Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The compression of Apparition was more intense than Regulus had anticipated.

Orion's magic enveloped him steadily — like hurtling through a tight rubber tube, organs momentarily squeezed, then in the next instant an abrupt release.

When his feet touched ground, Malfoy Manor's castle already loomed before him.

Moonlight draped the ivory stone, lending it a frigid luster. The spires stabbed into the night sky. The surrounding gardens were trimmed to perfection; enchanted lanterns kindled in sequence along the paths.

The castle doors stood wide. Two immaculately turned-out house-elves bowed in welcome, the Malfoy crest embroidered at their collars.

The air was a blend of champagne, roasted chestnuts, and magical spices. From deeper inside came strings — low and sweeping, befitting the tenor of a pure-blood gala.

"Good turnout." Orion straightened his jet-black robe, brushing the family brooch at his chest. "Stay with me. Speak little. Observe much."

Regulus nodded. His eyes swept the guest register by the door — names stitched in gold thread.

Lestrange, Carrow, Nott, Yaxley, Cuthbert, Travers, Goyle, Crabbe...

Every Sacred Twenty-Eight house that leaned toward Voldemort had sent representatives. A handful of neutral pure-blood families were also present, clearly here to gauge the winds. Inside the main hall, marble floors were polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the enchanted reliefs carved into the flanking columns.

The reliefs depicted successive Malfoy patriarchs forging pacts with dragons and hippogriffs, edges gilded.

Every piece of furniture was dark walnut, armrests and chair-backs carved in elaborate scroll-leaf patterns. Cushions of silver-green velvet — cool to the touch yet firm enough to keep posture precise.

In one corner stood a life-sized silver statue of the first Malfoy patriarch, wand raised. The diamond embedded in its tip caught and refracted the light, casting slivers of radiance across the floor.

The hall was already well populated. Robes ran to silver-green, deep emerald, and dark crimson. Wizards exchanged murmurs over champagne; witches rustled past, skirts swaying, the occasional soft laugh ringing out.

People kept stopping Orion along the way.

"Mister Black, it's been too long." A wizard with a handlebar moustache raised his glass — the current head of the Yaxley family. "Regulus?"

"Yaxley." Orion inclined his head, then turned slightly: "Regulus."

"Handsome young man." Yaxley's gaze lingered on Regulus, approval evident.

Regulus offered a courteous nod. "Mister Yaxley."

A few steps farther, a stout wizard intercepted them: Old Crabbe.

Current head of the Crabbe family — an affable smile plastered over a face that hid shrewd little eyes. The eternal bandwagoner, always standing wherever the strong stood.

"Orion." Old Crabbe extended his hand, the grip calibrated precisely — neither too firm nor too soft — carrying all the practiced courtesy between pure-blood houses.

Orion returned the faintest of nods, voice flat enough to betray nothing: "Crabbe."

He stepped aside, letting Regulus come forward, and lifted his chin. "This is Regulus."

Through the crowd they went until they reached Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa, standing at the center of the main hall receiving guests.

Lucius wore a tailored silver-green robe, blond hair combed without a strand out of place.

He carried a sapphire-studded wand, a tight smile on his face, every line of his brow radiating the Malfoy family's current ascendancy.

Narcissa stood beside him — white robe, golden hair swept into an elegant chignon, poised and dignified, already every inch the Malfoy matriarch.

"Uncle Orion. Regulus." Narcissa spoke first, voice soft. Her gaze rested on Regulus for a beat.

"Lucius. Narcissa." Orion extended a brief handshake to Lucius. "How is your father?"

"Father is resting inside. He'll be out shortly." Lucius's attention shifted to Regulus. "Regulus."

"Mister Malfoy." Regulus's bearing was faultless.

Lucius clasped his hand, warmth at full display: "Call me Lucius. Narcissa speaks of you constantly — the most outstanding Black."

"Lucius." Regulus matched his ease, a smile in place, and glanced at Narcissa. "Cousin Narcissa."

