Chapter 63: It's All My Property
Walburga launched into her comparisons again, measuring Regulus against every pure blood heir she could name. She dragged each boy through the mud in turn, weighed each family on invisible scales, and always arrived at the same conclusion.
Her Regulus remained the most outstanding.
Regulus lowered his head and continued eating the lamb chop on his plate, which had cooled while his mother talked. Orion lifted his knife and fork again, cutting a piece of roasted potato with the calm patience of a man who had endured a thousand speeches like this.
Neither of them touched the deeper matters.
Not the experiments with natural magic. Not the repeated attempts at Spatial Warp. Not the progress of Starry Sky Meditation. Not the knowledge taken from the restricted shelves. Not the quiet strategies for surviving Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters without becoming a pawn.
Walburga did not need to know those things.
More truthfully, she could not.
That world was not one she should concern herself with, and it was certainly not a field she should step into. Orion understood that. Regulus understood it even better.
What Orion had said tonight was already enough to feed Walburga for months. She would carry it into tea parties, dinners, and every social gathering where pure blood ladies exchanged smiles like knives.
She would be envied.
More families would sniff around for alliances and marriages. More resources would quietly tilt towards the House of Black, because the circle would decide that Regulus was a safe bet and the future belonged to those who invested early.
That, at least, was useful.
"Then what about after graduation?" Walburga pressed, voice thick with longing. "How far can he go? The Ministry of Magic? The Wizengamot? Or perhaps like Dumbledore"
Regulus almost choked on his own restraint.
Dumbledore. Even he had not allowed himself a daydream that bold.
Not yet.
But one day, he would.
Orion fell silent for a few seconds, as if Walburga's ambition had knocked him off his footing. Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of the century. Orion had spent most of his adult life watching the Ministry flinch whenever that name was spoken.
Orion glanced at Regulus from the corner of his eye.
If Dumbledore could live into the next century, it truly was not certain who would be greater.
But those thoughts belonged in Orion's head and nowhere else.
"Based on his current development," Orion said at last, meeting Walburga's gaze with a thoughtful air, "after graduation he will likely have the level of an elite Auror."
It was a conservative estimate. Orion chose it carefully, like a man placing a lid over boiling water.
Even in the most extreme scenario, even if Regulus lost whatever strange edge made his progress so unnerving, that answer would still be safely true.
In Orion's private mind, the numbers were very different.
If Regulus maintained this pace, he would not need to wait until graduation at all. By the end of his third year he would likely surpass most active Aurors. By the time he reached seventeen, Orion hardly dared to imagine it. Perhaps he truly could be compared to the young Dumbledore or Grindelwald.
But Walburga could never hear that.
Walburga would stand up and celebrate immediately. By tomorrow she would be telling every woman she knew that her son could become Head of the Auror Office in his second year. That sort of talk would shove Regulus into the centre of every room he entered, and the centre of every rumour that followed.
Attention became jealousy.
Jealousy became hostility.
And worse, it might draw more direct recruitment from Lord Voldemort, the kind that did not stop at letters and intermediaries.
That was real trouble.
"An elite Auror," Walburga repeated, smiling as if she had drunk an entire bottle of Felix Felicis. "Good. Good. The House of Black is finally going to produce a truly great figure. Let us see who dares say our family has no successor."
She began building her future again, brick by glittering brick. Regulus entering the Ministry. Regulus rising through the ranks. Regulus becoming Minister. Number Twelve filled with visitors. Pure blood families lining up to curry favour. The Blacks seated once more at the head of the Sacred Twenty Eight as if it had always been their place.
Regulus listened and nodded at the appropriate moments, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Which plant should he try with natural magic tomorrow?
A Mandrake was still too dangerous. Not yet. But perhaps a Venomous Tentacula. Or Devil's Snare, if he kept the precautions strict.
Spatial Warp still consumed far too much. He needed a way to reduce the loss, otherwise it would never be usable in a real fight.
The Starry Sky Meditation maze he was building for Occlumency was nearly complete, but the defensive effect still needed testing. Several rounds of probing, several rounds of tightening the structure.
And the books on passive magic in the restricted section. He needed time to skim more of them, to take what mattered, to discard what was flashy and useless.
The road was long.
He had too much to learn, too much to prepare, and far too little time.
A dinner was not long enough to finish planning everything that waited in his head. Still, one thing was certain.
He was moving forward, step by step, and each step was firm.
Outside the window, snow continued to fall, covering the streets and rooftops of London flake by flake, muffling Muggle clamour and hiding wizarding secrets beneath a clean white veil.
