Chapter 65: Boundless Emotion, Patronus
Regulus came away with a clearer understanding of what an ancient surname truly meant. It was not only a name stitched into a tapestry or whispered in drawing rooms. It reached outward, quietly and relentlessly, into the lives of countless people.
A thought surfaced, sharp and almost absurd in its timing.
Had he been too frugal before?
At Hogwarts he rarely spent money. Books and materials were necessities, nothing more. He had treated every Galleon as something to be weighed, justified, and accounted for.
Now, after seeing even a fraction of the Black family's holdings, the habit felt almost laughable.
The wealth behind the House of Black was not simply large. It was vast in the way a landscape was vast, too wide to measure with ordinary instincts. Even if he threw away a hundred Galleons a day, he would not exhaust it in ten years.
How could Muggle born and half blood witches and wizards compete with that?
Even among pure blood families, the difference was brutal. Some scraped and saved to afford a respectable wand. Meanwhile the family behind Regulus controlled a complete chain of essential industries in the magical world.
This was not a gap personal talent could bridge. It was a structural advantage, layered century after century, until it became part of the foundation of society itself.
And then another question followed, colder and more practical.
In the original destiny, who had benefited from these assets?
No matter how much of a spendthrift Sirius might become, could he truly squander industries spread across the British Isles?
How much could an old London house be worth, even one like Number 12, Grimmauld Place?
Compared to workshops, gardens, and farms stitched into the country like hidden veins, what was a single townhouse?
Perhaps, in the original story, the Black family's holdings had been divided after Walburga and Orion died. The Malfoys might have taken a portion. The Lestranges might have taken another. Other pure blood families, each with their polite smiles and sharp hands, would have claimed their shares.
Sirius might have inherited an empty shell and never realised the true wealth had already been swallowed.
Regulus's fingers tightened around his fork for a moment.
None of that mattered anymore.
What mattered was that these industries were still in Black hands.
What mattered was that one day they would be his, and no one would be permitted to take them away.
And then, with the inevitability of a shadow crossing a wall, another thought arrived.
Voldemort was a half blood too. He had not been born into this sort of advantage. But unlike most, he did not accept the limits of his birth.
He took what he wanted.
And he succeeded.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, his fingertips brushing the familiar line of his wand as he replayed the last few days with ruthless clarity.
Even Voldemort should not think of taking what is mine.
On the afternoon of the third day, they stood on a cliff along the west coast of Ireland.
Beneath their feet, black rock plunged dozens of metres down. Waves slammed into it, bursting into foam so white it looked like torn cloth flung against stone.
Far out, where sea met sky, the sun sank slowly into the water, staining the horizon with molten gold and deep red. The wind carried salt and something faintly fishy, strong enough to tug at Regulus's robes and lift his hair.
Regulus stood near the edge, looking out.
In eleven years, he had spent most of his life inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Later he had gone to Hogwarts, but Hogwarts was still a boundary. Castle walls, grounds, the lake, the forest. Even the sky there felt like it belonged to the school.
He had not seen the wide world. Not truly.
In these three days, following Orion across half the British Isles, he had.
He had seen the bleak grandeur of the Scottish Highlands, hills rolling under low skies as if the earth itself was waiting. He had seen mist threaded through Welsh valleys, forests swallowed in grey silence. He had seen Cornwall's herb gardens bright under the sun, alive with colour and danger. He had seen the Irish coast where the sea never seemed to rest.
The world was this large.
The magical world was this rich and varied.
It was not only Hogwarts classrooms and corridors. Not only Diagon Alley's shops and streets. Not only pure blood banquets and the careful cruelty of family politics. Not only the familiar stars above London.
There were vast lands too. Wild places. Magnificent views. Lives that existed beyond the reach of house crests and school timetables.
Regulus drew in a deep breath of salty air, and something inside him shifted.
He had lived like a precisely built machine. Every step planned. Every decision weighed. Every action judged for consequences. He had wrapped himself in calmness and rationality so tightly it had become armour, and he had worn it even in private.
Emotion was a risk. Fluctuation meant loss of control. Loss of control meant mistakes.
But here, listening to the waves and watching the sun bleed into the sea, it struck him with unexpected force that perhaps he did not need to live clenched tight every waking hour.
Magic was his path. Power was his pursuit.
But even on a path, there was scenery.
What was the point of becoming stronger?
