Chapter 65: Boundless Wonder — The Patronus
Regulus came away with a sharper understanding of this ancient surname — one that tangibly shaped people's lives.
A stray thought surfaced: 'Have I been too frugal?'
At Hogwarts he never spent a Knut beyond necessities — books and ingredients, nothing more.
But looking at it now, the Black fortune was inexhaustible. He could toss away a hundred Galleons a day for ten years and barely dent it.
How could Muggle-borns and half-bloods possibly compete?
Even some pure-blood houses struggled — families that pinched every Sickle to afford a decent wand — while behind Regulus stood a dynasty commanding an entire supply chain of wizarding industry.
The gap was beyond personal talent to bridge. This was structural advantage, compounded over centuries, rooted bone-deep.
Then another question occurred to him: in the original timeline, who had all this wealth gone to?
Could Sirius, profligate as he was, really have squandered every last holding?
12 Grimmauld Place — what was one townhouse worth? Measured against an enterprise spanning the British Isles, a single building was nothing.
In the original story, the Black holdings had probably been carved up after Walburga and Orion died.
The Malfoys likely claimed a share. The Lestranges another. Other pure-blood families, the scraps.
Sirius inherited the empty shell without ever knowing the real wealth had long been swallowed.
But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that every asset still sat in Black hands.
What mattered was that every last bit of it would be his — and nobody was going to take it.
Then he remembered: Voldemort, too, was a half-blood — born with none of this. But unlike others, he could simply seize it. And he would.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, thumb running along his wand, replaying everything he'd seen over the past three days.
'Even Voldemort will not take what's mine.'
......
Late on the third afternoon, they stood on a cliff along Ireland's west coast.
Below, black rock plunged dozens of meters. Waves hammered the stone, erupting into white foam.
On the distant horizon where sea met sky, the sun was sinking slowly beneath the water, painting the heavens in gold and crimson.
A salt-sharp wind swept over them, lifting Regulus's robe behind him.
He stood at the cliff's edge and took in the vista.
In eleven years of life, Regulus had spent most of his time inside the old house at 12 Grimmauld Place.
Then Hogwarts — but that was only a castle and its surrounding grounds.
He had never seen the truly vast world. Never laid eyes on a great mountain or a great ocean, a wilderness or an open plain.
Over these three days, trailing Orion, he had crossed half the British Isles.
He had seen the Scottish Highlands — barren, magnificent hills. The mist-wreathed forests of the Welsh valleys.
The sun-drenched, teeming herbology garden in Cornwall. Ireland's tempestuous sea crashing against the coast.
The world was this big. The wizarding world, this rich and varied.
Not merely Hogwarts classrooms and corridors, Diagon Alley shops and cobblestones, wearying rounds of pure-blood banquets and intrigue — and the stars overhead.
There was also this: boundless land, stunning scenery, vivid life.
Regulus drew a deep breath of salt-tanged air. Something inside him was loosening.
He had been living like a precision instrument — every step premeditated, every decision weighed for advantage, every action vetted for consequence.
He had wrapped himself in a shell of composure and reason, allowing almost no emotion, no turbulence — afraid it would cloud his judgment, derail his plans.
But now, standing on this cliff, watching the sunset melt into the sea, hearing waves pound the rock, he thought: 'Maybe I don't have to live wound so tight.'
Magic was his road. Power was his goal. But on that road, he was also allowed to stop and look at the view.
What was the point of growing stronger?
Wasn't it precisely so he could live freely — go wherever he wished, see whatever he wished to see?
Orion stood beside him, saying nothing.
The patriarch of the House of Black watched his son's profile, watched those grey eyes catch the sunset's gold.
He noticed Regulus's expression was different from usual — not the preternatural calm and gravity that outstripped his years, but something closer to what an eleven-year-old ought to show: pure absorption, genuine curiosity.
Orion quietly exhaled in relief. He had always worried this son carried too heavy a mind.
Never crying, never fussing, never making a scene — always the little adult.
In a pure-blood family that was, of course, praiseworthy. What parent didn't want a mature, self-possessed child?
He took pride in it. He was grateful for it.
But as a father, Orion also hoped Regulus could experience things that were simply beautiful — feel the joy of being alive — look at the world with the wonder and longing a real child should have.
Now, at last, he was seeing a hint of that.
Regulus was unaware of his father's gaze. Every fiber of attention was on the panorama before him.
The wind rose. It tousled his hair. He stretched out a hand and let the gust slip through his fingers, feeling the invisible force.
Then he closed his eyes and let magic flow through his body naturally.
Something extraordinary happened.
His magic stirred to life — as though some invisible tether had snapped free — coursing through him with a lightness and buoyancy he had never known.
It was answering his emotions. And in that moment, Regulus understood something.
Magic was not merely a calculable, controllable, harvestable energy.
It, too, was alive. It had a vitality of its own — shifting with the wizard's mood and state.
When he was coolly calculating, magic ran precise and stable. When wonder moved him, magic leapt and sang.
Perhaps the two were not contradictory at all.
Magic could be rigorous science — demanding computation, logic, careful inference, and disciplined practice.
But magic could also be vivid and warm, brimming with boundless possibility.
Like this ocean. He could calculate its tides and wave mechanics with physics and mathematics — or he could simply stand here and feel its grandeur and beauty.
And what was magic, at its core?
A wizard using will and power to shape the world.
The wizard was the subject. Magic was the tool. The world was the canvas.
If the wizard lived like a machine, the magic he produced would be nothing but cold incantation.
But if the wizard was truly alive — with feelings, with awe, with aspiration — might the magic become something different?
Regulus opened his eyes.
Half the sun had sunk. The sea seemed to burn, trembling with gold and crimson light.
A seabird launched from below the cliff, spread its wings, and rode the updraft in a soaring spiral.
The conviction he'd held so rigidly began, quietly, to give.
Perhaps he didn't have to choose between rational calculation and emotional experience. Perhaps he could have both.
Rationality to chart the path. Feeling to live the journey. Calculation to govern magic. Heart to receive it.
That might be better.
The instant the thought formed, his wand was in his hand.
He followed the impulse erupting from within — something that had been mounting in his chest like a volcano, building far too long.
The yearning for freedom. The hunger for a vast world. The hope of shattering every constraint. And, in this very moment before this magnificent scene, the purest, most direct feeling of wonder.
A wonder that surpassed anything he had felt before.
Greater than the satisfaction of mastering a new spell. Greater than the control of defeating an opponent. Greater than the fulfillment of acquiring knowledge.
Something deeper — as though rising from the very depths of his soul.
'It is good to be alive. The world is beautiful. I want to see more, experience more, become more.'
Magic boiled inside him, shattering the calm orbit of star-path meditation, rushing like a joyous brook, every mote of power singing the same emotion.
Elation. Aspiration. Freedom. Desire.
Regulus raised his wand.
Orion turned at the movement. Gratification gave way to puzzlement.
He didn't know what Regulus intended. The place, the hour, the setting — none of it looked like a training exercise.
Regulus was past noticing his father.
He breathed deep — filled his lungs with salt wind, his eyes with sunset gold, his ears with the thunder of waves — and let the surging emotion crest.
Then, facing the wind, bathed in the dying light, he spoke the incantation: "Expecto Patronum."
Silver-white brilliance erupted from the tip of his wand — a torrent, a breached dam — instantly illuminating the cliff's edge and engulfing Regulus in radiance.
The light was fierce yet not blinding, warm as a winter hearth, pure as highland snow.
The silver glow began to coalesce.