Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The first school year was drawing to a close. Only one day remained before Christmas holidays.

Regulus closed his eyes and let his consciousness plunge inward.

Star-Orbit Guided Meditation had become his daily foundation — as natural as breathing.

Nearly half a year of growth had been built entirely on this meditation. Body and soul were tempered in tandem through the orbiting of the stars.

Magic was no longer a stream of energy flowing through him but an integrated whole, deeply bound to sinew, bone, blood, and will.

The magical circulation he once had to guide consciously was now instinct. Every breath carried magic that nourished flesh; bone density and muscle fiber grew tougher without visible change.

Even without a Shield Charm, ordinary spells could scarcely harm him in any fundamental way — the natural consequence of a body, as vessel, achieving resonance with its magic and soul.

The transformation at the soul level was even more pronounced.

Occlumency's three-layered barrier no longer required conscious maintenance. The star-orbit model itself had become the sturdiest defense.

The four-star synchronization of the Orion model — Betelgeuse's deep crimson and the belt-stars' silver-white — turned steadily within his mind, like the universe in miniature. It did not merely hone his will; it refined his spirit. External noise, the emotional fluctuations of others — none could shake his composure.

Body as foundation. Soul as core. Magic as the bridge. All three, guided by the star-orbit, were evolving toward a more perfect state.

But the lighting of a fifth star had failed.

The target was Orion's Bellatrix. The reason for failure was not the complex mathematics or the sheer volume of calculation — it was purely a barrier of magic.

During the attempted integration, the star-orbit model inside his mind shook violently. The four-star equilibrium broke; magical backlash sent temples pounding, and he was forced to abort.

Yet failure was not without value. The attempt itself was a form of refining.

In order to accommodate Bellatrix's incorporation, he had been compelled to push his magical control precision up another tier. His mental resilience had also grown stronger through the repeated cycle of collapse and reconstruction.

The four-star model had solidified further in the process, and the harmony between magic and soul deepened imperceptibly. Growth at the very edge of one's limits was a formidable thing.

Regulus opened his eyes. Outside the window, the giant squid happened to glide past; its vast shadow lingered on his face for a heartbeat.

He stood and walked toward the corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower.

The meeting point was beside the one-eyed witch statue on the third floor — a spot few people passed. When Regulus arrived, Sirius was already there.

He leaned against the wall, hands shoved into faded jeans pockets, the Gryffindor scarlet-and-gold robe slung casually over one shoulder to reveal a dark Muggle shirt beneath.

Without James and Remus beside him, much of his flamboyant, reckless energy had receded. The grey eyes held less defiance now and more of a complicated, brooding weight.

Spotting Regulus, Sirius straightened slightly. His gaze fell to the cracks between the flagstones; his fingertip scraped absently at the wall's texture.

"A letter came from home." Regulus spoke first. Voice level, no surplus emotion.

Sirius's shoulders gave an almost imperceptible flinch. His throat bobbed.

He had, of course, received letters from home as well — heavy parchment pages filled with Mother Walburga's fury and accusations.

Every line demanded to know why he had betrayed the family, why he had chosen Gryffindor, why he kept company with Muggle-borns.

And then Father Orion's letters — no heated language there, yet in guarded strokes they spoke of the family's future, of the Black family's duty. The leaden weight of those expectations only deepened his resistance.

He hadn't answered a single one. At Hogwarts, he had found his own circle.

James's warmth. Remus's gentleness. Peter's compliance. All of it made him feel he had escaped the suffocating gloom of 12 Grimmauld Place.

Sirius thrived in Gryffindor — friends, adventure, freedom.

And yet the Black family's bone-deep sensitivity and stubbornness had never left him.

The word family was still a corner of his heart he refused to touch — a hidden splinter that ached from time to time.

"They want you home for Christmas." Regulus added, his gaze resting on Sirius's face.

Sirius was silent for a long time. Dust trickled from the crevice as his fingers dug.