Was it not, at least in part, to live freely? To go where one wished. To see what one wished to see, without fear and without chains.
Orion stood beside him in silence.
The head of the House of Black watched his son's profile, the way grey eyes caught the sunset's gold. Something about Regulus's expression had changed. It was not the usual steadiness that made him seem older than his years. It looked more like simple focus, like curiosity that belonged to an eleven year old boy standing before the sea for the first time.
Relief loosened something in Orion's chest.
He had always worried this son carried too much weight.
Since he was little, Regulus had not cried or made a fuss. He had not run shouting through halls or leapt onto furniture when no one was watching. He had always held himself like a small adult.
In a pure blood family, such maturity was praised. Most parents would have been delighted.
Orion had been delighted.
But he was still a father. He still wanted his son to feel the joy of living, to want things for reasons other than calculation, to look at the world with wonder instead of constant assessment.
Now, finally, he saw a glimmer of that wonder.
Regulus did not notice his father's gaze. His attention was entirely on the scene before him.
The wind grew stronger and tangled his hair. He lifted a hand and let the air slide through his fingers, feeling an invisible force that did not care about names or bloodlines.
Then he closed his eyes and allowed magic to flow, not forced, not measured, simply present.
Something miraculous happened.
In that instant, the magic inside him became lively, as if a restraint had been unfastened. It moved with a lightness and brightness he had never allowed himself to feel. It was not merely power waiting to be shaped. It felt almost eager, almost joyful.
As if it were responding to him.
Regulus understood, suddenly and unmistakably, that magic was not only something to calculate, control, and use.
It was alive.
It shifted with the witch or wizard who carried it. With emotion. With state of mind.
When he was calm and coldly logical, his magic became precise and steady. When he was moved, it became bright and active.
Perhaps the two were not opposites.
Magic could be a discipline, something that demanded logic, practice, and ruthless repetition.
But magic could also be vivid. Warm. Full of possibility.
Like the sea before him. A person could calculate tides and currents with mathematics, reduce waves to numbers and laws.
Or they could stand on the cliff and feel how vast it was.
And what was the essence of magic, if not a wizard's will shaping the world?
The wizard was the source.
Magic was the means.
The world was what changed.
If a wizard lived like a machine, then the spells would be nothing but cold incantations.
But if a wizard lived as a living person, with feeling and longing and desire, then perhaps the magic itself would change in kind.
Regulus opened his eyes.
The sun had sunk further, and the surface of the sea looked like it was burning, trembling with gold and red. A seabird rose from below the cliff, wings spread wide as it caught the updraft and circled.
Something in Regulus's long held philosophy loosened, like a knot finally undone.
Maybe he did not need to choose between rational calculation and emotion.
Maybe he could have both.
Rationality to plan the path.
Emotion to live it.
Calculation to control magic.
And heart to feel magic.
The thought formed, and his wand was already in his hand.
A surge rose in his chest, an impulse that had been building too long, like pressure beneath stone.
A yearning for freedom.
A hunger for the vast world.
A desire to break restraints that had wrapped around him since childhood.
And the pure, immediate emotion of facing this scene in this moment.
It was stronger than anything he had felt before.
Stronger than the satisfaction of mastering a new spell.
Stronger than the sense of control in victory.
Stronger than the quiet pleasure of acquiring knowledge.
This was deeper, as if it had risen from the bedrock of his soul.
It is good to be alive.
The world is beautiful.
I want to see more, to experience more, to become more.
Magic surged through him, breaking through the steady circulation created by Starry Sky Meditation. It rushed like a jubilant stream, and every thread of it seemed to carry the same message.
Joy.
Longing.
Freedom.
Desire.
Regulus raised his wand.
Orion turned his head at the movement, his earlier relief shifting into puzzled caution. This was not a place to practise. Not the sort of moment Regulus usually wasted on display.
Regulus did not look at him.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with sea air, filling his vision with sunset, filling his ears with waves, and letting the emotion in his heart rise to its peak.
Then, facing the wind and bathed in gold, he spoke clearly.
"Expecto Patronum."
Silver white light erupted from the tip of his wand.
It poured out like a flood from a broken dam, illuminating the cliff edge in an instant and wrapping Regulus in radiance.
The light was fierce, but not blinding.
It was warm like a winter hearth.
It was pure like snow on a high mountain.
And then it began to condense.