Over the next three days, Regulus didn't practice Apparition again. Once you had it, you had it.
He spent all his time in his room instead, and his desk became a mess of random objects.
A few quills. Two ink bottles. A roll of parchment. Several galleons and sickles. Even the Black family brooch he usually wore.
Regulus picked up the brooch and laid it in his palm.
He closed his eyes and let his perception spread.
In his senses, the room's spatial structure took on a strange shape, an invisible net made of countless nodes and lines. Every object occupied a particular point on that net, and no two points felt the same. Some were dense. Some were strong. Some vibrated with a faint, living hum.
The brooch's node sat right in the center of his palm, fine and stable.
He wanted the net itself to move.
Like Kreacher had done. Fold the net, bring two nodes close together, then pass the brooch from this one to that one.
The theory was simple.
Doing it was something else entirely.
On the first day, the brooch didn't move at all.
On the second day, the air around it began to warp slightly. The edges of nearby objects wavered, just a little, like heat shimmer.
But the brooch stayed planted in his palm, not even shifting a millimeter.
On the third afternoon, Regulus changed his approach.
He stopped trying to fold the whole room. That was far beyond him. Instead, he focused on making only the tiny patch of space around the brooch move, even if it was barely anything.
He concentrated until his thoughts felt razor-thin. Magic gathered in his palm. No incantation, no wand movement, only will, perception and magic working together.
He locked onto the brooch's node and imagined it like a buoy on water, sliding gently toward a nearby empty point, drifting along some invisible slope instead of being shoved.
The air around the brooch pulsed violently. The structure of space rippled in rings no eyes could see.
At the center of those ripples, the brooch began to blur, turning faint and translucent… and then it vanished.
Regulus's eyes snapped open.
The brooch was gone from his palm.
It wasn't on the desk. It wasn't on the carpet. It wasn't anywhere in the room. There wasn't even a trace left behind.
Three seconds stretched like taffy, each one unbearably slow.
Then came a soft, sharp sound.
The brooch dropped onto the edge of his desk, about five centimeters from where it had been, the silver surface warm to the touch.
He'd done it.
It had only moved five centimeters. He'd nearly lost it to whatever nowhere lay between points. The magic cost had been ridiculous.
But it was a success.
Something he'd worked out himself, based on the barest sliver of understanding about space.
Regulus picked up the brooch, still faintly warm, and rubbed his thumb over the star etched into it.
In a duel, mobility was one of the deadliest advantages you could have.
Your spells could be vicious. Your power could be overwhelming. If you couldn't hit your opponent, it meant nothing.
That was why Apparition was considered important magic. It let a wizard appear out of nowhere, vanish just as fast, strike once and slip away before the other side could react.
But Apparition had limits. It required a moment of preparation. It couldn't be chained endlessly. It had distance constraints. Anti-Apparition wards could shut it down completely.
If one day he could truly master this sort of spatial shifting…
It didn't have to be his entire body hopping around, though that would be ideal.
It could be his spells.
A Disarming Charm could shoot out, vanish mid-flight, and reappear behind an enemy.
A Protego could form from far away and wrap around someone else instead, a reversed protection that pinned them in place and made it impossible to cast.
And if he pushed the thought even further…
If his spatial perception grew sharper, could he see the structure inside a body?
Could he make a spell bypass every external defense and detonate inside a person's organs or brain?
Protego, shield spells, every kind of ward and charm, all of it would become decoration.
No process. No warning. You acted, and the result was already there.
That was like striking at cause and effect itself.
Regulus set the brooch down and walked to the window.
Night had fallen. Snow had started again, flakes drifting down to melt into tiny beads of water on the glass.
London's lights blurred into soft patches behind the curtain of snow, impossible to tell which belonged to Muggles and which to wizards.
The ideas were exciting, but it was far too early.
Right now they were castles in the air, without even a foundation poured.
