At the Potter mansion...
Dorea and Charles sat in the sunlit drawing room, porcelain cups warm between their hands, steam curling lazily into the air. Across from them were Fleamont Potter and his wife Euphemia, the afternoon unfolding with the deceptive calm of old families pretending the past had not sharpened their edges.Charles was older than Fleamont—older not just in years, but in experience. He had lived through Grindelwald's war, seen ideals burn and men harden.
Though born of a branch family, the Potter magic itself had chosen him as Lord of the House, accepting him in a way lineage alone never could. Fleamont had never begrudged him that. Politics and power had never tempted him; he preferred his laboratories, his potions, his experiments that exploded far more often than they succeeded.
What had troubled Fleamont was watching what that power had done to his brother.He had seen how the weight of leadership could strip warmth from a man, how war could carve cold lines into someone who had once laughed easily. Charles had survived because of Dorea—because she anchored him, understood him, loved him fiercely enough to keep him human.
After their parents' deaths, it had been Charles who raised Fleamont, and Dorea who became family long before she ever wore the Potter name.
"So," Fleamont drawled, breaking the comfortable silence, "what was this family meeting about, exactly—after years of being called a blood traitor?"
Euphemia smacked him without missing a beat.
Charles merely turned to his wife, lifting an eyebrow in quiet expectation. Wizards who honed their magic long enough aged slowly; though old by Muggle standards, Charles still carried himself with unbent authority. He had already guessed the meeting had gone well—there was a spark in Dorea's eyes, and she had returned later than promised, notably unbloodied.
"I told you," Dorea said calmly, sipping her tea, "my cousin has a good head on his shoulders. With him back and taking the reins, I'm not worried about my family anymore."
She smiled faintly."And I saw my little brother, Marius. Merlin, he's grown."
"But wasn't he a Squib?" Euphemia asked before she could stop herself. "Cast out?"
Regret flashed across her face immediately, but Dorea waved it off with an easy grace.
"We Blacks always protect our own," she replied. "There are just… bad weeds sometimes. They need to be pulled out."
She sliced into an apple with such precise, deliberate motion that Fleamont felt a chill run down his spine. Charles watched her with unmistakable adoration, while Euphemia briefly wondered—again—why witches even bothered with wands.
"And now," Dorea continued lightly, "Orion has finally emerged from whatever fog he was in. He'll finish what needs doing." She turned to Charles, biting into the apple. "Oh—and my brother is coming to visit tomorrow."
Charles studied her lips for a long moment before replying evenly,"Of course, love."
Her smile widened.
She then turned to Fleamont and Euphemia."Word of advice—he's rather gun-happy. And a little mad. Even as a child."
"Ah yes," Fleamont said dryly, "the famous Black madness."
Another smack from Euphemia.
"Brother," Fleamont continued undeterred, gesturing vaguely between Charles and Dorea, "that is revolting. If you insist on wooing—or being wooed—by your wife, please spare me."
Charles smirked."You're just upset you're not getting any action."
Fleamont turned scarlet.
Before he could protest, Dorea added smoothly,"A woman needs to be wooed. Even after marriage." She turned to Euphemia with a conspiratorial smile. "If he can't manage, love, I could always find you a nice young man. You are still stunning."
"STOP TRYING TO RUIN MY MARRIAGE," Fleamont shouted, clutching Euphemia protectively.
Euphemia only laughed.
"Blacks are excellent lovers, Fleamont," Dorea said serenely.
Charles sipped his tea, utterly pleased.
*****
Orion Black sat alone in the vast library of the Black family mansion in France, surrounded by towering shelves heavy with centuries of magic and expectation. Ancient tomes lay open around him, their pages filled with half-forgotten theories—dimensional fractures, unstable planes, ritual crossings—anything that might help him understand the rip, anything that might lead him back to his wife… and her sister.
He had been searching for hours. Days, perhaps. Time had begun to blur.
He was not thrilled about the fact that help would have to come from his in-laws.
The letter—yes, it bore the Rathore family crest, unmistakable in its authority—but it didn't feel like his brother-in-law's hand. That was not Rajveer's way. Did you really know your mother? The line echoed again in his head, sharp and almost childish in its cruelty. No. That message had not been written by him. Someone else in the family had sent it, someone who knew exactly where to strike.
But what choice did he have?
Malfoy had already sent word. The Rathores had been contacted. At the very least, Orion would have to show his face—and likely his sons' as well. After all, that had always been the heart of the matter. The children were half Rathore.
And the Rathores were right to be concerned.
Orion swallowed hard.
He hadn't been able to take care of them. Not properly. Not the way they deserved. His grief, his obsession, his failures—they had seeped into everything. If he were honest, painfully honest, he knew the truth: he hadn't treated his sons well, nor raised them well. He had been present in body alone.
What terrified him more than facing the Rathores was facing his wife—if she ever stood before him again. What would she say? What would she think of the man he had become?
Perhaps he was selfish. Perhaps a coward.
More than once, he had wished to go back in time and reset everything—to make different choices, say different words. He could do it. Theoretically. But time magic never came without consequence, and Orion Black had seen enough ruined timelines to know better than to open that particular door.
With a weary sigh, he flicked his wrist. The books he had gathered floated back to their shelves, closing themselves as though offended by his desperation.
"Well," he muttered to the empty room, sinking onto the couch in the center of the library, "it seems there's nothing here that can help us."
Defeat settled heavy in his chest.
He leaned back, staring into nothing, wishing—desperately—that his wife might appear before him through the same impossible magic that had taken her away. That the universe might show him mercy, just once.
The firelight casting long shadows across the library as his mind drifted backward—
—to the moment it had all gone wrong.