Chapter 71: Attitudes and Conjecture
Orion didn't argue. The Killing Curse was, in truth, not especially esoteric magic; its power depended more on the caster's magical strength and intent to kill.
A hesitant heart would blunt the effect dramatically — at most producing a nosebleed.
He was merely curious — or rather, perplexed: "If I hadn't intervened, would you really have killed him?"
Regulus looked at the still-twitching cold wizard on the ground. A few seconds of silence.
On this question, he decided to tell his father the truth: "I have no qualms about killing."
"But I wouldn't use the Killing Curse for it. Not right now, at least — the Killing Curse draws too much attention."
Regulus held up his wand and examined it. "Especially with one's own wand. Too much hassle."
He went on: "Besides, there are far too many ways to kill. Without magic — physical means: snap the neck, puncture the heart, sever the artery.
With magic but no Dark Arts: Transfigure the air in his lungs into poison gas. Turn the blood in his veins to mercury. A well-placed impact spell. A fall from a great height.
The environment works just as well: detonate an explosive, engineer a collapse. You don't even need to lift a finger — just leave him here. Someone always needs experimental material." With each method listed, Orion's eyes narrowed another fraction.
He was studying the thinking pattern behind his son's words: cold, rational, pragmatic — no consideration of morality, only efficiency and risk.
Classic pure-blood wizard reasoning — yet more lucid than most.
Certain pure-blood houses liked to claim the mantle of righteousness, as though their status and Wizengamot seats had been won through love and peace.
"Then if I hadn't appeared," Orion pressed, "how would you have handled these four?"
Regulus turned to his father and answered with a question: "Does our family... deal in human-related trade?"
Orion regarded him steadily. A long pause before he spoke: "Yes. Knockturn Alley has three clinics and two alchemical labs under us. They need materials on a regular basis.
Primarily Dark wizards, werewolves, vampires — types unprotected by law."
Seeing no change in Regulus's expression, Orion added: "Occasionally Muggles."
Regulus nodded. He said nothing more, but the implication was crystal clear.
Orion didn't press further. He wasn't surprised by his son's attitude — he himself had no qualms about killing.
As patriarch of the House of Black, as a man who had navigated the wizarding elite for decades, his hands could not possibly be clean.
The Knockturn Alley enterprises — some he tacitly permitted, some he directly controlled, some he had set up from the ground.
He simply didn't want Regulus to take a life with his own hands so young.
Not a question of morality — a question of psychology.
Killing was different the first time. Different the hundredth time. Different again the thousandth.
The first left a mark — something carved into the soul.
Orion had hoped Regulus would grow a little more, wait until his inner framework was sturdier, more settled, before crossing that line.
But it appeared Regulus might already have crossed it.
That crossing didn't necessarily require an actual killing. It sprang from cognition.
Perhaps, in Regulus's mind, killing wasn't sacred or taboo — merely an option, a means, a method of solving a problem.
Like using a knife on vegetables, fire to boil water. Natural. Ordinary. Not worth investing with excess meaning.
Whether that was good or bad — hard to say.
But Regulus could summon a Patronus. That meant there was nothing to worry about.
Orion gave the four bodies one last look, then flicked his wand.
Four precise Stunning Spells struck their foreheads, knocking them completely unconscious. Another flick — the four floated off the ground and drifted along behind him.
"Come on." He gestured to Regulus. "Time to go home."
They left the side-alley and returned to Knockturn Alley's main street.
Foot traffic was still sparse — everyone head-down, hustling. Nobody spared a thought for the four unconscious bodies floating in their wake.
The odd passerby glanced — spotted the Black crest on Orion's robe — and immediately looked away, pretending to have seen nothing.
Such was Knockturn Alley's law: mind your own business if you want to live long.
They deposited the four bodies at a shop, then walked toward the darkened passage at Knockturn Alley's exit. Orion paused and said: "Today's events — don't mention them to your mother."
Regulus shot him a mildly puzzled look, then nodded after a beat. "Of course."
