Chapter 61: Spatial Perception
Regulus's perception was an innate gift.
Faint silver trails left by flowing magic. Ripple-like wrinkles when space was forcibly twisted. Pinpoints of magical light flickering at the edges of pried-open fissures.
All these things, normally invisible, had surfaced in that brief instant.
He knew: his perceptive ability had advanced.
At first he could only sense the presence of magic. Then he grew able to read the emotions and states of plants. Now he could catch vague outlines of spatial distortion.
Still hazy — he could make out rough shapes and directions of movement — but the faculty had undeniably appeared from nothing.
That might mean a great deal.
He could control magic with greater precision when casting. He could detect a spell's trajectory sooner when under attack.
He could understand more deeply what magic actually changed, and how.
"I'll try again." Regulus said. Orion retreated to the door, crossed his arms, and gave a "be my guest" gesture.
Then came the second attempt. The third. The fourth.
Each cast felt a shade clearer than the last.
The resistance as space was pried open. The trails left when magic tore through. The awkward crush-and-release of the body.
He was gradually growing accustomed to this crude mode of travel. He could even adjust his breathing the instant compression set in, making the process slightly smoother.
After the fifth Apparition, Orion spoke: "Enough for today. Push beyond this and you'll invite trouble — Splinching is most likely when the mind is strained."
Regulus stopped. His spirit was robust; he didn't yet feel fatigued. But he obliged — better to digest what he'd gained.
"Consecutive Apparition is draining." Orion walked over and pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Don't exceed ten per day at first. Increase only as you adapt."
"Understood."
Regulus's mind was on what he'd seen.
Space was like an elastic membrane. Apparition was simply punching a hole through it and squeezing past.
What if there were another way?
Not punching a hole — but making the membrane sag on its own, forming a chute to slide along.
Or going further still — making the membrane pass him from one side to the other of its own accord.
Orion reactivated the training room's Anti-Apparition ward.
This time Regulus could clearly feel the change around him. An invisible wall had closed in.
He caught Orion before he could leave: "Let me try once more."
Orion raised an eyebrow, then nodded.
The ward was back in place. Apparition wouldn't succeed. No risk.
Regulus raised his wand. Target: the stone dais, as before.
"Apparition!"
Magic surged. The familiar compression appeared — but nothing followed.
Space refused to open. That invisible wall blocked him utterly — hard as living rock.
It was as though he were shoving a solid stone barrier, every ounce of strength expended, the wall immovable.
Magic rebounded through the wand and back up his arm.
Regulus stumbled half a step back and steadied himself. The recoil was considerable; his wrist tingled with numbness.
But he had seen it clearly. The Anti-Apparition ward was like a tightly woven net of magic, sealed over the entire space.
Apparition needed to tear through that net to pass. But the net's strength and resilience were too great — at his current level, he couldn't rip it.
Which raised a question: how did house-elves manage?
Regulus recalled Christmas Day — Kreacher transporting him from King's Cross to Grimmauld Place.
No compression. No tearing. None of that suffocating tube feeling. It was as though space had voluntarily parted to make way, and they had simply walked through.
"Father." Regulus turned to Orion, pocketing his wand. "House-elf spatial magic — it's fundamentally different from Apparition, isn't it?"
Orion looked visibly caught off guard. He had never considered the question.
He frowned, thinking for several seconds, then answered with faint hesitation: "Elf magic... it is different, yes.
They don't use wands. Much of their magic seems innate — no learning required.
Apparition is a skill wizards must practice, but for elves it's probably as natural as walking."
"They can pass through Anti-Apparition wards." Regulus stated.
"Yes." Orion confirmed with a nod.
"Why?" Regulus pressed.
Orion fell silent for a longer stretch. He walked to the training-room wall, fingers tracing the etched runes, and finally shook his head.
"No wizard has ever studied it. Elf magic... most wizards don't pay it much attention."
Regulus knew that 'most' effectively meant 'all.'
Wizards had long grown accustomed to house-elves. Elves could do magic, clean, cook, mind children — how convenient, how useful.
But no one asked how they did it. It worked; why bother with the theory?
This was arrogance etched to the bone.
For millennia, wizards had stood atop the magical food chain, looking down on every other species with an almost reflexive condescension.
Goblins forged currency. Centaurs read the stars. Giants had brawn. But wizards had intellect, civilization, a magical system refined across generations.
And house-elves?
A few household charms. Hardly worth mentioning.
Yet Regulus knew perfectly well about the cave where Voldemort hid his Horcrux — a place not even Dumbledore could Apparate into, a place one had to reach by boat across a lake of Inferi.
But Kreacher came and went freely. That was not something a bit of housekeeping magic could explain.
"Kreacher." Regulus called softly.
Without a sound, the house-elf appeared in the corner of the training room, still wearing that grimy tea towel, a rag in one hand — evidently in the middle of cleaning somewhere.
"The Young Master called Kreacher?" Kreacher's eyes swiveled between Regulus and Orion. His ears twitched nervously.
"Take me through space." Regulus instructed. "From here to the entrance hall, then bring me back."
Kreacher looked to Orion, eyes seeking permission. Orion nodded. "Do as he says."
Only then did Kreacher extend a withered hand — skin wrinkled, a trace of dust under the nails.
This time, Regulus poured every shred of attention into perception.
He confirmed: no compression. No tearing. Not even a discernible magical surge.
He felt only the faintest ripples emanate through the surrounding space — like water — forming a ring of soft, almost imperceptible distortion around him and Kreacher.
Then they were standing in the entrance hall.
The hearth blazed, crackling steadily. The wall portraits swiveled as one — some yawning, some frowning, a few huddled together whispering.
Regulus stood motionless. He had seen it clearly.
Space had folded itself, passing him from one end to the other.
Like folding a sheet of paper: two points that were far apart on the flat page are brought together the moment the paper bends.
No wonder it bypassed Anti-Apparition wards.
The magical net guarded against tearing and penetration. It did not guard against folding.
The net remained intact, undamaged — but the path no longer passed through it. It simply went under.
"Back." Regulus ordered.
Kreacher returned him to the training room.
Orion was still waiting. He eyed Regulus: "Sensed something?"
"Completely different." Regulus said, sorting every detail in his mind.
"Apparition is brute force — can't open the door, so you smash through the wall. House-elf magic is a detour — the wall's still there, but they've tunneled underneath."
"A detour?" Orion frowned. "How do you 'detour' through space?"
"Space can fold." Regulus tried to explain, but realized how difficult it was to render in words.
"Think of two cities on a map, far apart. Fold the map, and the two cities sit right on top of each other."
Orion considered this seriously, fingers tapping the handle of his wand.
After a long moment, he shook his head. "I can't picture it. But since you can feel it, commit that sensation to memory. Magical perception is your gift — it will be a formidable advantage."
Regulus nodded, aware that wizards lacked a framework for abstraction like this. His own thoughts, however, had already moved on.
If he could learn to fold space the way elves did...
He didn't even need to master it fully. House-elf magic might be inseparable from their species' nature; a wizard might never replicate it completely.
But as long as he understood the principle — even if he could imitate only the barest fraction —