Dining room of 12 Grimmauld Place.
The air smelled of fried eggs and the grease of smoked bacon.
Orion sat at the head of the table, the Daily Prophet spread open in his hands, scanning a brief report on page three about new Ministry of Magic regulations for reviewing Dark artifacts.
Walburga sat opposite him, prodding the fried egg on her plate with a silver fork, dissatisfied.
"The yolk is overdone, Kreacher." Her voice carried too clearly in the cavernous dining room. "I said runny. Do you understand what runny means?"
From the fireplace end of the table, Sirius smacked his lips, loud and deliberate.
He'd sunk deep into a high-backed chair, wearing a black Muggle band T-shirt printed with a long-haired man screaming into a microphone. His plate sat untouched. The only thing moving was the tip of his fork, scraping back and forth along the rim of his porcelain plate in a persistent, piercing whine.
Regulus sat on the opposite side of the long table, as far from the fireplace as possible.
His plate was clean. The eggs and bacon were gone, with only half a slice of toast remaining. Hands resting on the table's edge, posture straight, gaze settled on the empty plate before him.
His mind was on the Cornwall Herb Garden itinerary.
Orion had mentioned that morning that the local groundskeeper had been notified and could receive him at any time. He planned to leave after lunch, Apparating directly to the plantation.
Then the flames in the fireplace surged.
Orange-red turned ink-green, roaring up to the top of the mantel. Sparks scattered onto the carpet and burned small black holes into the weave.
Orion set down the newspaper.
Walburga looked up, fork frozen in midair.
Sirius stopped scraping.
Regulus's gaze sharpened in an instant. His right hand dropped casually to his side, within reach of his wand.
A figure stepped out of the flames, the motion crisp and assured.
Bellatrix Black.
She hadn't yet taken her husband's name. She knew the address of the ancestral home and had come through the Blacks' private Floo connection.
Without so much as sending word ahead.
She steadied herself and tossed her head. Deep black curls fanned out, a few strands clinging to her temples. Fatigue from a long journey lined her face, but her eyes burned, bright to the point of alarm, the searing glare of someone riding the peak of some fierce exhilaration.
"Bella!" Walburga shot to her feet, the napkin slipping from her lap unnoticed. She opened her arms, voice pitching high with surprise. "My dear child! How did you..."
Bellatrix embraced her, quick and perfunctory, then turned to Orion. The corner of her mouth pulled into something that didn't quite qualify as a smile.
"Uncle."
Orion regarded her in silence, offering only the faintest nod.
His gaze dropped to the hem of her cloak. A small stain there, dark reddish-brown. It could have been dried blood. It could have been the residue of some potion.
Sirius snorted through his nose and leaned back. The chair legs scraped against the floor with a sharp screech. Arms folded, his face broadcasting a single unmistakable sentiment: What rotten luck.
Bellatrix didn't look at him. She hadn't spared Sirius a single glance since arriving, as though he ranked somewhere below a house-elf.
She walked straight to Regulus. Close enough that he caught her scent: something metallic and scorched, hot and raw.
"Regulus." Her voice came out hoarse, but the pitch ran high. "My dear cousin."
Regulus looked up, surprise and courtesy arranged on his face.
He didn't stand. He shifted his posture slightly, drawing his back away from the chair to signal attentiveness.
"Cousin." A trace of warmth entered his voice. "I wasn't expecting you. Have you eaten? Should I have Kreacher..."
"No need." Bellatrix cut him off. Her smile twisted into something unsettling, the corners of her mouth climbing too high, tugging at the muscles near her eyes until they twitched. "I'm not here for breakfast."
She reached inside her cloak. The motion was slow, deliberate, savoring some private sense of ceremony.
The dining room went silent. Only the occasional pop and crack of the fireplace broke the quiet.
What Bellatrix produced was a box. The material looked, at first glance, like bone.
Roughly rectangular, about the size of a grown man's palm. The surface bore a natural, uneven texture that had been overlaid with intricate carving. Runes covered every face, belonging to no such thing Regulus recognized. The incised lines were filled with a dark gold substance that caught the light, but the sheen was warped and grotesque.
