Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Walburga launched into yet another round of comparisons — measuring Regulus against every pure-blood heir she could name. The verdict, inevitably, was that her Regulus came out on top.

Regulus lowered his head and returned to the lamb cutlet that had gone slightly cold. Orion, too, picked up his knife and fork and sliced off another piece of roast potato.

Neither breathed a word about the deeper matters.

The Nature Magic research. The spatial-warping experiments. The star-orbit meditation's progress. The Dark Arts texts from the Restricted Section. The strategy for navigating Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

Walburga didn't need to know any of it — and mustn't. That was not her world, nor a realm she should set foot in.

But what Orion had just told her was more than enough to fuel her boasting through half a year of tea parties, banquets, and social gatherings.

She would become the envy of every pure-blood wife. More families would seek alliances and marriage ties with the Blacks. More resources, spurred by confidence in Regulus's future, would tilt toward the House of Black.

That was all they needed.

"And... after graduation?" Walburga asked, longing and anticipation lacing every word. "How far can he go? The Ministry? The Wizengamot? Or perhaps like Dumbledore—"

Regulus was mildly exasperated. 'You certainly dream big, Mother.' Dumbledore? Even I wouldn't presume that far.

But — someday, perhaps.

Orion was silent for several seconds, thrown by Walburga's ambition. That was, after all, the greatest wizard of the century. If Dumbledore lived to see the next...

At that thought, Orion's gaze slid to Regulus. If Dumbledore survived into the next century... it honestly wasn't certain which of them would be the greater.

"At his current trajectory," he met Walburga's eyes, voice carefully deliberate, "by graduation, he could be at elite Auror level."

That was the most conservative possible estimate — even assuming Regulus somehow lost every spark of brilliance.

Privately, Orion thought: if Regulus maintained this rate of growth, the bar would be crossed long before graduation.

By the end of third year, he'd likely surpass most active-duty Aurors.

At seventeen, when he came of age — Orion hardly dared imagine. Perhaps truly comparable to a young Dumbledore, or a young Grindelwald.

But those words must never reach Walburga.

She'd leap from her chair and dance, then tomorrow inform every acquaintance that her son could run the Auror Office by second year.

That would thrust Regulus into the spotlight, inviting endless unwanted scrutiny, jealousy — even hostility.

Worse, it might draw a more direct and forceful approach from Voldemort himself. A personal overture. Now that would be real trouble.

"Elite Auror..." Walburga repeated the words, face beaming as if she'd just drained an entire bottle of Felix Felicis.

"Good — good! The House of Black is finally producing a truly great figure! Let's see who dares say we have no worthy successor!"

She plunged into fantasies of the future: Regulus entering the Ministry, rising to Minister for Magic.

The House of Black reclaiming its place at the head of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place thronged with every pure-blood family clamoring for favor.

Regulus listened in silence, offering the occasional nod, but his mind had already drifted elsewhere.

Nature Magic — which plant to try tomorrow?

Mandrake was too dangerous for now, but Venomous Tentacula or Devil's Snare might be viable.

Spatial Warping's magical cost was absurd; he needed to find ways to cut consumption, or it'd be useless in real combat.

The star-orbit Occlumency labyrinth was nearly finished, but the defensive architecture needed a few more stress tests.

And those Restricted Section texts on passive magic — he had to carve out time to scan a few more...

The road was long. There was so much left to learn.

A single dinner wasn't enough to think through everything that needed planning and preparation.

But one thing was certain: he was walking this road step by step, and every step landed solid.

Outside the window, snow continued to fall — flake upon flake blanketing London's streets and rooftops, burying the Muggle noise, hiding the wizard secrets.

Inside 12 Grimmauld Place, the hearth burned strong. Firelight danced across the dining-room walls. A family sat together at the long table.

Mother, lost in visions of the family's glory — immersed in a future she'd woven herself.

Father, weighing reality's trade-offs — calculating risk and return in every move.

Son, plotting his own course — thinking of how to grow stronger, how to reach farther.

A warm evening in the House of Black.

......

A few days before the holiday ended, Orion set aside his copy of the Daily Prophet at the breakfast table.

