Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

By the time Regulus left the small garden, dusk had settled. Castle windows were flickering to life one by one. Dinner was approaching.

He quickened his pace, only to run into someone at the entrance to the greenhouse area.

A Hufflepuff girl — second- or third-year — with light brown hair gathered in a loose bun. She crouched before a row of flowerpots, carefully loosening the soil around a drooping-leafed dittany.

"You'll damage the lateral roots that way," Regulus said, pausing without thinking.

The girl looked up and blinked. "Sorry?"

"The angle of your trowel is too steep." Regulus pointed to the little iron spade in her hand. "Dittany roots spread outward, not straight down. A vertical cut will sever the lateral roots."

She looked down, then comprehension dawned. "No wonder this one never thrived... Thank you."

She adjusted her angle, inserting the trowel at a slant and gently working the surrounding soil loose.

"You're the Slytherin first-year?" she asked as she worked. "It's rare to see a Slytherin who knows this much about Herbology."

"Regulus Black. First year." He kept the introduction brief. "I'm Eleanor Bones, third year." She smiled, revealing a slight snaggle tooth. "The Bones family — you'll know."

She went on, her tone carrying a cheerful, unguarded curiosity: "I know who you are. Hogwarts' second Black.

Before you arrived, quite a few of us — well, more than a few — were privately guessing whether you'd go to Slytherin like every Black for the past five hundred years, or follow your brother into Gryffindor."

Regulus raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.

He knew that virtually every student from a pure-blood family at Hogwarts — and a fair number of professors — had been watching his Sorting.

Sirius's choice had not been merely personal rebellion; it had shattered an unbroken five-hundred-year tradition.

Five hundred years. A span long enough to turn "Black equals Slytherin" into an unspoken axiom of the wizarding world.

And in the current climate — undercurrents roiling, ancient families reassessing their allegiances — the Black heir's Sorting could even be read as a signal from the family.

Regulus had known all this. He also knew the gossip would never stop.

In the original story, in fact, it continued until the Black family was all but extinct.

But someone like Eleanor Bones bringing it up to his face with this degree of candid frankness — that was a first since he had arrived at Hogwarts.

This young witch from the Bones family was far more direct than any other pure-blood he had encountered.

And the Bones family — Regulus knew them well, of course.

Also one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, relatively moderate in stance, with most family members employed at the Ministry of Magic.

This Eleanor was likely a relative of Amelia Bones — the future head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Regulus made no effort to dodge the subject. His grey eyes met hers calmly. "As you can see, the answer is Slytherin. The speculation can stop."

Eleanor blinked, then laughed. "Indeed. And from the looks of it, you're fitting in rather well over there."

Regulus did not pursue the topic. He pointed to the flowerpot on the ground. "Dittany prefers loose soil but dislikes frequent disturbance.

You'd do well to add a layer of crushed clay pellets at the bottom of the pot to improve drainage. The current soil retains too much moisture — the roots are liable to rot."

Eleanor stared at him. "How can you tell the soil's too wet?"

"The leaf edges are slightly curled and the color is darker green than it should be — signs of roots that can't breathe properly. And when you loosened the soil just now, it clumped together, which indicates excess moisture content."

"Merlin, you're right." Eleanor stood and brushed the dirt from her hands. "I've been using the standard potting mix, but this batch of leaf mold might have been poor quality.

Thank you for the advice, Mister Black."

Regulus gave a slight nod.

In the fading light, the two spent five minutes trading tips on soil cultivation.

Eleanor showed him how to gauge soil density by feel, along with several uncommon techniques for raising magical plants.

In return, Regulus shared a handful of simple soil-testing charms — drawn from garden-care magic, small but practical spells.

Eleanor packed up her tools. "Time to head to the Great Hall. Walk together?"

"Sure."

They walked side by side toward the castle. Along the way they passed a few Hufflepuff students, who looked startled to see Eleanor with a Slytherin but said nothing.

