Regulus wandered around the shop and picked up a cauldron with temperature markings to examine it.
It was quite cleverly designed. The inner wall was engraved with temperature-sensing runes, and the corresponding position on the outer wall would display the current temperature, eliminating the need to guess based on experience when brewing potions.
"If you like it, take one," the witch noticed Regulus's action and winked at him. "Your father won't charge you."
Regulus put down the cauldron and said in a regretful tone, "The school doesn't allow it."
"Hogwarts has so many rules," the witch shook her head disapprovingly. "My grandson is also studying there, always writing letters to complain."
The third shop was a general store, selling all sorts of magical household items.
Brooms that automatically cleaned, boxes that kept food fresh, crystal balls that forecast the weather, quills that could write by themselves.
This shop was the largest and had the most customers, with five or six people queued at the checkout counter.
The shopkeeper was a bald wizard, busy checking out an elderly witch. When he saw Orion and Regulus, he nodded in greeting without pausing his work.
Orion didn't disturb him either. He took Regulus for a walk around the shop, checked the dates on several shelves of goods, and glanced at the ledger at the checkout.
Only after the shopkeeper finished with that wave of customers did Orion walk over.
"John, business is good."
"Thanks to you, sir," replied the shopkeeper named John, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Christmas just passed; many people are buying gifts."
"This is Regulus," Orion stepped aside slightly. "My son."
John looked Regulus over carefully, a smile spreading across his face. "He resembles you, and also a bit of Madam Walburga. Please look after us old-timers when you take over the shops in the future."
Regulus nodded politely. "Hello."
Leaving Diagon Alley, Orion led Regulus into an even narrower alley.
He pulled two seemingly old teapot lids from his pocket and handed one to Regulus.
"Portkey," Orion said. "Hold on tight. It activates in five seconds."
Regulus gripped the cold, rusty lid. Five seconds later, a powerful force emanated from it, as if a hook had grabbed his navel and yanked hard.
The world began to spin, colors and sounds blending into a chaotic mess.
This was different from the squeezing sensation of Apparition. It was more like being tossed into a washing machine on the spin cycle—and a turbo one at that, not even a front-loader.
When it stopped, they were standing on a desolate highland.
A cold wind howled past, making their robes flap noisily.
In the distance were rolling grey-green hills. Nearby stood a few low stone buildings with white smoke curling from their chimneys.
The air carried a strong scent of medicinal herbs, mixed with the smell of earth and rain.
"The Scottish Highlands. The Potions Workshop." Orion put away the Portkey and headed toward those stone houses.
The workshop manager was an elderly wizard with graying hair, his face etched with wrinkles as deep as knife cuts.
He wore a leather apron stained with various potion residues and held a long-handled stirring rod. When he saw Orion, he nodded, his expression very serious.
"Raw material prices have gone up," were the old wizard's first words. "Acromantula venom from Africa is thirty percent more expensive than last year. Mooncalf horn powder from South America is twenty percent more."
"Noted," Orion responded tersely. "Let's go inside first and take a look."
The interior of the workshop was much larger than it appeared from outside, expanded with space-extension charms.
Over a dozen large cauldrons bubbled over magical flames. Wizards in uniform aprons stood by the pots with stirring rods, occasionally adding ingredients.
The walls were plastered with recipes and precautions. Shelves held hundreds of glass bottles containing powders and liquids of various colors.
The old wizard led them around the workshop, explaining what each cauldron was brewing, its progress, and the estimated shipping date.
Orion listened attentively, occasionally asking a few questions.
Regulus followed behind, watching the wizards skillfully handle materials, control the heat, and adjust formulas.
Their movements were deft, their gazes focused, clearly all seasoned veterans.
A younger wizard was brewing a Potion of Euphoria. The liquid in the cauldron bubbled with golden froth, emitting a sweet fragrance.
"This batch will yield thirty bottles," the old wizard explained. "Bottling tomorrow, delivery to Diagon Alley the day after."
"Keep a close eye on the quality," Orion instructed. "Last time, a customer complained the effect only lasted three hours."
"That was an issue with the ingredients," the old wizard frowned. "The quality of Billywig stings nowadays isn't as good as before. I'll think of something."