"Come with me today." He sliced into a fried egg and looked at Regulus. "Time you saw the family holdings."

Regulus looked up — mid-spread, butter knife in hand over a piece of bread — a flicker of interest, though he said nothing. He watched his father, waiting.

Orion sipped his coffee before continuing: "You'll be taking over the House of Black one day. You can't spend your whole life between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place. There are things you ought to see."

Regulus nodded, placed the buttered bread in his mouth, chewed, swallowed. Then: "All right."

This was far from a waste of time. The Black estates would, in the end, all be his. Familiarizing himself now was simply getting a head start on what already belonged to him.

Besides, traveling with Orion meant seeing parts of the wizarding world beyond the usual scenery.

After breakfast, Regulus changed into a dark robe, slipped his wand into the inner pocket, and pinned the Black family brooch at his chest.

When he came downstairs, Orion was already waiting in the entrance hall, a roll of parchment in hand covered in dense writing.

"Diagon Alley shops first." Orion glanced at the parchment.

"Then the potions workshop in the Scottish Highlands, the alchemy atelier in Wales, the herbology garden in Cornwall, the magical-beast farm in Ireland, and finally Knockturn Alley."

Listening to his father recite the itinerary, Regulus knew this trip would span half the British Isles.

"Portkeys for the distant sites." Orion rolled up the parchment. "You can't Apparate anywhere you haven't been."

They walked to the center of the entrance hall. Orion extended his left hand; Regulus placed his on top.

The familiar compression — seconds later, they stood in a quiet back-alley off Diagon Alley, the grimy wall marking the Knockturn Alley entrance behind them.

The Black family kept three shops in Diagon Alley.

The first was a potions shop in the mid-section — Silvermoon Apothecary read the sign.

Modestly sized but superbly located. The display window was lined with bottles of strangely colored potions, labels affixed to each.

Skele-Gro. Pepperup Potion. Baruffio's Brain Elixir. Draught of Living Death. Elixir to Induce Euphoria...

All standard fare. Regulus suspected the family also ran a potions outlet in Knockturn Alley — selling what Diagon Alley wouldn't allow.

A tall, thin wizard was organizing stock behind the counter. The instant Orion walked in, he straightened.

"Mister Black." His voice carried deference. "And young Mister Black."

"Marcus." Orion offered a measured nod. "I've reviewed this month's ledger. Revenue is up seven percent over last month."

"Yes, sir." The wizard called Marcus broke into a smile. "The new sleep-aid potion is selling well. Quite a few students' parents have been buying."

Orion made a circuit of the shop, checking expiry labels on several shelves and asking supply-chain questions.

Marcus answered every one — clearly, concisely — evidently well versed in the business.

Regulus followed his father in silence, studying the layout, the merchandise arrangement, the pace of customer traffic.

He noted that despite its compact size, the shop stocked a comprehensive range — from basic boil-remedy potions all the way up to pricey Felix Felicis — and every label was neatly affixed, every bottle wiped spotless.

"Marcus's grandfather worked in the Black family shops."

After they left, Orion told Regulus: "His father managed the herbology garden in Wales. Now it's Marcus's turn. There are many like him."

The second shop was an alchemical-goods store in the northern stretch of Diagon Alley. Its sign depicted a cauldron and a wand crossed over each other.

The inventory was eclectic: self-stirring cauldrons, constant-temperature potion racks, hourglasses with chiming functions, wand accessories that amplified spell power.

The shopkeeper was a stout witch, hair combed to perfection. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw Orion.

"Orion — you're finally here!" Her voice was bright. "That last batch of self-stirring cauldrons had an issue. The stirring rods stop after three rotations. They need reworking."

Orion frowned. "Which workshop?"

"The one in Wales. I've told them three times; each time they promise to fix it — and each time the next shipment arrives exactly the same."

Hands on hips, she didn't mince words. "You need to sort this out. Any more of this and we'll ruin our reputation."

Orion pulled a small notebook from his pocket and jotted a few lines. "I'm heading to Wales this afternoon. I'll see to it personally."