**Spring, 1969**
Regulus Black turned eight in the spring.
In the House of Black, turning eight meant an upgrade. The room on the east side of the third floor officially became his domain. Orion granted him a wall of mahogany bookshelves, a heavy oak desk that smelled of beeswax, and a window that caught the pale morning light.
But Regulus didn't spend his time there.
He preferred the storage room at the end of the kitchen corridor. It was a forgotten lung of the house, always locked, filled with what Walburga sneered at as "useless things." It was the graveyard for the belongings of disowned family members—items that couldn't be destroyed because of magical residue, but couldn't be displayed because of shame.
Specifically, it held the relics of Alphard Black.
Alphard had been blasted off the tapestry years ago for the crime of possessing a heart—and, apparently, a fondness for Muggles. Regulus had only ever heard his name spoken as a curse.
It took Regulus three weeks to crack the security wards on the door. It wasn't a simple *Alohomora*; it was a knot of old family magic. When he finally unpicked it, the door creaked open to reveal a dusty, silent tomb.
There were no dark artifacts inside. Just... stuff.
An old-fashioned vacuum tube radio. A stack of *National Geographic* magazines from the 1950s. A pile of *The Times*. Hardcover notebooks filled with sketches of combustion engines.
It took Regulus two days to repair the radio. When he finally connected the wires and channeled a tiny spark of electricity, the vacuum tubes glowed a warm, nostalgic orange. A hiss of static filled the room, sounding like heavy rain.
Regulus turned the tuning knob slowly.
*"...This is the BBC Home Service..."*
The news that spring was electric. NASA announced that Apollo 10 had successfully orbited the moon. The dress rehearsal was over. The main event was coming.
Regulus sat motionless behind the desk he had dragged into the room, his hand resting on the warm wooden casing of the radio.
*The Moon.*
Muggles were going to the moon.
Most of the Wizarding World didn't know. Those who did know didn't care. To a wizard, the moon was a clock for potion brewing, a curse for werewolves, or a romantic backdrop for poetry.
It wasn't a *place*. Nobody cared about going there because wizards didn't *need* to go there. They had magic.
But could magic achieve space travel?
Could a wizard survive in a vacuum? Could a Shield Charm stop cosmic radiation? Could an Apparition spell cross 238,000 miles of empty void?
Regulus didn't know. But he knew one thing: Muggles were doing something wizards had never even attempted. They were doing it with math, metal, and fire. He knew from his memories that they were going to do a lot more in future.
*What are our limits?* Regulus wondered. *Muggles push against the impossible every day. We just wave our wands and complain when the tea is cold.*
If magic were combined with that ambition... what boundaries could be broken then?
These thoughts buried themselves deep in his heart, taking root in the silence.
◈ ◈ ◈
**July 20, 1969**
It was late. The house was asleep.
Regulus was not. He sat in a chair by his open bedroom window, the stolen vacuum tube radio on his lap.
The static was heavy, crackling like a fireplace, but every word cutting through it was clear.
*"...Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."*
Regulus gripped the radio. His knuckles were white.
A burst of cheering erupted from the speaker—tiny, tinny voices celebrating a miracle from thousands of miles away.
Regulus waited. The silence stretched. The radio crackled with technical jargon, oxygen levels, fuel checks.
Then, the voice returned.
*"I'm at the foot of the ladder. The LM footpads are only depressed in the surface about one or two inches... I'm going to step off the LEM now."*
Regulus stood up. He walked to the window. The warm summer air of London rushed in, smelling of coal smoke and dry earth.
He looked up.
The moon hung in the sky, almost full. Its silvery light was cold and constant.
The voice on the radio came on again, this time clearer, echoing through history.
*"That's one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind."*
Regulus stared at the silver disc.
Up there, right now, two men without magic were walking on another world. They had crossed the void in a tin can.
And down here?
Regulus looked at the dark skyline of Wizarding London.