He lifted his head. Grey eyes met Regulus's, churning with resistance, bewilderment, and a flicker of wavering he himself hadn't noticed.

He meant to say 'I'm not going back.' What came out instead was a low, faintly trembling question: "Go back? So I can sit with those people?

The Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Notts, the Carrows... Voldemort's lapdogs?"

His brow creased hard; his nostrils flared. Undisguised disgust surfaced on his face.

"You're going, aren't you?" Sirius fixed him with a stare — fury, disappointment, and maybe a sliver of worry.

"You'll put on the dress robes, raise the goblet, and laugh it up with those Death Eaters, won't you?"

He had received Cousin Bella's letters, too. The fevered words, the exaltation of Voldemort, the obsession with pure-blood glory — all of it choked him.

He knew the House of Black would have to choose eventually, and that choice was the path he despised most: ranking people by bloodline, enforcing order through violence.

That wasn't glory. That was a rotting shackle!

Regulus was quiet for a moment. Winter sunlight slanted through the corridor's high windows, casting his tall shadow across the floor.

He read the undisguised resistance in Sirius's eyes and knew, with perfect clarity: his brother would never turn back.

But he had no intention of persuading him — nor any desire to. Some roads had to be walked alone. Some stands had to be held on one's own.

His existence was itself a signpost pushing Sirius down a different path. Only by letting Sirius sever completely from the Blacks' old course could he be kept safe in the storm to come.

"Yes." Regulus inclined his head. Not a shred of ambiguity.

Sirius looked as though he'd expected it — and as though the word had cut him all the same.

His breath caught for a beat. The sardonic half-smile vanished entirely, replaced by something close to exhausted numbness.

He stepped back, leaning against the wall again, head tilting down, dark hair falling to hide his eyes.

"I'm not going back. That place is not my home."

"I know." Regulus's voice held no inflection. "I'm only passing on what they said."

"Regulus," Sirius jerked his head up, voice suddenly fierce, "are you really going down that road? Standing with those lunatics? Wearing those damned black robes, putting on those damned masks?

You're smarter than this — you're not like them — you can see what they're doing! Murder. Persecution. Ruling through fear!"

Regulus looked at Sirius — this boy a year and a half his senior, who had shed every brash outer shell in this moment, exposing edges not yet fully hardened.

"I'm walking the Black family's path." Regulus sidestepped the core question, tone still flat. "Just as you walk the Gryffindor path. We've simply made different choices."

"That's not the Black family's path — it's the path to ruin!" Sirius's voice rose, urgent. He took a step forward.

"You think those people will tolerate the Black family? All they want is obedient dogs! The moment you lose your usefulness, they'll throw you away like garbage!"

Regulus watched his agitation and said nothing.

He knew Sirius was stating fact. But — let it be. This was the best arrangement.

Regulus reached out and gave Sirius's shoulder a light pat. "Take care of yourself."

He turned and walked away. The dark-green robe left an afterimage in the corridor. He did not look back.

Behind him, Sirius stood frozen. Beneath his frown, the anger had been inexplicably adulterated with a tangled confusion.

Why? Regulus understood everything — could see their madness clearly — so why was he still plunging headlong into it?

Regulus was no fool. Quite the opposite: he had been sharp since childhood, even shrewd. And it was precisely for that reason that the choice made no sense.

Couldn't he see the Black family marching into a fire pit?

Couldn't he see that "pure-blood glory" was nothing more than the bait Voldemort dangled to recruit people?

Was it for the family inheritance?

But Regulus had never seemed like someone who cared about that.

Had Mother's pure-blood ideology brainwashed him?

But he had dared challenge Mother's views even as a small child.

Sirius realized, with a jolt, that his understanding of Regulus had never gone deeper than surface labels: clever, odd, quiet.

He didn't know what Regulus thought about in the dead of night, what he saw when he stared at the stars, or what purpose drove his choice of this path.

He knew only this: from this moment on, he and Regulus had truly set foot on two roads that would never cross again.