The first school year was drawing to a close. Christmas break was only a day away.
Regulus closed his eyes, letting his awareness sink inward.
Star Guided Meditation had become the foundation of his daily routine, as natural as breathing itself.
Nearly half a year of growth had unfolded around this practice. Body and soul were tempered in tandem, refined through the steady motion of the star rails.
Magic was no longer just energy flowing through him. It had fused deeply with muscle, bone, blood, and will, becoming a single, unified whole.
What once required deliberate guidance, Magic Circulation, had turned instinctive. Every breath now carried magic through his body, nourishing it. Bone density and muscle fibers strengthened quietly, without fanfare.
Even without Protego, ordinary spells could hardly injure him at the root. This was the natural result of the body as a vessel resonating in harmony with magic and soul.
The changes to his soul were even more striking.
The three layers of Occlumency no longer needed conscious maintenance. The star model itself had become the strongest barrier.
The four-star synchronized Orion configuration rotated steadily in his mind. Betelgeuse's dark red glow and the silver-white belt stars formed a miniature cosmos, stable and precise.
It did more than sharpen his will. It tempered his mind. External noise, emotional turbulence from others, none of it could easily shake him anymore.
Body as the foundation. Soul as the core. Magic as the bridge.
Guided by the star, all three were evolving toward a more complete state.
But the fifth star had failed to ignite.
The target was Bellatrix of Orion. The failure had nothing to do with complex calculations or overwhelming data. It was simply a barrier of magic itself.
During the attempted integration, the star model in his consciousness destabilized violently. The four-star balance collapsed, magic surged backward, and pain pulsed sharply at his temples. He had been forced to stop.
Still, failure was not without value. The attempt itself was a form of refinement.
To accommodate Bellatrix's integration, he had pushed his control precision to another level. His mental resilience strengthened through repeated cycles of collapse and reconstruction.
The four-star model became even more stable in the process. The compatibility between his magic and soul deepened almost imperceptibly. Growth at the edge of one's limits always paid off, and this time was no exception.
Regulus opened his eyes. Outside the window, the giant squid drifted past, its massive shadow lingering briefly across his face.
He stood and headed toward the corridor leading to the Gryffindor Tower.
Their meeting point was beside the one-eyed witch statue on the third floor. Few people passed through there. When Regulus arrived, Sirius was already waiting.
He leaned against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans. The red-and-gold Gryffindor robes were slung casually over his shoulder, revealing a dark Muggle shirt beneath.
Without James and Remus at his side, the wild bravado he usually carried had dulled. The rebellion in his gray eyes had softened, replaced by something heavier and more complicated.
When he noticed Regulus approaching, he straightened slightly. His gaze dropped to the cracks between the stones, fingers absently picking at the rough wall.
"A letter came from home," Regulus said first. His voice was calm, stripped of excess emotion.
Sirius's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. His Adam's apple bobbed once.
Of course he had received letters too. Thick parchment, heavy with Walburga's fury and condemnation.
Every line demanded to know why he had betrayed the family, why he had chosen Gryffindor, why he associated with those of Muggle birth.
There had also been a letter from Orion. No shouting, no overt anger. Just carefully chosen words about the family's future and the Black name's responsibilities. Expectations that weighed even heavier for their restraint.
Sirius had answered none of them.
At Hogwarts, he had found his own circle. James's warmth. Remus's quiet kindness. Peter's compliance. All of it made him feel like he had escaped the suffocating shadow of 12 Grimmauld Place.
In Gryffindor, Sirius thrived. Friends, adventures, freedom.
Yet the Black family's sensitivity and stubbornness still ran in his blood.
Family remained a corner of his heart he refused to touch. A small thorn, sharp enough to ache from time to time.
"They want you to come home for Christmas," Regulus added, watching his face.
Sirius was silent for a long time. Dust sifted down from the stone cracks beneath his fingers.
He lifted his head. His eyes met Regulus's, filled with resistance, confusion, and a flicker of hesitation he did not even realize was there.
He wanted to say, "I'm not going back." Instead, what came out was a low, uncertain question, his voice trembling just slightly.
"Go back? With them?"
"With Lestrange, Malfoy, Nott, Carrow. Voldemort's lapdogs?"
His brow drew tight. His nostrils flared, disgust plain on his face.
"You're going too, aren't you?" Sirius stared at him. There was anger there, disappointment too, and something else that might have been worry.
"You'll put on dress robes, raise a glass, and laugh with the Death Eaters, right?"
He had received Bellatrix's letter as well. Those feverish words, the worship of Voldemort, the obsession with pure-blood glory, all of it left him feeling smothered.
He knew the Black family would have to choose eventually. And that choice was the path he despised most. Dividing worth by blood. Enforcing order through violence.
That was not glory. It was rot wrapped in chains.
Regulus fell silent. Winter sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting his long shadow across the stone floor.
He saw the naked rejection in Sirius's eyes and understood that his brother would never turn back.
There was no need to persuade him. No desire to. Some paths had to be walked alone. Some stances had to be held by one's own will.
Regulus's very existence served as a signpost pushing Sirius toward a different road. Only by severing himself completely from the Black family's old path could Sirius survive what was coming.
"Yes," Regulus said, nodding once. His answer was unambiguous.
Sirius looked as though he had expected it, and yet the words still cut.
His breathing stuttered. The trace of a mocking smile vanished, replaced by a dull, exhausted numbness.
He stepped back half a pace, leaning against the wall again. His head lowered, black hair falling forward to hide his eyes.
"I'm not going back. That place isn't my home."
"I know," Regulus replied evenly. "I'm only passing along their wishes."
"Regulus." Sirius looked up sharply, his voice rising. "Are you really going down that road? Standing with those lunatics? Wearing those damned black robes, putting on those damned masks?"
"You're smarter than them. You're not like them. You know exactly what they're doing. Murder, persecution and ruling through fear."
Regulus looked at him. The boy a year and a half older than himself stood there stripped of bravado, the edges of him still not fully hardened.
"I'm walking the Black family's path," Regulus said His tone did not change. "Just like you're walking Gryffindor's. We made different choices."
"That isn't the Black family's path. It's a path to destruction." Sirius's voice climbed higher as he stepped forward.
"You think they'll tolerate the Blacks? They only want obedient dogs. The moment you stop being useful, they'll throw you away like trash."
Regulus did not answer.
He knew Sirius was right. And still, this was how it had to be.
He reached out and rested a hand briefly on Sirius's shoulder. "Take care of yourself."
Then he turned and walked away. His dark green robes left a fleeting afterimage in the corridor. He did not look back.
Behind him, Sirius remained frozen in place. His brow furrowed, anger tangled with a growing, chaotic confusion.
Why?
Regulus understood everything. He saw their madness clearly. Why throw himself into it anyway?
Regulus was not foolish. He never had been. If anything, he was sharp, calculating. That only made it harder to understand.
Did he not see the Black family walking straight into a fire?
Did he not see that so-called pure-blood glory was nothing more than bait Voldemort used to lure followers?
Was it for inheritance?
That had never seemed to matter to Regulus.
Had their mother's ideology finally taken hold?
But even as a child, Regulus had dared to question her.
He did not know what Regulus thought about late at night. He did not know what he saw when he stared at the stars. He did not know what purpose drove him down this road.
He only knew that from this moment on, he and Regulus were truly walking two paths that would never cross again.