Regulus didn’t answer right away. He was thinking too. What was real power?

The question wasn’t new. He came back to it often.

People called Dumbledore powerful. Grindelwald too. Voldemort most of all.

No single sentence sat ready in his mind, but something larger was taking shape. A framework. A way of seeing.

But for Sirius, he could share a piece.

"You think real power is about who you can beat, who you can protect, who you can scare off," Regulus said, his tone easy. "That’s not wrong. But it’s one part, not the whole."

Sirius stayed quiet, waiting for more.

"Do you know why you were able to leave the Black family?"

Sirius straightened up and turned, expression flaring. "I left on my own..."

"Did anyone come after you?" Regulus cut him off.

The words died in Sirius’s mouth.

Regulus glanced at him, didn’t press the point, and shifted direction. "You know why I took that bone box."

Sirius’s eyes dropped. He gave the faintest nod.

"Why was Voldemort able to do that?" Regulus continued. "He didn’t even have to show up, and I still made that choice."

Sirius’s lips moved. Nothing came out.

"Dumbledore’s the same," Regulus said. "He doesn’t have to show up either. He can make people choose what he wants them to choose."

Sirius said nothing.

"That’s power," Regulus said, voice level.

Sirius still didn’t speak. Regulus let the silence stand.

A long moment passed before Sirius finally opened his mouth, voice barely above a murmur. "You told me once. Try every kind of magic I could get my hands on. See where I improved fastest."

Regulus glanced sideways at him, then looked away.

"I found it," Sirius said. "Transfiguration."

A quiet "mm" from Regulus.

"McGonagall says I have form intuition. Says it’s a gift." Sirius’s tone went slightly awkward. "I’ve been practicing. Improving fast. You saw earlier."

"I saw," Regulus said. "Not bad."

One corner of Sirius’s mouth twitched upward, then pressed back down.

Another silence. When Sirius spoke again, his voice was deliberately casual, as though the thought had only just occurred to him. "That thing. Has it affected you?"

Regulus knew what he meant. "What do you think?"

Sirius looked up.

Regulus stood there, one hand on the railing, face blank. No trace of dark magic. No shadow of corruption, no creeping darkness. Nothing.

Sirius let out a small huff, mouth twisting to one side as he looked away. He could see it for himself. Regulus seemed fine.

Quiet settled between them again. Sirius cleared his throat. His tone loosened, though something stiff lingered underneath. "That thing you did in the office. What was that?"

Regulus gazed out the window, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Spatial Transfiguration."

"I know it’s Spatial Transfiguration. I mean, is it hard?"

Regulus turned to look at him. "What do you think?"

Sirius choked on that. His mouth opened, closed, and the expression on his face cycled from frustration to defiance to reluctant acceptance.

Regulus stopped deflecting, but didn’t answer the difficulty question either. "Learn Apparition first. Or catch a house-elf."

Sirius blinked. "Catch a house-elf? Those things Apparate faster than anyone. How would you even..."

Regulus didn’t tell him how. Catching one wasn’t the point. The point was whether you could perceive space.

"Spatial Transfiguration requires spatial perception. Apparition is the most basic entry point," he said. "As for catching a house-elf, that might be a bit much for you right now."

One corner of Sirius’s mouth spasmed. He wanted to argue but couldn’t find the angle.

He snorted and looked away.

The window alcove went quiet again.

Regulus pulled his hand from the railing and brushed nonexistent dust from his robes. "Time for dinner."

He turned and walked toward the corridor.

Sirius stood there a moment longer, then followed.

One ahead, one behind. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls. Near the top of the staircase, Sirius spoke. "Apparition. How old were you when you learned it?"

"Eleven."

Sirius’s stride hitched. Then he kept walking.

They descended the stairs and turned into the main corridor. Torches hung closer together here, their light stronger, painting the stone walls a warm yellow.

From somewhere ahead came the hum of the Great Hall, the clatter of cutlery threading through it, warm and alive.

---

The outskirts of Oxfordshire. Lestrange Manor.

Night had fallen, and the estate was anything but peaceful.

The dining room occupied the ground floor of the main building. Through the front entrance, down a corridor paved in dark stone, portraits lining both walls. The figures in them wore clothes from centuries past, expressions varied, eyes all trained toward the far end of the hall.

Bellatrix sat at one end of the table. Black curls fell past her shoulders, a few strands draped across her chest, making her skin look cold-pale by contrast.

She wore a dark green velvet robe, the collar edged in tarnished silver lace, buttons fastened all the way to the collarbone. The sleeves were fitted, the waist cinched tight. Her posture was precise, spine away from the chair back, left hand resting on the table, fingers long, nails painted a deep red.

Silver plates sat before her.

She cut a piece of meat, brought the fork to her lips, chewed three times, and swallowed.

Neither rushed nor slow. The sound of knife against plate was almost nonexistent.

Rodolphus sat at the opposite end. Before him sat Lamb Chops with roasted garlic and rosemary.

He stripped the meat from the bone with his knife, cut it into inch-square pieces, and ate them one by one.

His mouth stayed closed when he chewed. No sound at all.

His posture matched Bellatrix’s in its correctness but carried more stiffness, like someone wearing armor that didn’t quite fit.

The dining room was quiet. Knife and fork touching porcelain, thin and cold. No one spoke.

The full length of the table stretched between them. Candelabras, a vase, silver seasoning bottles lined up in a row like a border drawn down the middle.

A house-elf emerged from the shadows, moving slowly, body bent so low it was nearly parallel to the floor.

A dark brown tea cloth was wrapped around its frame, the edges frayed and worn, exposing thin arms and legs.

It reached Bellatrix’s chair and stopped, bowing even lower, the tip of its nose nearly touching the stone. Both hands rose above its head, holding a silver tray. On the tray sat a letter.

Its voice squeezed out of its throat, reedy and trembling. "Mistress... a letter..."

Bellatrix didn’t look at it. Her gaze stayed on her plate. She speared a piece of foie gras with her fork, placed it in her mouth, chewed twice, swallowed.

She picked up her napkin and dabbed at the corner of her lips. Slow, left to right. Then she folded the napkin and set it back on the table.

Only then did her hand extend to take the letter from the tray. The instant her fingers touched the paper, she recognized it.

This was the same sheet she’d sent out the night before.

Her expression shifted. Color drained from her face. Her lips pressed into a line, the corners pulling tight, eyelids lowering until her lashes hid whatever was behind them.

The house-elf was still prostrate on the floor, forehead against stone, its entire body trembling.

Bellatrix unfolded the letter.

The first thing she saw was a dark brown stain, dried, its edges curling into fine cracks. The color deepened in concentric rings from the center outward, the darkest point nearly black.

Her first thought was blood.

Her pupils contracted. Her fingertips froze on the paper for a beat, then she leaned in and sniffed. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Ketchup. Dried.

Her face went hard. She held the letter at a distance and read.

Two letters, written in dark red ketchup. A capital S and a capital O, no space between them.

After the two letters came a question mark. The dot at the bottom dragged long, pulling downward like a drop of ketchup about to drip but already dry.

SO?

Her fingers tightened on the paper. Her breathing grew rough.

---

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