Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Over the next three days, Regulus didn't practice Apparition — once mastered, it was mastered.

He spent his time holed up in his room. The desk was covered in miscellaneous items.

Several quills. Two inkwells. A roll of parchment. A few Galleons and Sickles. And the Black family brooch he usually wore.

Regulus picked up the brooch and set it on his palm.

He closed his eyes. Perception spread outward.

The spatial structure of the room revealed itself in his mind as something strange: an invisible net of countless nodes and connecting threads.

Every object occupied a specific node. Density, strength, and vibration differed from node to node.

The brooch's node sat in his palm — fine-grained and stable.

He wanted the net to move on its own.

The way Kreacher did it. Fold the net. Bring two nodes together. Pass the object from one to the other. The theory was simple. Execution was another matter entirely.

Day one: the brooch didn't budge.

Day two: the air around the brooch began to show faint distortions. The edges of objects nearby wavered slightly.

But the brooch itself sat firmly in his palm — not one millimeter of movement.

Day three, afternoon. Regulus changed his approach.

He stopped trying to fold all of space — that was simply too hard. Instead, he aimed at moving just the tiny patch of space around the brooch. Even a fraction would do.

Total focus. Magic gathered in his palm. No incantation — pure will, perception, and magic working in concert.

He watched the node where the brooch rested and imagined it like a buoy on water, gliding gently toward a neighboring vacant node — sliding along some invisible gradient of its own accord.

The air around the brooch rippled violently. The spatial structure sent out rings of invisible undulation.

The brooch, at the center of those rings, began to blur and turn transparent — and then it vanished.

Regulus's eyes snapped open. The brooch was gone from his palm.

Not on the desk. Not on the carpet. Not in any corner of the room. Not a trace left behind.

Three seconds. Time seemed to stretch — each second agonizingly slow.

Then — a soft clink.

The brooch dropped onto the edge of the desk, roughly five centimeters from its original position. The silver surface was warm to the touch.

Success.

Only five centimeters. He'd nearly lost the brooch to some unknown void. The magical cost was absurdly high. Yet it had undeniably worked.

This he had figured out on his own — a rudimentary application built from his fledgling understanding of space.

Regulus retrieved the still-warm brooch, thumb tracing the Sirius-star motif.

In wizard combat, mobility was one of the deadliest advantages.

No matter how vicious your spells, how deep your magic — miss the target and it counted for nothing.

Apparition was classified as essential magic precisely because it let a wizard appear without warning, vanish just as fast — strike and run, keeping the opponent off balance.

But Apparition had its limits: preparation time, no continuous use, distance caps, and total shutdown by Anti-Apparition wards.

If he could someday master this spatial-warping ability...

It wouldn't have to be translocating his whole body — though that would be ideal.

It could be the spell itself. A Disarming Charm fires, vanishes mid-flight, and reappears behind the enemy.

Or a Shield Charm, cast from a distance, wrapping the opponent in a reversed cocoon that seals their own magic inside.

Push the idea further still.

If his spatial perception sharpened enough, could he see the internal structure of an enemy's body?

Could he make a spell bypass every external defense and detonate directly inside the opponent's organs — or brain?

Shield Charms, protective enchantments, Protego Maxima — all of it rendered decorative.

And with no distance to cross, the cast itself would be the hit. Practically a causal strike.

Regulus set down the brooch and walked to the window.

Outside, the sky had darkened. Snow was falling again, flake by flake settling on the glass, melting quickly into tiny droplets.

London's lights blurred into hazy patches behind the curtain of snow — impossible to tell which lamps were Muggle, which were wizard.

Grand ideas — but far too early.

All of them were castles in the sky; the foundations weren't even laid.

Spatial magic: barely a toe in the water. Nature Magic: beginner level. Transfiguration: still building basics. None solid enough, each demanding time and rigorous polish.

But at least the direction was set.

A road no one else had walked — one carved from his own understanding of magic's essence.

......

At dinner, Walburga brought up Sirius again.

"That wretch!" She sawed at her steak as though hacking an enemy; knife and plate collided in a grating screech.

"Won't come home for Christmas! Hasn't written a single letter! What kind of bewitching potion has the Potter family fed him — he doesn't even want his own name anymore!"

Orion kept his head down, eating his roast potatoes in silence.

Regulus quietly cut his lamb into uniform cubes and ate them one by one.

They both knew Walburga wasn't looking for a discussion. She just needed to vent.

Engage, and she'd ride the momentum into a thirty-minute tirade.

But ignore her, and she'd burn herself out. Quick to flare, quick to fade.

Privately, Regulus reflected that this was only the beginning.

Sirius hadn't come home this Christmas; Walburga had ranted for one evening. Next year, if he still didn't come, she'd rant for three days.

Eventually, when he stopped coming back for good and moved in with the Potters, she'd dust off the same monologue every Christmas and perform it again.

From wretch to traitor. From 'doesn't want this family name' to 'doesn't deserve this family name.'

Like a play on a fixed schedule — lines memorized, emotions rehearsed.

Walburga railed for roughly ten minutes, then stopped.

She set down her utensils, lifted her wine glass, and took a deep gulp of red. The fury on her face hadn't entirely dissipated; her cheeks were flushed with agitation.

Then she turned to Regulus. "Oh, by the way."

Her tone softened abruptly, carrying a deliberately casual air — as if she'd just remembered some trifle.

"Several people have been praising you lately. Missus Malfoy, Missus Nott, Missus Yaxley — all hinting that you'll accomplish great things."

She watched Regulus with eyes that mixed curiosity with the familiar, boast-tinged expectancy.

That look — Regulus knew it by heart. He'd seen it since childhood.

"So how far along..." Walburga leaned forward, voice dropping, as though prying a secret.

"...are you, exactly? They're being so mysterious about it, you'd think you were about to become Minister for Magic tomorrow."

Regulus set down his fork, dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and looked toward Orion at the far end of the table.

With Walburga, one could not tell the whole truth.

She was no Orion. She wouldn't coolly weigh pros and cons; she wouldn't jealously guard a secret.

If she knew, it was tantamount to every lady in her tea-party circle knowing.

Tell her today, and by tomorrow the entire pure-blood world would be buzzing about just how extraordinary the Blacks' younger son had become.

But telling her nothing at all wouldn't work either.

She needed solid material for boasting — proof that her son outshone everyone else's.

Give her nothing to flaunt and she'd keep pressing — or worse, guess wildly. And who knew what outlandish conclusions she'd reach on her own.

Orion caught his son's glance and set down his glass.

"Regulus does have a certain gift." His voice was as level as a Wizengamot briefing.

"The first-year Hogwarts curriculum — he's essentially mastered it. Some higher-year material, he's been studying on his own."

Walburga's eyes lit up at once. "Such as?"

"Such as Apparition." Orion said truthfully. "I supervised his practice the other day. He succeeded on the first attempt."

"Really?" Walburga's voice jumped an octave, face alight with astonishment. "He's only eleven!"

"Yes." Orion nodded and continued listing.

"In Potions, Professor Slughorn says his level already surpasses fifth-years. In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall personally mentors him — she even gave him one of her own research notebooks.

In Charms, Professor Flitwick regularly awards him extra marks and says his proficiency is far beyond his classmates."

With every item, Walburga's smile broadened another degree, the light in her eyes another shade brighter.

By the end, her whole being seemed to radiate. The joy and pride swelling from her core were practically overflowing.

"I knew it!" Undisguised satisfaction rang through her voice. "My Regulus — extraordinary from the very start! What are those other ladies' sons? This one plays Quidditch well, that one brews decent potions — our Regulus excels at everything!"