Chapter 8: Echoes of the Universe
Spring 1969. Regulus was eight years old.
The room on the east side of the third floor at 12 Grimmauld Place had been officially converted into his bedroom and study.
Orion had given him more space — an entire wall of bookshelves, a heavy oak desk, and an east-facing window.
But what Regulus wanted most right now was to get into the storage room buried deepest within the mansion.
That room sat at the end of the kitchen corridor, permanently locked. Walburga said it held nothing of value — relics of disowned family members, too awkward to destroy yet unfit for display.
Inside were the possessions of Alphard Black, sealed away in 1960.
Alphard — disowned a few years earlier for collecting Muggle objects and showing open sympathy toward Muggles. Regulus had only ever heard the name in Walburga's curses.
After years of study, Regulus had finally managed to dismantle the protective enchantments on the room's door — far more complex than a simple Unlocking Charm.
There were no magical artifacts inside. Only Muggle things — an old vacuum-tube radio, several issues of National Geographic dated 1950, a stack of copies of The Times, and a few hardcover notebooks.
It took him two days to repair the radio. When current flowed through it, the vacuum tubes emitted a warm amber glow and a gentle hiss of static emerged from the speaker. Regulus turned the tuning dial until a voice materialized from the noise.
"This is the BBC. Here is the news."
"NASA has announced that the Apollo 10 mission successfully completed a lunar orbit, making final preparations for a manned moon landing..."
Regulus sat behind his oak desk, his hand resting on the warm wooden casing of the radio, perfectly still.
The moon. Muggles were about to go to the moon.
Yet the vast majority of the wizarding world did not even know — or, if they did, did not care.
To them, the moon was merely a silver disc in the night sky, useful for calculating lunar phases when brewing potions, or as a romantic backdrop.
No one cared about the possibility of going there, because wizards had no need to go.
They had magic.
But could magic do it — genuine space travel?
Crossing a vacuum, withstanding radiation, surviving for extended periods?
He did not know. But he knew one thing: Muggles, using pure science and engineering, had achieved what wizards had never even attempted.
What wizards might not even be capable of.
Where were the limits of wizardkind?
'Muggles are breaking through boundaries we deem impossible. If magic and science were combined, perhaps even greater boundaries could be shattered.'
These thoughts he buried deep, yet they occupied a place of paramount importance.
July 20, 1969. Late at night.
Regulus was not asleep. He sat in the chair by the window, the old vacuum-tube radio in his hands.
The voice from the speaker crackled with static, but every word came through clearly.
"...Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."
A brief silence on the radio — then an eruption of cheers.
Regulus tightened his grip on the radio.
"Roger, Tranquility. We copy you on the ground. You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue down here. We're breathing again. Prepare for EVA."
Then came a long wait — instrument sounds, commands, occasional fragments of dialogue.
"...I'm at the foot of the ladder. The LM footpads are only depressed in the surface about one or two inches. Although the surface appears to be very, very fine-grained, almost like a powder. I'm going to step off the LM now."
A longer pause followed.
Regulus stood, walked to the window, and pushed it open. Warm summer night air rushed in, carrying London's distinctive scent of coal smoke and old brick.
He looked up. The moon hung overhead, nearly full, its silver light cold and constant.
The voice from the radio came again — clearer this time, and with greater force.
"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
Regulus stared at the moon — that silver disc, that instrument wizards used to time their potions, that romantic symbol from poetry. And at this very moment, two Muggles stood upon its surface.
Even knowing events as he did, Regulus felt a surge of awe.
Muggles — with their finite lifespans, fragile bodies, and hands devoid of magic — had reached the moon.
And wizards, who possessed the power to reshape reality, the ability to traverse space, lifespans potentially spanning centuries —
What were they doing?
Jockeying for power. Researching more effective ways to harm their own kind. Arguing over whose blood ran purer.
Cursing one another over the illusory dominion of one small island.
And he was caught in the midst of it.