Wizards possessed the power to alter reality. They had lifespans that stretched for centuries. They could teleport.
But what were they doing?
They were fighting for scraps of power. They were researching better ways to torture each other. They were arguing about whose blood was cleaner. They were cursing each other on a small, damp island, oblivious to the universe above them.
*We are pathetic,* Regulus thought, a smile touching his lips. It wasn't a bitter smile. It was a smile of realization.
*We are gods fighting in a sandbox.*
And he was right in the middle of it.
*Well,* he thought, watching the moon. *Since I am here, I might as well change the game.*
◈ ◈ ◈
**Late August, 1969**
The atmosphere in the Ministry was deteriorating. The Death Eaters were moving from the shadows into the twilight.
Regulus found Orion in the study. His father was reviewing documents, the stress carving deep lines into his face.
"Father, I have a question."
Orion put down his quill. He rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. "Speak."
"How high can a wizard fly?"
The question was sudden, absurd even. Orion blinked, looking at his son. "It depends on the method. A broomstick can reach about 15,000 feet before the air becomes too thin. A Thestral can go higher, perhaps 20,000. Why do you ask?"
Regulus didn't answer the *why*. "What if you want to go higher? High enough to leave the atmosphere?"
Orion stared at him. "Why would you want to leave the atmosphere?"
"Curiosity," Regulus lied smoothly. "I read that ancient wizards tried to fly to the sun and failed."
"That is a myth," Orion corrected. "Icarus. It is a cautionary tale about arrogance, Regulus. Magic has limits. Outside the atmosphere... there is no air. No pressure. The temperature fluctuates between boiling and freezing instantly. There is radiation."
He paused, looking at his son sharply. "What are you really thinking about?"
Regulus hesitated. He realized his father knew about radiation. He knew about the vacuum. Orion was not ignorant; he was just resigned.
"I was thinking," Regulus said, choosing candor. "The Muggles went to the moon last month. They don't have magic. But they did it."
Orion was silent for a long time. The candle flame danced in the draft, casting long shadows on the walls.
"I know," Orion said finally. "There was a small paragraph in the *Prophet*. Page nine. The editor dismissed it as a Muggle trick not worth our attention."
"But it is the moon," Regulus insisted.
"To a wizard, the moon is just the moon," Orion said, standing up and walking to the window. He turned his back to the room. "It dictates the tides. It triggers the werewolf. It is a symbol for potions."
"It is a world," Regulus said. "And we are ignoring it."
Orion turned around. His expression was complex—a mix of weariness and hidden intellect. "Because wizards only see magic. Magic exists here. On Earth. In life. The stars... they are too far. Too cold. They are not our domain."
"We could expand the domain."
"Perhaps," Orion walked back to his desk. "But at what cost? Who will pay for it? Who will take the risk? Who will support it?"
He looked at Regulus with a piercing gaze. "Speak your mind. Don't hide behind hypothetical questions."
Regulus took a deep breath. "I am thinking... if we used the energy we spend on blood purity wars... if we used the wisdom we waste on Dark Arts... how far could we go? If we looked up instead of down?"
Orion sat back down. He interlaced his fingers on the desk.
"Very far," Orion admitted softly. "But that is idealism. The reality is that Wizarding society is trapped. Voldemort is sowing division. The Ministry is weak. No one looks up when their house is on fire."
"Maybe the stars are the way out," Regulus said. "If we look far enough, the fire seems small."
Orion smiled. It was a sad, cynical smile.
"Idealism," he repeated gently. "I had similar thoughts when I was young. But wizards are trapped by their nature. We are trapped in our flesh, in our social webs."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a serious whisper.
"Also, remember this, Regulus. This kind of thinking is heresy. Pure-blood families will say you are seduced by Muggle technology. Radicals will call you weak. The Dark Lord will think you are distracted."
Orion picked up his quill again.
"Keep these thoughts hidden. Until you are strong enough to make them listen. In this world, dreaming is dangerous."