He'd only just touched the edge of space magic. Verdant Magic had only just begun. Transfiguration was still groundwork. None of it was solid yet, and all of it demanded time and focus.
But at least he had direction.
A road no one else had walked, a road carved from understanding the nature of magic itself.
---
At dinner, Walburga brought up Sirius again.
"That ungrateful boy!" she spat, sawing into her steak as if it were an enemy. Knife and fork scraped against the plate with an awful, sharp sound.
"Didn't come home for Christmas, didn't even write a letter. What did the Potters pour into his head, that he'd throw away his own name?"
Orion kept his head down, eating his roast potatoes in silence.
Regulus also stayed quiet, cutting his lamb into neat, even pieces and eating them one by one.
They both understood.
Walburga didn't want a discussion. She wanted to vent.
If anyone answered, she'd latch onto it and keep going for half an hour.
If no one did, she'd burn herself out and stop. Fast to ignite, fast to fade.
Regulus though thought, This is only the beginning.
Sirius hadn't come home this Christmas, so Walburga raged for an evening. If he didn't come back next year, she'd rage for three days.
And when he stopped coming home entirely, moved in with the Potters for good, she'd pull this performance out every Christmas and recite it all over again.
From ungrateful son to traitor. From throwing away the name to not deserving the name.
Like a play that never changed, lines memorized, emotions rehearsed on cue.
Walburga went on for about ten minutes before she finally stopped.
She set her utensils down, lifted her wineglass, and took a long swallow of red wine. The anger hadn't fully drained from her face, her cheeks still flushed with agitation.
Then she turned to Regulus. "Oh, right."
Her tone softened suddenly, deliberately casual, as if she'd just remembered some small detail.
"Several people have been praising you lately. Mrs. Malfoy, Mrs. Nott, and Mrs. Yaxley. They keep hinting that you're going to amount to something extraordinary."
She watched him with curiosity, and with that familiar expectation that always carried a hint of prideful display.
Regulus knew that look too well. He'd seen it his entire life.
"You're…" Walburga leaned forward, lowering her voice as if she were fishing for a secret. "How far along are you now? The way they talk, it's like you'll be walking into the Ministry of Magic tomorrow and taking the minister's chair."
Regulus set his fork down, lifted his napkin, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. Then he looked toward Orion at the far end of the table.
With Walburga, you couldn't tell the whole truth.
She wasn't Orion. She didn't weigh risks calmly, and she didn't keep things quiet. If she knew something, it meant every lady in her tea circle would know it too.
Tell her today, and tomorrow the whole pure-blood world would be talking about how brilliant the youngest Black had become.
But he also couldn't refuse completely.
She needed something real to show off, proof that her son was better than everyone else's. If he gave her nothing, she'd keep pressing, or she'd start inventing theories on her own, and that was worse. There was no telling what absurd conclusion she'd reach.
Orion caught his son's glance and set his wineglass down.
"Regulus does have some talent," he said, steady as if he were delivering a report at the Wizengamot.
"Most of the first-year material at Hogwarts, he's already mastered. Some higher-year content, he's studying on his own."
Walburga's eyes lit instantly. "Like what?"
"For example, Apparition," Orion said simply. "I practiced with him two days ago. He succeeded on his first attempt."
"Truly?" Walburga's voice jumped, delight flooding her face. "He's only eleven!"
"He is." Orion nodded and continued, listing each point with the same measured calm.
"In potions, Professor Slughorn says his current level is already beyond fifth-years. In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall has been personally guiding him, and she even gave him a copy of her own research notes.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick often awards him extra points. He says Regulus's standard is far above his classmates."
With every item, Walburga's smile widened. The light in her eyes grew brighter and brighter.
By the time Orion finished, she looked as if she were glowing, the joy and pride rising up from her so strongly it nearly spilled over.
"I knew it!" she declared, pure triumph in her voice. "My Regulus has been different since he was little. Those other ladies' sons, what are they?
One's good at Quidditch, another can brew a decent potion. Our Regulus can do everything!"