Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

In the entrance hall of 12 Grimmauld Place, Regulus had barely found his footing when Walburga strode forward to meet him.

She wore a dark-green robe embroidered with Black family crests, the black-diamond Sirius brooch at her collar winking in the firelight. A pronounced smile lifted the corners of her mouth, even softening the fine lines at her eyes.

"My Regulus!" She reached out and gripped his arm firmly. "You're finally home. Look at you — so much taller, and the color in your face is wonderful."

Her gaze swept over his neatly pressed robe and tidy curls, coming to rest at last on the family brooch at his chest. The pride in her eyes was almost spilling over.

"I've read every letter from Hogwarts. Slytherin Head of First-Years. Top marks across the board. You even taught those blind fools what it means to cross a Black. Well done!"

Orion stood by the hearth. His face, as ever, betrayed no surplus expression — but the look he turned on Regulus was pure satisfaction.

He stepped forward and clapped a hand on Regulus's shoulder, the weight of his palm deliberate and heavy. "Good to have you back."

Walburga pulled Regulus toward the parlor, chattering nonstop: "Kreacher had your room ready ages ago. I left the ivy outside your window — you used to stare at it when you were small."

She paused, then shifted topics with practiced ease: "And Sirius? He didn't come back with you?"

The buoyant mood froze instantly. Along the walls, portraits exchanged glances; the Victorian-era ancestress let out a soft sigh. Regulus's expression stayed placid, utterly unruffled. "He's not coming."

"Not coming?" Walburga's voice shot up an octave. The smile vanished; in its place, fury and disappointment. "That wretch! I knew it! Corrupted by those Gryffindor imbeciles — won't even come home for Christmas!"

Her fists clenched. "One day, he will pay for his rebellion!"

Orion frowned but didn't object, only catching Regulus's eye with a look that said: 'Don't let it bother you.'

Regulus was unbothered. He had predicted this outcome long ago.

Walburga's temper flared fast and burned out faster. After a few more salvos at Sirius, her attention swung back to Regulus, warmth rekindled.

"Never mind that wretch — let's not talk about him. Tell me everything you did at school.

Professor Slughorn said your potion-work surpasses fifth-years — is that true?

And Travers — I heard he provoked you and you put him firmly in his place?"

She had, of course, already ferreted out every detail through her various channels. Yet she insisted on hearing it from Regulus's own lips.

Regulus followed her cues, giving a spare account of Potions class and the Travers incident — no embellishment, just the facts.

Walburga listened with visible delight, punctuating his words with admiring exclamations: "Exactly right! A Black must never suffer the slightest indignity! Those arrogant nobodies — they need to learn their place!"

Dinner was served in the dining room. A deep-red velvet cloth covered the long table; silver cutlery gleamed coldly in the firelight.

Kreacher brought out course after course: roast turkey, lamb cutlets, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie — all Regulus's childhood favorites.

Well — not the turkey. Turkey was dry. Regulus had never been fond of it.

A dinner for only three, yet the table was laden to overflowing, as if compensating for Sirius's empty seat.

Walburga piled Regulus's plate while she talked: "The glory of the pure-blood houses rests on your shoulders now.

Look at the Malfoys — Lucius is decent, but nothing compared to you.

And the Lestranges — only Bella is respectable. Rodolphus is a far cry from adequate."

Regulus had long since recognized that her fanaticism and Bella's were entirely different breeds.

Bella's eyes saw nothing but Voldemort himself — a godlike figure for whom she would sacrifice everything.

Walburga's fervor revolved around the pure-blood glory of the House of Black. Voldemort's emergence was merely a convenient force that could help restore the family to its zenith.

Regulus listened in silence, struck by a pang of unexpected sentiment.

He remembered childhood — the ecstasy on Walburga's face when his magic awakened at ten months.

He remembered her sitting before the family tapestry, recounting ancestral exploits with a zealot's reverence.

He remembered that, for all her obsessiveness, she would slip into his room on cold nights to tuck the blanket around him.

