Chapter 22: Starlight Meditation
Mid-September. The morning mist over the Scottish Highlands had not yet fully lifted, but the History of Magic classroom on the third floor was already packed with drowsy first-years.
When Professor Binns drifted through the wall, hardly anyone looked up.
Hogwarts' most senior professor began the day's lesson in his invariably dry monotone: "Today we shall continue our discussion of the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. The uprising began at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, where the goblin leader..."
Regulus studied the professor himself.
Binns was translucent — when sunlight passed through his body, it cast the faintest of shadows on the floor below the lectern.
What interested Regulus was the magical signature.
Other professors' magic felt like flowing flame, vibrant life force, or deep, still water.
Binns's magic was almost nonexistent — or more precisely, almost imperceptible.
Regulus closed his eyes and focused his magical perception toward the lectern.
An ordinary wizard's magic resembled ripples on a water surface — a clear center and distinct edges. Binns's magic was like a thin mist. Uniform. Dilute. Steady. No fluctuation, no core — nearly indistinguishable from the ambient surroundings.
From childhood reading, he knew: the soul was the source of magic. Something must sustain a ghost's existence. So what form did a ghost's magic take?
He recalled a physics concept from his previous life — the conversion of matter into energy.
When a wizard dies, the body vanishes and the soul persists. What happens to the magic?
Did it shift from anchoring to flesh to anchoring to spirit?
Binns was now recounting how the goblins had used counterfeit Galleons to disrupt the Gringotts financial system.
Regulus looked out the window. The morning fog was dispersing; a corner of the Forbidden Forest emerged, dark green. His thoughts drifted further still.
If a ghost was a residual form of the soul, what magical difference existed between a complete soul and a residual one?
Was the immortality Voldemort pursued an attempt to bypass the process of "body dies — soul persists"?
Through splitting the soul?
Insufficient data. Regulus could reach no conclusion.
When the bell rang, Binns had just reached "the rebellion was ultimately suppressed by the Ministry of Magic." He did not say "class dismissed"; he simply drifted through the wall, leaving the better part of the class still in a daze.
Two o'clock in the afternoon. Sunlight flooded the east side of the library. Madam Pince patrolled between the shelves in silent vigilance.
Regulus intended to have a look around the perimeter of the Restricted Section.
By Hogwarts regulations, first-years could neither borrow from nor enter the Restricted Section.
But "cannot borrow" did not mean "cannot look." The shelves were not entirely sealed — from a distance, one could read some of the titles on the spines.
Madam Pince made a full circuit of the library every thirty minutes, pausing each time she passed the Restricted Section.
Regulus timed it. He walked toward the Restricted Section, stride unhurried, a copy of "Medieval Magical Law: A History of Change" in hand as though he were simply passing through.
His eyes swept the shelves. He did not stop until he reached nearly the deepest point.
There — a thick, leather-bound volume with fraying edges. The lettering on the spine was mottled, but still legible:
"A Brief History of Soul Magic." The author's name had been worn away.
Regulus tried to flip the book open using nothing but raw magic — no incantation, pure magical force.
He spun his magic into the finest possible thread and pushed it toward the Restricted Section.
It failed.
The instant his magic crossed the boundary, it was shattered by a vast, ponderous protective ward — utterly brutal.
He was about to try again when an icy voice came from behind: "Mister Black."
Regulus withdrew all his magic in an instant and turned to face the librarian. "Madam Pince."
"You have been standing in front of the Restricted Section for one minute," she said, eyes sharp as blades. "First-year students are forbidden to approach the Restricted Section. I trust you are aware of the rules."
"I am, Madam." Regulus held up his book. "I was merely looking for reference material. As I passed, the sheer scale of the collection here left me awestruck. Hogwarts' holdings are truly remarkable."
His tone was sincere, his expression full of reverent longing for knowledge.
Madam Pince's face softened by half a degree, though her eyes remained watchful. "The books in the Restricted Section are sealed for a reason. Much of that knowledge is unsuitable for young witches and wizards. Return to your seat."
"Of course, Madam." Regulus inclined his head and turned toward the Potions section.
'I need that book,' he thought.
