Regulus had a clearer understanding now of what that ancient surname truly meant. It wasn't just prestige, or old portraits glaring from dark hallways. It was something real, something that shaped the lives of countless people.
A thought popped into his head, so abrupt it almost made him laugh. Have I been… too frugal?
At Hogwarts, he never spent more than he had to. Books, supplies, necessities. That was it.
But looking at it now, the Black family's wealth was the kind that didn't run out. Even if he tossed a hundred galleons a day into a fire, he could keep doing it for ten years and still not empty the vault.
What could a Muggle-born or a half-blood possibly compare with?
Even some pure-blood families couldn't. There were houses that had to pinch pennies just to buy a decent wand, while Regulus stood behind a name that controlled an entire chain of industries in the magical world.
That gap wasn't something personal talent could bridge. It was structural, centuries-old, deeply rooted. An advantage built over hundreds of years.
Then another question followed right on its heels.
With a foundation like this, in the life he was supposed to have, who had it benefited in the end?
Even if Sirius squandered money like it was water, could he really ruin all of it?
How much was the old house at 12 Grimmauld Place worth, truly?
Compared to holdings spread across the British Isles, one townhouse was nothing.
Maybe, in the original story, after Walburga and Orion died, the Black family's businesses had been carved up by other houses.
The Malfoys taking a portion. The Lestranges taking a portion. Other pure-blood families dipping their hands in for their share.
Sirius inheriting an empty shell, never realizing the real wealth had already been swallowed.
But none of that mattered now.
What mattered was that the businesses were still in Black hands.
What mattered was that one day they would be his, and no one was taking them.
And then Regulus thought of Voldemort.
Voldemort was a half-blood too. He hadn't been born into any of this. Unlike everyone else, though, he could take what he wanted, and he could get away with it.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, thumb brushing the smooth wood of his wand as he replayed everything he'd seen these past days.
Even Voldemort was not taking what belonged to him.
---
On the afternoon of the third day, they stood on a cliff along Ireland's western coast.
Below them, a black drop of rock plunged dozens of meters down. Waves hammered the stone and burst into white foam.
Far out where sea met sky, the sun was sinking slowly into the water.
The wind came in hard, sharp with salt, snapping Regulus's robe backward.
He stood near the edge and stared.
For eleven years, most of his life had been spent inside the old house at Grimmauld Place.
Then he'd gone to Hogwarts, but that was still only a castle and the land that surrounded it.
He hadn't seen a truly wide world. He hadn't seen mountains and oceans, wilderness and endless plains.
In three days, he'd crossed half the British Isles with Orion.
He'd seen the Scottish Highlands, bleak and magnificent. He'd seen forests in Welsh valleys, drowned in fog.
He'd seen Cornwall's herb gardens bursting with life under sunlight, and he'd seen the Irish coast where the sea surged like something alive.
The world was this big.
The wizarding world was this rich.
It wasn't only Hogwarts classrooms and corridors, Diagon Alley shops and streets, pure-blood feasts that never ended and the constant politicking that came with them, and the stars overhead.
There were places like this too.
Open land.
Grand views.
Living, breathing life.
Regulus drew in a deep breath of sea air, and something inside him loosened.
All his life, he'd lived like a machine built for calculation. Every step planned. Every decision weighed for profit and loss. Every action measured for consequence.
He'd wrapped himself in calm and reason, keeping emotion at arm's length so it wouldn't distort his judgment or disrupt his plans.
But standing on this cliff, watching the sun sink into the ocean and listening to waves shatter against rock, he suddenly thought that maybe he didn't have to live so tightly wound.
Magic was his path. Power was his pursuit. But even on that path, he could look at the scenery.
Why did he want strength in the first place?
Wasn't it so he could live freely, go anywhere he wanted, see any view he wished to see?
Orion stood beside him, silent.
The head of the House of Black watched his son's profile, watched gray eyes catching the sunset's gold.