If there existed another path — one that could sustain or even elevate the Black legacy without relying on Voldemort — Walburga might not be an obstacle after all.

But only if he could pull it off, and let her see the proof with her own eyes.

"Your classmates — what do you make of them?" Walburga asked suddenly, eyes expectant, though she seemed already certain of the answer.

Regulus set down his knife and fork, a hint of quiet pride deliberately laced into his voice: "Nothing special."

Orion's gaze flicked toward him.

"Talent varies wildly, and most of them are short-sighted." Regulus continued. "Fixated on classroom material, lost in house rivalries — blind to anything beyond."

His eyes had never lingered on his peers. In this era, no one's gifts exceeded his own.

Walburga beamed with approval: "Exactly! Never mind the half-bloods and Muggle-borns — even some pure-bloods do nothing but coast on family name. None of them can hold a candle to you!

Our Regulus — the finest heir the House of Black has ever produced!"

Orion set down his wine glass and spoke, measured: "At school, you needn't be too conspicuous."

His tone carried no reproach — only caution: "But your performance has certainly not disappointed us."

His gaze drifted to the window. His voice dropped. "As for Sirius... keep an eye on him. If the chance arises... let him know the family still thinks of him."

Walburga's brow tightened. She opened her mouth, then closed it, and instead savagely carved off a slab of turkey — channeling her displeasure with Sirius into the bird.

Dinner concluded amid Walburga's running commentary and Orion's occasional interjections.

As Kreacher cleared the table, Orion turned to Regulus: "Get settled first, then come to my study."

Regulus nodded. He knew: here was the real family conversation.

Walburga was the right audience for talk of family glory and school performance — surface matters. For anything of depth, she was not the partner for discussion.

Narcissa was actually better suited; at minimum, she could supply valuable intelligence and counsel, backed by sufficient rationality and wisdom.

Half an hour later, Regulus knocked on the study door.

"Come in."

The room smelled of ink and old books. Behind the massive mahogany desk, Orion sat in his chair, an open copy of "Wizengamot Compendium of Magical Law" in his hands.

Seeing Regulus enter, he closed the book and leaned forward, studying his son carefully.

"Only half a year, and the change is remarkable." A trace of wonder colored Orion's voice.

"You've grown into your frame. Your bearing has settled. You don't look eleven — you look like a wizard who can hold his own."

Regulus walked to the desk and stood still, saying nothing, waiting for his father to continue.

Orion's fingertips tapped the desktop lightly: "Early on, I warned you to mind your limits at school — not to display too much of yourself.

In my letters, I said the same: concealing your hand is sometimes more important than flaunting it."

His eyes held only perplexity: "I've always believed you were mature enough for us to speak as equals. Yet your conduct at school clearly shows you didn't listen."

Regulus was silent a moment, mind racing.

He understood Orion's meaning and had kept it in mind throughout.

He had restrained himself. What he'd displayed was limited to magical control and spell proficiency — levels an accomplished wizard might, through rigorous training, conceivably reach.

Precise Transfiguration. Nonverbal and wandless casting. Formidable defense. Impressive, certainly — but still within the recognized range of wizard capabilities.

He had never revealed the true power of Star-Orbit Meditation, never exposed his exploration of micro-Transfiguration, and certainly never hinted at the anachronistic knowledge his transmigrated soul carried.

Yet even these restrained displays had surpassed everyone's expectations.

"I have been holding back." Regulus lifted his head to meet Orion's gaze, tone calm and unwavering. "What I've shown is only what I consider a normal level of ability."

Orion raised an eyebrow — clearly skeptical.

"In the wizarding world, once personal power reaches a certain threshold, it can change a great deal." Regulus pressed on.

"A family's stance, others' attitudes, the resources available — all are directly tied to strength.

I need others to see my value in order to secure greater support. That benefits the House of Black — and myself."

He added: "Besides, what I've shown is a very small fraction. My true capabilities have never been revealed."

Surprise flashed in Orion's eyes, followed by deep contemplation.