass cabinet he hadn't opened in eleven years.
His hand hovered.
For a heartbeat, he almost turned away.
Then—with a shaky breath he would never admit to—he opened it.
Inside, neatly folded, preserved under stasis charms, lay her clothes.Her perfume—jasmine and cardamom—escaped the charms like a ghost wrapping itself around him.
He clenched his jaw.
He could have summoned the box from the top shelf. Any other day, he would have. Precision and efficiency were practically his religion.
But right now?
His magic wouldn't respond.
So he reached—slow, reluctant, human—and lifted the small ornate wooden chest down. His hands trembled, betraying him.
He hated that.
Abarax Malfoy did not tremble.
Yet the lid felt heavier than any battle spell he had ever cast.
When he opened it—the first thing he saw was their wedding photograph.
Framed. Protected as if it were life itself.
A traditional Tamil wedding.
Not a European ballroom, not aristocratic marble halls—not the world he came from.
Hers.And he had agreed without hesitation.
Because in those days, he would have married her a thousand times if she asked.
In the photograph, he stood beside her wearing veshti and a white silk shirt—no wand, no robes, no aristocratic superiority. Just gold jewelry he would never have touched otherwise—neck piece, bracelet, a chain of jasmine flowers draped over his shoulders.
He looked unfamiliar.
Unmasked.
Almost… happy.
But all of that faded next to her.
Meenakshi.
She stood in a deep red Kanchipuram silk saree, woven with pure gold thread that caught light like liquid sunlight. The fabric hugged her frame with elegance and tradition, pleats falling perfectly, each fold precise—symbolic.
Her jewelry wasn't just decoration—it was heritage.A gleaming oddiyanam cinched her waist, intricate gold bangles stacked up her arms, delicate chains layered across her chest. A long gold necklace rested at her heart, while a shorter one adorned her collarbone like a blessing.
Gold anklets glittered around her feet, chiming softly with movement—bells so quiet only someone standing close enough would hear.
Her hair was braided thick and long, woven with jasmine flowers and temple jewelry, ending in a decorative kunjam—heavy, ornate, utterly breathtaking.
Red vermillion streaked her hair parting, bold and sacred along with her thaali which stood out amoung all of her jewelry.
Her nose ring—small but elegant—sparkled when she smiled.
And her eyes—
Merlin, those eyes.
Dark, warm, fiercely alive. A storm and a sanctuary at once. Lined with kohl, they held enough fire to burn the world—and enough softness to rebuild it.
She looked like a goddess carved from dusk and flame.
And in the photograph, she was laughing—leaning slightly toward him—her hand resting over his heart as if it belonged there.
Abarax traced her face with his thumb.
His throat tightened.
He shut his eyes.
For the first time in eleven years, the carefully reinforced walls around his heart cracked—not broken, not shattered, but cracked enough for memory to slip through.
"…Meenakshi," he breathed.
Half prayer.
Half curse.
All longing.
His knees hit the floor.
Tears—hot, uncontrolled, furious—fell onto the glass.
"My beautiful one."
His voice wasn't cold or sharp or calculating now.
It was broken.
Because he had tried to move forward.Tried to raise their son alone.Tried to be the lord the Malfoys needed.
But he had never stopped belonging to her.
And now—now that Orion had hope—something inside him finally snapped free.
He pressed the photograph against his forehead, eyes closing.
"If there is even the slightest chance—" his voice was barely audible, shaking with determination and grief,"—I will find you. I swear it on my name, my magic, and my soul."
The room stayed silent.
But the magic in the walls stirred.
As if listening.
As if waiting.