He noticed Regulus looked different. Not that too-old calm and steadiness he wore like armor. This was something else, something Regulus's age should have, a pure focus and curiosity.
Relief eased through Orion.
He'd worried for years that his son carried too much weight inside him.
Even as a child, Regulus rarely cried. Rarely fussed. He never ran wild. He always looked like a miniature adult.
In a pure-blood family, that was praised. What parent didn't want a child who was mature and composed?
Orion had taken pride in it.
He still did.
But as a father, he also wanted Regulus to feel good things, to taste what it meant to be alive, to be a real child who looked at the world with wonder.
Now, finally, he saw the first hint of it.
Regulus didn't notice his father's gaze. All of his attention was on the view ahead.
The wind grew stronger, tousling his hair. He lifted a hand and let it stream between his fingers, feeling that invisible force as it passed.
Then he closed his eyes and let his magic circulate naturally through his body.
Something extraordinary happened.
In that moment, his magic became lively, as if some restraint had been undone. It flowed through him with a lightness he'd never felt before, bright and buoyant.
It was responding to him.
Regulus understood all at once.
Magic wasn't only a resource to calculate, control, and spend.
It was alive. It changed with the witch or wizard who carried it, shifting with emotion and state of mind.
When he was calm and calculating, his magic was precise and steady. When he felt moved, it became quick and joyful.
Maybe those two sides weren't enemies.
Magic could be a precise science. It could demand logic, careful deduction, rigorous practice.
But magic could also be warm.
Alive.
Full of endless possibility.
Like the sea below him. He could calculate tides and waves with mathematics and physics, or he could stand here and simply feel its vastness.
And what was the nature of magic, really?
A wizard used will and magic to influence the world.
The wizard was the center. Magic was the tool. The world was what was shaped.
If a wizard lived like a machine, then the magic they cast would be nothing but cold spells.
But if a wizard was alive, truly alive, with emotion and awe and longing, would their magic become something different too?
Regulus opened his eyes.
The sun had already sunk halfway. The sea looked like it was on fire, gleaming gold-red.
A seabird rose from below the cliff, spread its wings, and circled on an updraft.
The idea he'd clung to for so long began to loosen.
Maybe he didn't have to choose between rational calculation and emotional experience. Maybe he could have both.
Plan the road with reason. Experience the journey with feeling. Control magic with calculation, and understand magic with the heart.
Maybe that was better.
The instant the thought formed, his wand was already in his hand.
He gave himself to the rush rising in his chest, a pressure that had been building far too long.
His longing for freedom, his hunger for the wider world, his desire to break every chain, and the pure, immediate emotion of standing before something so vast and beautiful.
It was stronger than anything he'd felt before.
Stronger than the satisfaction of mastering a new spell. Stronger than the control of defeating an opponent. Stronger than the quiet fullness of gaining knowledge.
This was deeper, something that surged up from the soul.
Being alive is good.
The world is beautiful.
I want to see more.
I want to feel more.
I want to become more.
Magic boiled in his body, bursting past the calm circulation of star guided meditation. It rushed like a jubilant stream, each thread of it carrying the same feeling.
Joy, Longing, Freedom and Hunger.
Regulus raised his wand.
Orion turned, his thoughts shifting from quiet pride to confusion. He had no idea what Regulus intended. The place, the time, the whole scene didn't look like a practice session.
Regulus wasn't paying attention to his father anymore.
He drew in a breath, filling his lungs with salt wind. He let the sunset's gold flood his eyes. He let the roar of the waves fill his ears. He pushed that swelling emotion to its peak.
Then, facing into the wind, bathed in the fading light, he spoke the incantation.
"Expecto Patronum."
Silver-white light erupted from the tip of his wand, pouring out like a broken dam. In an instant it lit the cliff's edge, wrapping Regulus in brilliance.
The light was powerful but not harsh. It felt warm like a fire in winter, pure like snow on a high mountain.
The silver glow began to gather.
---
Stone plzzzzzz