At that thought, Regulus suddenly smiled. Since he had arrived in this world, he would naturally change things.
One evening near the end of August, Regulus found Orion in the study. His father was reviewing documents — the atmosphere at the Ministry had grown increasingly tense lately, as Death Eater activity shifted from covert to semi-open.
"Father, a question."
Orion set down his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Go on."
"How high can a wizard fly?"
The question was sudden, even absurd. Orion blinked. "Depends on the method.
The broomstick altitude record is about fifteen thousand feet. Any higher and the air grows too thin to breathe. A Thestral can go higher, but also within limits. Why do you ask?"
Regulus did not answer. Instead he pressed on: "What if someone wanted to go higher? High enough to leave the atmosphere?"
Orion studied his son. "Why would you want to leave the atmosphere?"
"Just curious," Regulus said, keeping his tone even. "I read that ancient wizards once tried to fly to the sun and the moon. They all failed."
"That's not history — that's myth," Orion corrected. "Muggles have the Icarus myth too. The moral is not to be reckless.
Wizards have magic, but magic has limits. Beyond the atmosphere — no air, no pressure, extreme temperatures, and unknown energy fields.
A Bubble-Head Charm lasts a few hours at most. Shielding charms are ineffective against certain forms of radiation. Apparition has a range limit and requires familiarity with the destination."
He paused, watching Regulus. "What are you really thinking?"
'I'm thinking, how do you know about radiation? And the vacuum environment?' Regulus mused to himself.
He decided to be more forthcoming — his father was someone he could have this conversation with. "I was thinking about how Muggles landed on the moon this year. They don't have magic, but they did it."
Orion was silent for a long time. Candlelight crackled in the study.
"I know," he finally said. "The Daily Prophet ran a small notice — tucked away in an inconspicuous corner. The editor dismissed it as a Muggle stunt, hardly worth mentioning."
"But it was the moon," Regulus emphasized.
"To wizards, the moon is just the moon." Orion rose and walked to the window, his back to his son. "It affects werewolves, affects potions, affects tides.
But it is not a place. No one thinks of going there."
"Why?" This was what baffled Regulus most. It was right there — why did no one want to go?
Orion turned, his expression complicated. "Because wizards see only magic. Magic exists on Earth, in life, in the soul.
The stars... they are too far, too cold, too alien. That is not our domain."
"Domains can be expanded."
"Perhaps." Orion returned to his desk. "But at what cost? What would wizards have to sacrifice to explore the stars? What risks would they face? And more importantly — who would support it?"
He fixed his gaze on Regulus. "Tell me what you really think. Don't hide questions behind questions."
"I'm thinking," Regulus took a deep breath, "that if wizards channeled the energy they spend on power struggles, the brilliance they pour into the Dark Arts, the obsessive devotion they reserve for pure-blood glory — channeled all of it somewhere else — say, toward exploring the stars — how far could we go?"
Orion did not answer immediately. He sat down, fingers interlaced on the desk.
"Very far." After long deliberation, he spoke. "But the prerequisite is that wizarding society first resolves its own problems.
Voldemort is sowing division. The Ministry wallows in weakness and evasion. Tensions between pure-bloods and half-bloods are escalating. In times like these, no one will spare a thought for the stars."
"But perhaps the stars are the way out," Regulus insisted. "If our vision reaches far enough — so far that the squabbles on Earth seem trivial — maybe we can transcend the squabbling entirely."
Orion laughed — that kind of laugh worn down by fatigue and tinged with sorrow.
"Idealism," he said bluntly. "I had similar notions in my youth. But the reality is, people can rarely transcend the plane they inhabit. Wizards are bound to Earth, bound in flesh, bound in social ties."
Then his tone grew somber. "And remember — in today's wizarding world, ideas like these are heresy.
Pure-blood families will say you've been seduced by Muggle technology. The radicals will call you weak. Voldemort will consider you unfocused. Until you are strong enough — keep it hidden."