Astronomy Tower
"So," Lucius asked calmly as he took a seat on the chair Regulus had conjured long before his arrival, "what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
Regulus hesitated.
"Well… it's more a few questions," he said carefully. "They're personal. You don't have to answer if you're uncomfortable."
For a moment, Lucius studied him—really studied him. The stiffness in Regulus's posture, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, the crack in his otherwise flawless noble composure.
"It's fine, Regulus," Lucius replied evenly. "You may ask. I doubt it will offend me."
Regulus turned away, his gaze lifting to the pitch-black sky above them. The stars glittered coldly, indifferent to the turmoil beneath them. He opened his mouth—then closed it again.
No words came.
Instead, he reached into his robes.
Lucius frowned faintly as Regulus pulled out a small stack of photographs and held them out without explanation.
"What is this?" Lucius began—
Then he looked down.
The first photograph stole the breath from his lungs.
It was his father.
Abraxas Malfoy—young, impossibly handsome, dressed in deep emerald robes threaded with silver embroidery. His posture was relaxed, confident, effortless. The same aristocratic elegance Lucius himself was now called the Slytherin Prince for—only this version of his father looked… alive.
And smiling.
Not the measured, controlled curve Lucius knew—but a wide, genuine smile that lit his face. One Lucius had never seen before.
His arm was wrapped around a woman's waist.
Lucius's attention snapped to her—and for a heartbeat, the world tilted.
She was stunning.
Her eyes were lined in black, sharp and expressive. Her dark hair was braided intricately, woven with silver threads that glimmered as she moved. She leaned into his father naturally, comfortably, as though she belonged there—as though the space beside him had always been hers.
She was wearing a saree.
Lucius knew exactly what it was.
He had researched Tamil culture obsessively after realising that the language echoing through his dreams—through fractured memories and half-formed visions—was Tamil. The fabric in the photograph was the same green as his father's robes, adorned with delicate silver embroidery. Her jewellery was minimal, elegant, perfectly matched to his father's.
They looked—painfully—perfect.
At the bottom of the moving photograph, engraved faintly in gold, were the words:
Yule Ball
Lucius barely noticed Lord Black in the background, standing beside another woman, because something sharp and burning bloomed in his chest.
Pain.
It started as a dull ache—then surged violently, like something tearing itself free inside his skull.
His vision blurred.
His head throbbed as if invisible hands were driving knives straight through his temples. His heart raced, uneven and frantic. He lifted a hand to steady himself—
Warm liquid dripped onto the photograph.
Blood.
"N-no—Lucius—give them back—!" Regulus's voice broke through the haze, frantic now. He was shouting, trying to pull the photographs from Lucius's trembling grip.
Lucius couldn't hear him properly.
The pain was unbearable.
Memories—something—pressed violently against his mind, clawing, screaming to be let in. His knees buckled. Blood spilled freely from his nose now, splattering the stone floor.
The stars above seemed to fracture.
The tower spun.
And then—
Black.
Regulus stared at Lucius's crumpled form in horror.
Lucius lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his pale hair fanned around his head like spilled silver. Blood seeped not only from his nose now, but from his ears as well—thin, dark rivulets that made Regulus's stomach twist.
For a few stunned seconds, Regulus didn't move.
Then reality snapped back into place.
He needs a healer.
Madam Pomfrey.
The thought struck him hard, followed immediately by panic. What in Salazar's name was he supposed to tell her? That the Malfoy heir had collapsed after looking at an old photograph? That his body had reacted as if struck by a curse without a spell ever being cast?
But one thing was certain.
Lucius had recognised something.
Regulus had seen it—right at the moment Lucius's gaze had fallen on the woman in the photograph. The split second of shock, of something ancient and familiar crashing through his composure. That reaction hadn't been confusion.
It had been recognition.
His breath left him slowly.
So we weren't imagining it, he realised. She's real.
His mother was real.
And more than that—Regulus had just found a way forward. A way to uncover the truth without begging his father for answers or waiting for Sirius to stumble upon them first.
With a steadying breath, Regulus raised his wand and flicked it once.
"Mobilicorpus."
Lucius's body straightened gently, settling into a safer, flatter position on the stone floor. Regulus knelt beside him, his expression tightening as Lucius's fingers curled instinctively around the photographs—even unconscious, his grip was iron-strong.