The library gradually filled with students. Regulus packed up his things, intending to go back to the Slytherin common room to finish his Potions essay.
......
Eleven o'clock at night. The Slytherin dormitory lay in silence.
Avery was already asleep, breathing slow and even. A faint light glowed behind Alex's curtains — he was probably previewing tomorrow's Charms lesson.
Hermes's curtains were drawn tight, no sound from within. Regulus knew he was still awake.
Regulus pulled his own dark green curtains shut and cast a Silencing Charm.
Then he sat cross-legged, closed his eyes.
"Astral Meditation" lay open on his knees, turned to Chapter Three.
"Resonating with Orion."
The book explained that Orion was the king of the winter sky; the alignment of the three belt stars embodied balance and power.
The meditator was to locate Orion in the night sky, reach out with magic to touch those three stars, feel the pulse of their starlight, and ultimately synchronize the circulation of one's own magic with the constellation's rhythm.
'Typical wizarding mysticism,' Regulus assessed.
He had tried three times. Each attempt failed.
Not because the method was wrong — he had followed the instructions precisely: perceive the sky, locate the constellation, extend a tendril of magic—
'This is nothing at all!'
He could not feel the so-called "pulse of starlight."
Constellations were merely the visual projections of distant stars. There was no physical link between them — where would a pulse come from?
And yet the method clearly worked — for the original author, at least.
Perhaps the author possessed some unique talent, perceiving things beyond ordinary reach.
But Regulus evidently did not share that talent.
'Then I will substitute what I do have.'
What he had: an adult's mind, a grounding in basic astrophysics, an intuition for geometry and mathematics.
His micro-scale magical control. His supercomputer-grade magical computation.
And his magical perception.
He would try a new approach.
First: abandon sensing the real sky. Regulus even suspected the author had written the book as little more than a boast.
'I have it and you don't.'
The Slytherin dormitory had no view of the sky, but that did not matter. He used magic to construct a constellation model inside his own mind.
Magic flowed in the depths of his consciousness, sketching the first point — Betelgeuse, the red giant at Orion's right shoulder.
Then Rigel, Bellatrix... one point after another kindling in the dark space of his awareness.
Drawing on memorized star-chart data, he built a three-dimensional model at the correct relative positions and brightness ratios.
It was demanding. Maintaining twelve luminous points at their precise coordinates consumed a continuous stream of magic and focus. But Regulus held steady.
Next: connecting the points in the form of Orion.
Magic condensed into fine threads — from Betelgeuse to Bellatrix, forming the right arm; from Rigel to Saiph, the left arm; the three belt stars linked by three parallel filaments.
A glowing Orion took shape in his mind — proportions exact, lines flowing.
Finally: synchronization.
This was the crux. The book's method called for one's magic to follow the constellation's pulse. Regulus had no pulse to follow — but he had the model.
He envisioned his own magical circulation as a luminous river, then embedded the Orion model into the riverbed, letting the constellation's geometry become part of the channel.
When the current reached Betelgeuse, speed micro-adjusted. When it reached the belt stars, it split into three fine parallel streams. When it traced the overall structure, it circulated along the constellation's outer contour.
At first it was clumsy. The magic resisted the imposed structure; the model destabilized, its points beginning to flicker.
Regulus slowed the flow, making the circulation gentler.
He refined the model: the belt stars should not be a perfect line — a slight arc was needed.
Betelgeuse was 1.3 times brighter than Rigel; therefore its gravitational pull in the model should be proportionally stronger — perhaps the magic flowing past it could be intensified by the same ratio.
He adjusted, again and again. Gradually, the resistance faded.
The magic began to adapt to the structure — a benefit of never having interrupted his daily magical circulation training.
Like water finding a new channel: man-made, but smooth enough.
One cycle.
Two.
Three.
Regulus opened his eyes and exhaled softly.
He turned his perception inward.
His magical circulation had not noticeably quickened — but it was more stable, as though its ripples had been smoothed.
He willed it: a dense, invisible barrier expanded at speed, wrapping his entire body. He held it for one minute, then let it dissolve.
A moment later, he drew his conclusion. Magic consumption was unchanged, but magic recovery speed had improved. The change was slight — yet real.
It worked.