Inside Number Twelve, the fire burned bright. Shadows leapt across the dining room walls as the family sat around the long table.
A mother dreaming of glory, wrapped in the future she had woven for herself.
A father weighing reality, calculating risk and reward with every breath.
A son tracing his own path, thinking only of strength and distance and how far the world could be stretched.
The warm House of Black.
A few days before the holiday ended, Orion set down The Daily Prophet at breakfast.
"Come with me today," he said, cutting into his fried egg. "You are going to see the family properties."
Regulus looked up, buttering bread with measured strokes. His heart gave a small, sharp stir, but he did not speak. He waited for his father to continue.
Orion took a sip of coffee, then went on.
"You will inherit the House of Black one day. You cannot stay in Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place forever. It is time you see certain things."
Regulus nodded, ate a mouthful of bread, chewed, swallowed, and answered simply.
"Alright."
This was not a waste of time. The properties would be his one day. Learning them now was the same as learning his own hands before being asked to wield a knife.
And travelling with Orion meant seeing corners of the wizarding world that Hogwarts did not bother to mention.
After breakfast Regulus returned to his room, changed into dark robes, tucked his wand into an inner pocket, and pinned the Black family brooch to his chest.
When he came downstairs, Orion was already waiting in the entrance hall, holding a roll of parchment covered in dense writing.
"First, the shops in Diagon Alley," Orion said, unrolling it to check the list.
"Then the potion workshop in the Scottish Highlands, the alchemy workshop in Wales, the herb garden in Cornwall, the magical creature farm in Ireland, and finally Knockturn Alley."
Regulus listened and understood at once that they were about to cross half the British Isles in a single day.
"We will use Portkeys for the distant places," Orion added, rolling the parchment away. "You cannot Apparate to places you have never been."
They stepped to the centre of the entrance hall. Orion extended his left hand. Regulus placed his hand on it.
The familiar squeeze took hold of his body, as if the world grabbed him by the ribs and pulled. A few seconds later, the pressure released.
They stood in a secluded passage off Diagon Alley, with the shadowed entrance to Knockturn Alley behind them like a mouth waiting to swallow.
The House of Black owned three shops in Diagon Alley.
The first was a potion shop in the middle stretch of the street, its sign reading Silver Moon Apothecary.
The frontage was not large, but the location was excellent. In the window sat rows of oddly coloured potion bottles, each neatly labelled.
Skele Gro. Pepperup Potion. Baruffio's Brain Elixir. Draught of Living Death. Elixir of Euphoria.
The staples. The respectable face of commerce.
Regulus suspected, with quiet certainty, that the Blacks likely had a second operation in Knockturn Alley selling what could not be displayed here.
A tall, thin wizard was organising stock behind the counter. The moment Orion entered, the man straightened as if yanked by a string.
"Mr Black," the wizard said, respectful. "And young Mr Black."
"Marcus," Orion replied with a reserved nod. "I reviewed this month's turnover. It is up seven percent."
"Yes." Marcus smiled. "The new sleeping draught is selling well. Many parents of students have come in for it."
Orion walked the shop at an unhurried pace, checking expiry labels on several shelves and asking about suppliers. Marcus answered each question cleanly, concise and confident, the voice of someone who knew the business down to the last bottle.
Regulus followed behind, silent. He watched the layout, the arrangement of goods, the rhythm of customers entering and leaving.
The shop might have been small, but it was stocked thoroughly, from simple Cure for Boils Potion to expensive Felix Felicis. The bottles were clean, the labels straight, the shelves orderly.
"Marcus's grandfather worked in Black family shops," Orion said after they stepped back into the street. "His father managed the herb garden in Wales. Now it is Marcus. There are many like this."
The second shop lay in the northern section of Diagon Alley. Its sign showed a cauldron crossed with a wand.
It sold all manner of useful things. Self Stirring Cauldrons. Potion racks that held a constant temperature. Hourglasses enchanted to keep time precisely. Wand accessories designed to amplify spell output.
The shopkeeper was a short, plump witch with impeccably combed hair. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw Orion.
"Orion, you have finally come," she boomed. "There is a problem with that batch of self stirring cauldrons you sent last time. The stirring rods stop after three turns. They need reworking."
Orion's brow furrowed.
"Which workshop produced them?"
"The one in Wales." The witch planted her hands on her hips. "I have told them three times. Each time they promise it is sorted. Each time the same fault arrives on my shelves. If this continues, the reputation will be ruined."
Orion pulled a small notebook from his pocket and wrote a few quick lines.
"I will go to Wales this afternoon and see it myself."