Leaving the Potions Workshop, they used Portkeys twice more, visiting a workshop in Wales and a herb garden in Cornwall.
The workshop in Wales was built inside a cave, as hot as a steamer.
Dozens of anvils were arranged in two rows. Goblins and wizards worked together, the clanging of hammering never ceasing.
Regulus looked around and realized this place was more of a blacksmith's forge than an alchemical workshop, with not much technical sophistication.
It differed greatly from his impression of an alchemy laboratory. But then he thought, the goods produced here were only for low-end customers, focusing on volume. Lower technical content was understandable.
The herb garden in Cornwall covered dozens of acres, protected by a magical barrier and filled with various magical plants.
Moonflowers closed their silver petals during the day. Venomous Tentaculas writhed restlessly under glass domes. Mandrakes were planted in soundproof greenhouses with "Danger, Keep Away" signs hanging outside.
The gardener was a short witch with sun-darkened skin, thick fingers, and soil under her nails.
"Good weather this year; the harvest is twenty percent more than last," the witch said, still loosening the soil around a white dittany plant. "Just those gnomes keep causing trouble. I set traps and caught over a dozen."
"Handle them according to the usual arrangement," Orion ordered. "Sell the pelts to Knockturn Alley, feed the meat to the animals over in Ireland."
The final stop was a magical creature farm in Ireland.
This place was larger than the previous ones, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Different areas were separated by magical fences, housing various creatures.
A pond teemed with Grindylows. Another wooded area was home to Bowtruckles. A cave housed a few Hinkypunks.
A Graphorn wandered in a steep, rocky area with sparse vegetation. In a tall wooden shed, the plumes of an Occamy were faintly visible.
The farm manager was a big man with a ruddy face and a loud voice.
"Everything's fine!" he assured, thumping his chest. "Just the feed prices went up again. Dragon liver is forty percent more expensive than last year."
"Raise the prices as needed," Orion said casually. "Don't skimp on these animals. If they're not well-kept, they won't fetch a good price."
Regulus stood by the fence, watching a Bowtruckle peek its head out of a tree hollow, curiously observing him.
The little creature was only palm-sized, with dark, beady eyes and slender fingers.
It watched for a while, then suddenly threw an acorn that landed at Regulus's feet before retreating back into the hollow, emitting a rustling, giggling sound.
"It likes you," the farm manager laughed heartily. "Bowtruckles usually ignore people."
After following Orion for three days, Regulus had finally toured the main industries of the Black family.
And this wasn't an in-depth understanding, just a cursory glance.
Only then did he realize the Black family's holdings extended far beyond the old house at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, and those three shops in Diagon Alley.
From the Scottish Highlands to the Irish coast, from the valleys of Wales to the plains of Cornwall, the Black family owned land, workshops, plantations, and farms everywhere.
And this was only within Britain.
"What about other places?" Regulus asked Orion one night while staying at an inn in Ireland.
"There's a vineyard in France, producing magical wine," Orion replied, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, ledger in hand.
"There's a mine in Germany producing some rare metals, a spice plantation in India, a magical creature reserve in North Africa. But you're about to start school; we'll visit those later."
Regulus sat on the bed opposite, digesting this information.
He had only known the Black family was wealthy, but not where the money came from.
Now he knew. Potions, alchemy, herbs, magical creatures—the Black family was involved in all these essential industries of the magical world. They didn't control everything, but their share wasn't small either.
Moreover, they had been doing this for centuries, having integrated the entire supply chain. From raw material cultivation and breeding, to processing and production, to sales and retail—a complete industrial chain was in the hands of the Black family.
What surprised him even more were the people.
The managers of each industry, and those craftsmen in the workshops, gardeners in the plantations, keepers on the farms.
They might not bear the surname Black, but they were all intricately connected to the Black family.
Some had worked for the Blacks for generations. Some were distant branches of the Black family. Some were smaller families dependent on the Blacks for survival.
This was a vast, complete ecosystem.
The Black family stood at the very top. Below them were layers upon layers of industries and dependents, like a great tree.
The trunk was the Black surname. The branches and leaves were those industries. The roots were the countless people who relied on the Black family for their livelihood.
This was the true value of an ancient pure-blood noble family.
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