"Regulus."

Lucius smiled and gestured them inward. "After you. Champagne and canapés are ready."

On a raised platform at one end of the hall, the string ensemble played on. Guests clustered in threes and fours, conversation circling the usual axes: Ministry shake-ups, Voldemort's latest moves, the give-and-take between families.

Regulus followed Orion to a quiet corner, accepted a flute from a house-elf, and let his gaze sweep the room — filing away every expression and position.

This was another of Orion's lessons: a social gathering is an intelligence field; truth hides in the details.

Before long, a stir rippled through the crowd. Abraxas Malfoy had appeared on the platform.

Considerably older than Orion, his hair silvering, yet his bearing was vigorous. His silver-green robe bore elaborate patterns; the wand in his hand — its core rumored to be phoenix feather — was reputed to be formidable.

Conversation died away. Every gaze swung to Abraxas.

"Thank you all for honoring Malfoy Manor with your presence tonight." Abraxas's voice, magically amplified, carried steady and commanding — an authority born of rank.

"The wizarding world stands at a crossroads. The old order is crumbling; a new power is rising.

We, the pure-blood families — custodians of a thousand years of magic and wealth — should rightly lead this transformation."

His eyes swept the hall, as though weighing each person's worth.

"Some call this an age of upheaval. I call it an age of opportunity.

The strong write the rules. The weak follow them. And we — we shall be the ones who write.

Pure-blood glory was not conjured from thin air. Our ancestors paid for it with magic, wisdom, and blood. We are duty-bound to sustain that glory — and carry it higher still."

"The Ministry's weakness has let half-bloods and Muggle-borns run rampant, sullying the purity of wizardry.

But now a great wizard is leading us — sweeping away the filth, rebuilding order.

So long as we each contribute our strength, nothing can impede our march."

Abraxas's words were not overtly radical, yet every sentence stoked sentiment, binding pure-blood interests to Voldemort's ascent — playing precisely to the room's collective pulse.

Regulus observed Abraxas rallying the crowd and felt largely unimpressed.

Abraxas was undeniably powerful, his political maneuvering masterful — the Malfoy family flourished under his hand. But he had overlooked Voldemort's insatiable need for control and the narrowness at his core.

Dragon Pox, striking Abraxas at the very apex of Malfoy power. Hard not to suspect Voldemort's fingerprints.

An ally too strong and too difficult to leash was never what Voldemort wanted.

The speech ended to applause. Abraxas offered a slight nod, stepped down from the platform, and was immediately surrounded.

The open mingling began. Guests dispersed, resettling into fresh clusters.

"Regulus." A familiar voice.

He turned. Avery's father — the head of the Cuthbert family — was approaching with Avery in tow.

Avery wore dark-green robes and looked stiffer than he ever did at school. Spotting Regulus, a flash of genuine warmth lit his eyes.

"Mister Black. Regulus." The elder Cuthbert smiled broadly. "Avery owes you a great deal at school."

"You're too kind, Mister Cuthbert." Regulus returned.

"See you at school, Regulus." Avery's tone was deliberately stiff — an obvious attempt to imitate the adults.

Regulus smiled. "See you at school."

Barely had Avery and his father moved on when an exuberant voice rang out: "Regulus!"

Bella swept toward him in a deep-crimson robe, every step flamboyant. At her side walked Rodolphus Lestrange.

Tall, stern-faced, yet with a fanatical glint mirroring Bella's own. The two were already engaged, soon to wed — Voldemort's most devoted followers both.

"Cousin Bella. Mister Lestrange." Regulus inclined his head with measured reserve, warmth conspicuously absent.

"Look at the pride of House Black!" Bella seized his arm — grip stronger than necessary — eyes ablaze.

Her voice rose, drawing several nearby glances: "The Dark Lord has taken notice of you — that is the highest honor!

The Blacks should stand at the vanguard, serving the great cause!"