Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Regulus wandered through the shop and picked up a cauldron fitted with a temperature gauge.

Clever design: temperature-sensing rune-script on the inner wall, with corresponding readouts on the outer surface showing the current heat — no more guessing by experience when brewing potions.

"Like it? Take one." The witch noticed his interest and winked. "Your father won't charge you."

Regulus set the cauldron down, voice tinged with regret. "School doesn't allow it."

"Hogwarts and its rules." The witch shook her head disapprovingly. "My grandson goes there too — writes home complaining every other day."

The third shop was a general store stocking all manner of magical household goods.

Self-sweeping brooms. Boxes that kept food fresh. Weather-forecasting crystal balls. Quills that wrote on their own.

This was the largest and busiest of the three; five or six customers queued at the till.

The shopkeeper, a balding wizard, was ringing up an elderly witch. He spotted Orion and Regulus and gave a quick nod — hands never stopping.

Orion didn't interrupt. He walked Regulus through the store, checked product dates on several shelves, and glanced at the ledger by the register. Only when the shopkeeper had cleared the rush did Orion approach.

"John — business is brisk."

"All thanks to you, sir." The wizard called John mopped his brow. "Christmas just passed — everyone's been in for gifts."

"This is Regulus." Orion stepped aside. "My son."

John studied Regulus for a moment, then smiled. "Takes after you — and a touch of Missus Walburga. When the time comes for him to take over the shops, look after us old-timers."

Regulus nodded politely. "Good to meet you."

Leaving Diagon Alley, Orion led Regulus into a narrower side alley.

He fished two battered-looking teapot lids from his pocket and handed one to Regulus.

"Portkey." Orion said. "Grip tight. Activates in five seconds."

Regulus closed his fingers around the cold, rusty lid. Five seconds later, a tremendous force surged from it — as though a hook had latched behind his navel and yanked.

The world spun. Color and sound mashed together.

Nothing like Apparition's compression — more like being flung into a washing machine on spin cycle. The industrial kind, not the gentle tumbler.

When it stopped, they stood on a barren highland.

Wind howled across the moor, snapping their robes. In the distance, rolling grey-green hills; nearby, a cluster of squat stone buildings, white smoke curling from chimneys.

The air was thick with herbs, undercut by earth and rain.

"Scottish Highlands. The potions workshop." Orion pocketed the Portkey and headed for the stone buildings.

The workshop foreman was an old wizard with deep-carved wrinkles. He wore a leather apron stained with every potion imaginable, a long-handled stirring rod in his grip. At the sight of Orion, he gave a curt nod — expression dead serious.

"Ingredients are up." That was his opening line. "Acromantula venom from Africa is thirty percent dearer than last year. Mooncalf horn powder from South America, twenty percent."

"Noted." Orion's response was clipped. "Let me see inside first."

The workshop interior was far more spacious than the exterior suggested — Extension Charms at work.

A dozen large cauldrons sat over magical flames, bubbling steadily. Wizards in matching aprons manned the stations, stirring rods in hand, periodically adding ingredients.

Recipes and safety notices papered the walls. Shelves held hundreds of glass bottles filled with powders and liquids in every conceivable color.

The old wizard walked them through, explaining what each cauldron was brewing, the progress, the estimated delivery date.

Orion listened attentively, asking the occasional question.

Regulus trailed behind, watching the workers handle materials, control heat, and adjust formulas with practiced ease.

Their movements were deft, their focus total — clearly veterans.

A younger wizard was brewing an Elixir to Induce Euphoria; golden bubbles rose from the liquid, releasing a sweet fragrance.

"This batch yields thirty vials," the foreman explained. "Bottled tomorrow, delivered to Diagon Alley the day after."

"Keep the quality tight." Orion cautioned. "A customer complained last time — said the effect only lasted three hours."

"That was an ingredient issue." The foreman frowned. "Current Billywig stings aren't what they used to be. I'll look into alternatives."

After the potions workshop, two more Portkey jumps took them to the alchemy atelier in Wales and the herbology garden in Cornwall.