At the entrance to the Great Hall, Eleanor waved goodbye. "See you, Mister Black."

"See you, Miss Bones."

Regulus made his way to the Slytherin table. As he sat down, Avery leaned over. "What were you chatting about with the Bones girl?"

"Herbology." Regulus answered simply and began loading roast meat onto his plate. The earlier experiment had drained him considerably; he needed to refuel.

"The Bones family is all right. Not the worst." Avery rendered his verdict. "But that Amelia of theirs at the Ministry is too much of a stickler. My father doesn't like her."

"Perhaps she doesn't like Mister Cuthbert either," Regulus said.

Avery thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. "Fair point."

......

Just past midnight, Regulus snapped out of his meditation — a magical fluctuation.

He instantly suppressed all his magic, slowed his breathing, and kept his body still. Only his eyes cracked open the barest slit.

Across the room, Hermes Mulciber's bed curtains parted silently.

A dark-robed figure slipped out without making a sound.

Hermes stood upright in the darkness, apparently confirming something. He even paused at the foot of each bed for a moment — Regulus's included.

A minute later, Hermes left the dormitory.

Regulus waited three minutes, then sat up slowly.

He climbed out of bed and moved to Hermes's. The curtains had been left slightly ajar. Regulus touched nothing — he only scanned with his magical perception.

The bed was made neatly. Under the pillow lay a book — dark-red leather cover, no title. It was warded; forcing a probe would trip an alarm.

On the nightstand sat an empty glass vial. A trace of black liquid clung to the bottom. Regulus could not identify it, but it was not a standard potion.

Hermes's satchel rested on the windowsill, the zipper not fully closed, a corner of parchment visible.

No wards. Regulus used a magical probe to ease the flap open.

It was a map. Hand-drawn, lines crude, but annotations clear.

At the center was the main body of Hogwarts Castle. Several areas had been circled. A corridor on the right side of the fourth floor — note: "Explored. Nothing found."

The abandoned classroom section on the west side of the dungeons — note: "Warded. Needs bypassing."

And a room beneath the Astronomy Tower, marked: "Possible entrance. Verification pending."

Beneath the Astronomy Tower? That should be the castle's outer wall — no room there at all.

Unless it was a hidden chamber. Or a secret passage.

Regulus withdrew the probe and returned to his own bed.

What was Hermes Mulciber searching for?

Or — whom was he searching on behalf of?

An hour later, at 1:14 a.m., the door opened softly again.

Hermes was back. His footsteps were heavier than when he left. The hem of his robe bore fresh scorch marks. On the back of his left hand was a thin red line, as though something sharp had grazed him.

He paused at the doorway for a few seconds, eyes sweeping the three occupied beds.

Satisfied nothing was amiss, he moved to his own bed. As he shed his outer robe, Regulus caught a faint whiff of sulfur.

Magical fire — or the residue of some alchemical reaction.

Hermes pulled his curtains shut. The rustle of changing clothes, then silence.

Regulus opened his eyes and stared up at the darkness of his canopy.

First year. Eleven years old. Already ankle-deep in dangerous secrets.

The Mulciber family was one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, though on its fringes.

For generations, the Mulcibers had traded in rare magical artifacts — in practice, serving as brokers and middlemen for Dark-object smuggling and collection.

Experts at skirting the edge of the law. Covert partnerships with multiple Knockturn Alley establishments. No appetite for political power — focused instead on accumulating forbidden knowledge and dangerous magical objects.

They made no public show of supporting Voldemort, yet privately supplied the Death Eaters with materiel.

Was Hermes's behavior personal curiosity or a family assignment?

If the latter, whatever he was searching for was very likely connected to the coming war.

An owl's cry drifted in from outside — distant, indistinct. Regulus did not dwell further; he simply decided to keep watch.

He closed his eyes again and began a new cycle of magical circulation.

The geometric model of Orion flared to life in his mind, starlight-bright magic flowing along its calculated trajectories.