The moment the box appeared, the temperature in the room plunged.
The fireplace flames shrank, their color shifting from orange to a sullen, bruised red, as if something had drained the heat from the air. Several silver utensils on the long table vibrated simultaneously, producing a thin, high-frequency hum.
Walburga gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
Sirius's slouch vanished. He sat rigid, eyes locked on the bone box.
Orion's brow creased, no longer bothering to mask it.
Regulus let his gaze settle on the box for a moment, then shifted it back to Bellatrix's face.
His expression hadn't changed, but his magical perception had already spread wide.
The feedback was chaotic.
Intense soul-level fluctuations, fractured and distorted, like countless voices screaming at once through hands clamped over their mouths.
The concentration of Dark-aligned magic was abnormally high, and it carried an unmistakable guiding quality.
The internal structure was complex: at least seven nested layers of magical protection, and the core was completely shielded from detection.
"The Dark Lord has heard about what you did at Hogwarts." Bellatrix dropped her voice, yet every word seemed designed to ignite. "Defending the dignity of the Blacks, silencing discordant voices. He believes you've demonstrated potential far beyond your age."
Her eyes bored into his. "And the right inclinations."
Regulus said nothing. He tilted his head slightly, the posture of someone listening.
Bellatrix pushed the bone box forward, nearly pressing it against his chest.
"This is a distillation of knowledge he recovered in his youth, during his travels across the world, salvaged from the ruins of an ancient curse site."
She licked her lips, eyes bright enough to unnerve. "It's called a Dark Awakening."
The dining room fell so quiet that Walburga's rapid breathing became audible.
"Dark Awakening?" Regulus repeated the words, caution and confusion woven through his tone. "Cousin, I'm not sure I understand..."
"It has no fixed incantation. No standard wand movement." Bellatrix cut in, speaking faster now. "It's a seed. A seed of Dark magic. You touch it, and it resonates with your soul, your memories, your power. Then it shows you a path."
"A path?"
"To true power." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, breath warm against his face. "It will show you possibilities that mundane morality and cowardly convention have kept hidden. How to convert suffering into magic more efficiently. How to make a curse perpetuate through a bloodline. How to distill pure strength from despair."
She watched his face, reading every micro-expression.
"There's a price, of course. Those whose will is too weak are consumed. They drown in the illusion of strength until their minds shatter, or..." Bellatrix smiled, teeth showing. "They're devoured entirely by the Dark, reduced to creatures that know nothing but the chase for power. The Dark Lord says this gift is meant only for those brave enough to stare into the darkness and confident enough to bring power back from it."
Regulus fell silent.
His gaze returned to the bone box, lingering longer this time.
He could feel the magic inside actively reaching for him, coaxing.
Then he looked up at Bellatrix, and what appeared on his face was exactly what a boy his age should show: awe tempered by hesitation.
"Cousin, please convey my gratitude to the Dark Lord for his generosity." He slowed his words, threading in a note of reluctance. "It's only that such a profound magical artifact... I worry my knowledge isn't sufficient. If I were to engage with it recklessly, without the proper understanding, I'd not only waste this gift but risk disgracing the Dark Lord's goodwill through my own inadequacy."
The smile on Bellatrix's face froze for a heartbeat.
Then it returned, sharper now.
"Afraid?" She stepped closer. The bone box hovered inches from his chin. "My dear Regulus, what are you afraid of? The power? Or the Dark Lord's expectations?"
He leaned back slightly, avoiding direct contact with the box, eyes lowered. "I only believe that a gift this precious deserves a measure of reverence and..."
"Reverence?" Her voice spiked. "The Dark Lord offers you the chance to touch real power and you talk about reverence? Regulus, you're twelve, not two. The heir of the House of Black should not be this timid."
Walburga could hold back no longer.
"Regulus!" Her voice shook, caught between excitement and nerves. "Take it! This is an honor! The Dark Lord thinks you worthy!"