The Welsh atelier was built inside a cavern, the interior sweltering like a steam room.

Dozens of anvils lined two rows; goblins and wizards worked side by side, the clang of hammers relentless.

Regulus surveyed the scene and decided this was less an alchemy laboratory and more a smithy — the technical sophistication was modest.

A far cry from the alchemical lab in his imagination. But on reflection, the goods produced here targeted the budget end of the market — volume over finesse — so the lower complexity made sense.

The Cornwall herbology garden sprawled across tens of acres, shielded by magical barriers, and was planted wall to wall with magical flora.

Moonpetal flowers closed their silver petals during the day. Venomous Tentacula writhed restlessly under glass domes. Mandrakes grew in soundproofed greenhouses, signs reading DANGER — KEEP OUT hung outside.

The head gardener was a tanned, stocky witch with thick fingers, dirt packed beneath every nail.

"Good weather this year — harvest up twenty percent over last." She was still loosening soil around a dittany plant as she talked. "Gnomes keep causing trouble, though. Set traps — caught a dozen or so."

"Handle them the usual way." Orion instructed. "Pelts to Knockturn Alley. Meat to the animals in Ireland."

The final stop was the magical-beast farm in Ireland.

Larger by far than any of the earlier sites — the boundaries lost in the distance.

Separate enclosures, divided by magical fences, housed all manner of creatures.

A pond teemed with Grindylows. A wood sheltered Bowtruckles. A cave held a few Erkling.

An Erumpent ambled across a rocky, sparsely vegetated slope. A tall wooden structure revealed the glint of Occamy plumage.

The farm manager was a ruddy-faced giant of a man with a booming voice.

"Everything's fine!" He thumped his chest. "Only complaint — feed's up again. Dragon liver's forty percent costlier than last year."

"If it goes up, it goes up." Orion's tone was offhand. "Don't stint on these animals. Raise them poorly and you can't sell them for top price."

Regulus leaned against the fence, watching a Bowtruckle poke its head from a tree hollow and study him with curiosity.

The tiny creature was palm-sized, eyes jet-black, fingers slender.

It stared for a moment, then lobbed an acorn that bounced at Regulus's feet — and ducked back into the hollow, emitting a rustling giggle.

"It likes you." The farm manager laughed heartily. "Bowtruckles usually ignore people."

Three days at Orion's side, and Regulus had only managed to tour the major holdings.

And this was still the cursory version — a brisk overview, nothing more.

Only now did he grasp that the Black fortune extended far beyond the old townhouse at 12 Grimmauld Place and those three Diagon Alley shops.

From the Scottish Highlands to the Irish coast, from the Welsh valleys to the Cornish plains — Black land, workshops, plantations, and farms were everywhere.

And this was just the domestic portfolio.

"What about abroad?" One evening, lodging at an Irish inn, Regulus asked Orion.

"Vineyards in France — magical wine." Orion sat by the hearth, ledger in hand.

"An ore quarry in Germany — rare metals. A spice plantation in India. A magical-creature reserve in North Africa. But you're heading back to school soon; those can wait."

Regulus sat on the opposite bed, processing.

He'd always known the Blacks were wealthy. He'd never known where the wealth came from.

Now he did. Potions, alchemy, herbology, magical creatures — the wizarding world's essential industries — the Black family had a stake in every one. Not a monopoly, but far from a minor share.

And they'd been at it for centuries. The entire supply chain was integrated: from growing and breeding raw materials, through processing and manufacturing, to retail sales. The whole pipeline sat in Black hands.

What surprised him most was the people.

Every manager, every craftsman in the workshops, every gardener, every beast-keeper.

They didn't all bear the Black name, but every one was tied to the family by a web of threads.

Some came from lines that had worked for the Blacks for generations. Some were distant branches of the family tree. Some belonged to minor families surviving under the Black umbrella.

It was a vast, complete ecosystem.

The Blacks at the apex. Below them, layer upon layer of enterprises and dependents — like a great tree.

The trunk was the name Black. The branches were the industries. The roots were the countless people who earned their living under that name.

This was the true worth of an ancient pure-blood house.