Regulus hesitated only a moment.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, more to himself than to Lucius.
Carefully—but firmly—he pried the photographs from Lucius's hand. The resistance was surprising, almost unsettling, but eventually Lucius's fingers slackened.
Regulus slid the photographs back into his robes, his jaw setting with resolve.
I'll figure this out, he promised silently. Whatever this is… I won't let it stay buried.
Then, without another moment to spare, he turned, wand already raised, and set off toward the hospital wing—his mind racing with lies he could tell, truths he couldn't, and the dangerous path he had just stepped onto.
*******
With the Rathores…
Abarax and Orion stood as Rajveer and Janani approached them, Pavithra following a step behind her parents.
Janani moved first.
She lifted the aarti plate, the small flame dancing softly as she circled it before her brothers-in-law. Her movements were practiced, reverent. She placed a tilak upon their foreheads, her fingers lingering for just a heartbeat too long—as if blessing them might also protect what remained of them. Then she draped the garlands around their necks, jasmine and marigold heavy with fragrance and meaning.
Rajveer stood beside her, silent.
Once, this moment would have filled him with joy. Orion's visits had always meant Vishaka was with him—standing at his side, laughing softly, grounding Orion's sharp edges with her presence. Meera, too, had been family in every sense of the word, though never as close to Rajveer as Vishaka had been.
But Vishaka was not there now.
And her absence was a wound that never healed.
Rajveer's jaw tightened.
He remembered things no one else knew.
The Rathores were famed for dimensional travel—but the truth was far more complicated. Not everyone could do it. For most, the power lay dormant, never awakening. For a rare few, it surfaced early… violently.
Rajveer had been five.
Too young to understand what had happened when the world folded in on itself and spat him out into another reality. By Mahadev's grace—or cruel luck—he had landed in Vishaka's dimension.
He had been welcomed there as a Rathore, recognised by blood and magic alike.
And Vishaka—three years old then—had become his entire world.
He had grown up with her across dimensions. She had been there for everything. Through blood, war, loss, and power. Even through things he refused to think about now.
Tears burned his eyes.
If not for the curse…If not for that…
He could have found her again.
Janani's gaze shifted to Abarax, and pain flickered openly across her face. She remembered how Meera used to call her akka, how she would run into her arms and spin with laughter, bright and untouched by the darkness of their world.
Janani had sworn to protect that innocence.
The irony tasted bitter.
She had failed.
"Welcome, Orion. Welcome, Abarax," Rajveer said finally as they took their seats. His voice was calm—but it was the calm of a drawn blade. "This is your niece, Pavithra. Come, Pavithra. Greet your uncles."
Pavithra stepped forward.
She did not bow. She did not bend.
She folded her hands before them, her posture straight, her chin lifted—a princess acknowledging equals, offering respect without diminishing herself.
"Uncles," she said with a soft smile.
Rajveer nodded in approval. "Go. See to the preparations for tomorrow's pooja. Make sure rooms are prepared for your uncles' stay."
"Ji, Baba," Pavithra replied, inclining her head once before offering them one last graceful look and leaving the room.
The moment she was gone, the air shifted.
Abarax and Orion removed their garlands as Rajveer leaned forward.
"Now," he said, all civility stripped away, his voice sharp enough to draw blood, "let us stop pretending. What did you find?"
Janani placed a hand on his arm—a quiet warning.
Orion inhaled slowly and spoke.
He told them everything.
The rip.The forest.The crushing magic.The way it tried to erase them.
"And that is how we found it," Orion finished, his grey eyes storm-dark as he met Rajveer's gaze. "We need your help. You are the one born with the talent to cross dimensions—alternate realities. We couldn't pass through the rip without the magic trying to kill us."
Abarax leaned forward, his composure finally shattered.
"Please," he said hoarsely. "If there is any way—any protection, any method, anything—you can give us… I am begging you."
Gone was Lord Malfoy.
What remained was a husband, desperate and broken, yearning only to hold his wife again.
Rajveer exhaled slowly.
Janani tightened her grip on his arm, already knowing what he would say.
"Well," Rajveer began at last, his voice measured, dangerous, "there is a way."
Both men went still.
"But," he continued, eyes narrowing, "I cannot guarantee it will work. It has never been tried. It exists only in theory."
Silence fell heavy as fate itself seemed to listen.