Sirius stopped talking.
After that morning's breakfast, he didn't make a scene again.
No more scraping his knife and fork across the plate. No more parading that black T-shirt with the Muggle band logo in front of Walburga. No more firing back every time she praised pure-blood superiority with some quip about how pure-blood meant nothing.
He simply appeared at the table on time, ate, and left.
Like a volcano that had gone suddenly dormant, nothing left but the silent mass of the mountain itself.
Walburga didn't react. If anything, she seemed satisfied.
Regulus saw the way she looked at Sirius now. Just relief. The bone-deep contentment of someone who believed peace and quiet were her due.
As though the household had always been meant to run this way.
Orion said nothing either. He stayed silent, stayed busy. Family affairs, outside affairs.
Regulus knew what Sirius was thinking.
He watched those grey eyes, the ones that had always burned with anger, cool degree by degree. From blaze to ember, ember to ash.
Sirius didn't understand what had happened that morning.
Not a matter of intelligence. His mind worked fine. The problem was that it didn't work in that direction.
Sirius had watched Bellatrix step out of the fireplace, produce the bone box, heard her say it was a gift from the Dark Lord. He'd felt the ominous energy radiating off the thing.
His reaction boiled down to one word: evil.
Evil things should be refused.
But his version of refusal was shouting. Overturning the table. Wanting to smash the damned box and hurl the pieces back in Bellatrix's face.
He didn't even question whether that was the right approach.
Sirius's logic was breathtakingly simple.
Voldemort was evil. Evil men gave evil gifts. Why would Regulus accept a gift from an evil man?
Just refuse.
Say no.
Once you said no, you won.
What happened after the refusal? He never considered it. Or rather, he saw no reason to.
Regulus imagined posing the question: What if I had refused? What then?
Sirius would probably tip his chin up, flash that dismissive half-grin, and say, "What's the worst that happens? Bella kills you on the spot?"
That was how his mind worked.
As long as he stood on the right side, as long as what he did was just, consequences had no business existing. Or at least, no business being his to bear.
If they came anyway, the world was at fault. Not him.
At eleven, you could call that innocence. At twelve, naivety. And after that?
Sirius was fourteen.
Yet it would never occur to him to think through what Bellatrix's words actually meant. A gift from the Dark Lord. Voldemort personally taking interest in a pure-blood heir. In the current wizarding world, that meant something very specific.
It meant you'd been marked. Pulled into the line of sight.
Refusing the gift meant refusing Voldemort. Refusing Voldemort meant paying the price of refusal.
Could the House of Black afford that price?
Voldemort's influence had already seeped into the Ministry of Magic. His followers threaded through every pure-blood family. His power had been demonstrated again and again.
Refusal carried a cost. Maybe a business holding. Maybe a life. Maybe the entire family branded as uncooperative, subjected to unrelenting pressure and reprisal until they submitted or were destroyed.
None of this was visible to Sirius.
Regulus understood. His brother wasn't stupid. He was simple.
Simple enough to envy.
Simple enough to despair over.
Orion hadn't said a word, but Regulus could read what lived behind his father's eyes when they rested on Sirius. This eldest son no longer belonged in the House of Black.
Not today. But soon.
Orion had given up trying to teach him.
Son was still son. But the project of making Sirius comprehend how a pure-blood family survived? Abandoned. Some lessons, no matter how carefully broken down, how patiently explained, landed the same way every time: You're trying to brainwash me again.
When someone defines every attempt to help them see reality as manipulation, conversation ceases to exist.
So Orion chose silence.
Regulus knew the day wasn't far off.
Sirius would leave home at sixteen, sever ties with the family for good, and Walburga would burn his name off the tapestry.
Now Regulus wondered if there might be small shifts in the timeline. Because of him, it might come sooner.
But that was what he wanted. Sirius leaving the House of Black was better for everyone.
His brother's path was already chosen, and it led where Sirius himself wanted to go.
Dinner ended. Regulus rose, climbed the stairs, and pushed open his bedroom door.
He crossed to the desk, pulled open the drawer, and lifted out the rune-inscribed chest.
Orion had delivered it the same day. An old piece from the family vault, its interior and exterior carved with at least four nested layers of protective runes.
The bone box sat inside, sealed off from all contact with the outside world.
As for Voldemort's gift, Regulus felt no anger. No suppressed fury, no contempt he was choosing not to voice.
On a purely rational level, anger had never arisen.
Regulus had stopped carrying those expectations long ago.
Voldemort's probing, his recruitment, his corruption: all within the range of the anticipated. He hadn't spared a thought for Regulus's feelings when he'd sent the gift.
Regulus felt no outrage at the gesture. He simply confirmed that Voldemort was exactly what he'd believed him to be.
Confirmed the incompatibility between them.
That wasn't a bad thing. Confirmation was the prerequisite for response.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, a ledger stayed open. A line item recorded, to be settled later.
You did this to me. I'll return the favor.
He closed the drawer, stood, and walked to the window.
Regulus closed his eyes and checked the state of the containment chamber.
The virtual persona was still working.
Over the past few days, he'd done almost nothing else. Eating, sleeping, a little practice. The rest of his time went to observing it.
It had been studying the Dark Awakening for close to sixty hours straight without food, water, or rest, its mental expenditure replenished by Regulus at regular intervals.
The results were significant.
Fragments of dark knowledge transmitted through the filtration layer had been cataloged and organized.
More importantly, the contamination remained locked tight inside the quarantine zone.
Through the observation window, Regulus could see the virtual persona standing at the center of the room. Its magical signature had grown noticeably darker than a few days ago, the edges tinged with the corrosive shadow unique to the bone box.
But it was unaware of any of this. As far as it knew, it was simply researching something fascinating.
Regulus opened his eyes. The room was still quiet.
He glanced at the clock.
Voldemort had cost him nearly a week. Time to get the plan back on track.
---
Cornwall's mornings smelled of sea salt.
Regulus Apparated to a marked clearing on the outer edge of the plantation grounds.
The fog hadn't fully lifted. The air hung thick with moisture, and in the distance, the glass roofs of several greenhouses caught what little light there was.
"Young Mr. Black."
The voice came from behind and to his left. He turned. A short witch had already closed the distance.
Agnes.
She barely reached his shoulder. Stocky build, skin tanned, a scattering of pale freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.
Her grey-brown hair was cropped short and shoved carelessly behind her ears, a few damp strands clinging to her cheek where the dew had caught them.
She wore a sturdy cloth dress built for hard use, a battered leather apron over it. The apron's surface was blotched with dark water stains and smears of mud, dotted with a few small burn holes.
Her fingers were thick, the knuckles prominent, nails trimmed close. Ground into the nail beds were permanent traces of soil and plant sap that no amount of scrubbing would remove.
Regulus had seen hands like those at Hogwarts.
Professor Sprout carried the same dirt under her nails every time she came in from the greenhouses.
People who spent their lives working with magical plants all seemed to share a certain quality.
"Ms. Agnes," he said, inclining his head. "Apologies for the early hour."
"Early? I've been up since five." She waved off the politeness, the gesture loose and unhurried. "Greenhouses need watering at six. Half the fog's burned off by now, best light of the day.
Come on in. Main house is on the east side. I've set you up in the top-floor room, faces southeast. You can see the sea from there in the morning."
She turned and led the way, moving fast, her footsteps nearly soundless on the dirt path.