"One more thing." Orion thought a moment. "We visit Knockturn Alley several times a year. From now on, come along. Watch. Learn. But don't act rashly — some things, knowing is enough. You don't have to do them yourself."
"Understood."
They emerged from the passage and stood before the clean brick wall of Diagon Alley.
Sunlight poured down — warm, bright. The air was fresh and clean; children's laughter drifted from nearby.
Compared to Knockturn Alley's dim, squalid underworld, this place was paradise.
......
By the time they Returned from Knockturn Alley to 12 Grimmauld Place, dusk had settled. The hearth blazed in welcome.
Kreacher took Orion's robe, then unfastened the clasp of Regulus's cloak — quick, practiced movements.
Dinner was served in the dining room. The long table was laden with dishes Walburga had personally overseen.
Lamb cutlets browned to gold. Snails in cream sauce gratinéed to perfection. A mound of mashed potato. And Regulus's favorite — pumpkin pie.
Candlelight danced beneath the crystal chandelier; silver cutlery cast soft reflections.
Walburga sat at the head of the table, eyes never leaving Regulus.
She watched him cut his lamb, sip his soup, eat his pie — pride and worry mingling on her face almost to overflowing.
"Back to school tomorrow." Walburga sliced her own cutlet, the cutlery clinking crisply against porcelain. "Everything packed?"
"All packed." Regulus swallowed a bite and looked up at his mother.
"Take care of yourself at school. Don't just bury yourself in studying." Concern warmed her voice.
"You're still growing — eat when you should eat, sleep when you should sleep. The coursework isn't hard for you; no need to push yourself."
Her tone shifted. "That said — fight for what needs fighting.
A Black cannot fall behind. If anyone gets out of line, put them in their place. Show them what our family is made of."
Regulus listened quietly, nodding here and there.
He was long accustomed to his mother's contradictory exhortations — one breath urging rest or the body, the next demanding he uphold the family honor without easing up.
After dinner, Orion went to his study to handle paperwork. Regulus followed.
When he knocked and entered, Orion was standing at the window, gazing at the street outside.
Hearing the door, he turned. Seeing Regulus, he pointed to the chair facing the desk. "Sit."
Regulus sat and organized his thoughts.
"Father." He was direct. "About the Malfoy situation — I'd like to share a few observations."
Orion returned to his desk chair, hands clasped on the surface, and waited.
"Abraxas Malfoy — how is his health?" Regulus asked.
"Saw him at a gathering not long ago. Seemed in good spirits." Orion said. "Getting on in years, though — the usual minor ailments. Why do you ask?"
"Just a thought." Regulus's tone was even. "If old Malfoy were to meet with some misfortune — illness, injury, or worse — what happens to the Malfoy family?"
Orion's eyes narrowed. "Have you heard something?"
"No rumors." Regulus shook his head.
"Merely conjecture. Among the pure-blood families, the Malfoys are riding highest right now. Old Malfoy is a shrewd operator — he's built the house to its zenith. But perhaps... that isn't necessarily a good thing."
Regulus watched his father's expression, and seeing no intervention, continued.
"Especially under current conditions. Voldemort needs loyal followers, not hard-to-control allies.
A family that is too powerful and too independently minded may not suit his purposes."
Orion leaned forward slightly. "What are you implying?"
"I'm not implying — I'm speculating." Regulus shook his head.
"Let's assume it happens. If old Malfoy truly met with an accident, who benefits most?
Lucius would take over the family, but he's too young, too inexperienced, and far less deft than his father.
At that point, what does the Malfoy family become? A house with wealth but insufficient strength and judgment — a tool far easier to control and exploit."
He looked at Orion. "Which Malfoy would Voldemort prefer? The elder — shrewd but not fully within his grasp? Or Lucius — far more pliable?"
The study fell silent.
Orion's fingers tapped softly on the desk. He was thinking.
"That's a dangerous speculation — and a bold one. Abraxas has been Voldemort's public supporter; the two have worked together for years. There's no reason to —"