Chapter 64: The True Value of an Ancient Pure Blood Noble Family
Regulus drifted through the second shop, letting Orion speak with the proprietor while he examined the goods with quiet interest. He lifted a cauldron etched with temperature markings and turned it slowly in his hands.
It was cleverly made. Temperature sensing runes were carved into the inner wall, and a corresponding band on the outside displayed the current heat. No more relying on instinct, no more squinting at steam and guessing whether the flame was too eager. For potion work, it was the sort of convenience that became indispensable the moment you tried it.
"If you like it, take one," the witch said at once, noticing the way he was studying it. She winked at him. "Your father will not charge you."
Regulus set the cauldron back with a hint of regret he did not need to fake.
"The school will not allow it."
"Hogwarts has far too many rules," the witch huffed, as though the castle itself had personally offended her. "My grandson is there as well. Always writing to complain."
The third shop was a general store, and it sold almost everything a wizarding household might want but did not strictly need.
Brooms that cleaned on their own. Boxes that kept food fresh for days. Crystal balls that predicted weather with surprising accuracy. Quills that wrote by themselves, for those who preferred their work done without the inconvenience of effort.
It was the largest of the three, and the busiest. Five or six customers queued at the till.
The shopkeeper was a bald wizard moving briskly through a sale with an elderly witch. When he saw Orion and Regulus, he nodded without breaking his rhythm.
Orion did not interrupt him. He simply took Regulus on a slow circuit of the shop, checked dates and conditions on several shelves, then glanced at the ledger kept near the counter.
Only when the last of that wave of customers had drifted out did Orion step forward.
"John. Business is good."
"Thanks to you, sir," John replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Christmas has only just passed. People are still buying gifts."
"This is Regulus," Orion said, stepping aside. "My son."
John studied Regulus carefully, then smiled as if he liked what he saw.
"He resembles you, and a bit of Madam Walburga as well. Please look after us old hands when you take over the shops one day."
Regulus inclined his head politely.
"Hello."
When they left Diagon Alley, Orion guided Regulus into an even narrower passage. The air grew colder, the sound of footsteps faded, and the world seemed to tighten around them.
Orion produced two old teapot lids, dull with age, and placed one in Regulus's hand.
"Portkey," Orion said. "Hold on tight. It activates in five seconds."
The lid was cold and rusted, rough against Regulus's palm. He gripped it firmly.
Five seconds later, power surged through it, as if a hook had caught him at the navel and yanked hard.
The world spun. Colour and sound blended into a chaotic blur.
This was nothing like Apparition's squeezing compression. Portkey travel was closer to being hurled through space in a careless fist, like being thrown into a washing machine on the spin cycle. A fast one, too, as if the machine had a personal grudge.
Then it stopped.
They stood on a desolate stretch of highland under a heavy sky.
Cold wind howled past, snapping their robes. In the distance, grey green hills rolled like sleeping beasts. Nearby, low stone buildings crouched against the weather, thin white smoke curling from their chimneys.
The air smelled sharply of medicinal herbs, layered over damp earth and rain.
"The Scottish Highlands," Orion said, pocketing the Portkey. "The potions workshop."
He walked towards the stone houses without hesitation.
The manager met them outside. He was an elderly wizard with greying hair and a face carved with wrinkles as deep as cuts. A leather apron hung from his shoulders, stained by years of residue and spilled brews. He held a long handled stirring rod as if it were an extension of his arm.
When he saw Orion, he nodded, expression grim.
"Raw material prices have gone up," the old wizard said at once. "Acromantula venom from Africa is thirty percent more than last year. Mooncalf horn powder from South America is twenty percent more."
"Noted," Orion replied shortly. "Let us go inside."
The interior of the workshop was far larger than its outside suggested, expanded with space extension charms. Heat struck Regulus first, then the layered scents of brewing ingredients.
Over a dozen large cauldrons bubbled over magical flames. Wizards in uniform aprons stood at their stations, stirring with steady hands and adding ingredients at precise moments. Recipes and warning notes covered the walls. Shelves held hundreds of glass bottles containing powders and liquids of every colour.
The old wizard guided them between the cauldrons, explaining what each batch brewed, how far it had progressed, and when it would be ready to ship.
Orion listened carefully, interrupting only to ask concise questions.
Regulus followed behind, watching the workers with a practised eye. They handled materials without wasted movement, controlled heat by instinct and charmwork, and adjusted formulas with the confidence of people who had ruined enough cauldrons to learn what mattered.
A younger wizard brewed an Elixir of Euphoria. Golden froth rose and fell, and the sweet smell clung to the air.
"This batch will yield thirty bottles," the manager said. "We bottle tomorrow. Delivery to Diagon Alley the day after."
"Watch the quality," Orion instructed. "Last time, a customer complained the effect lasted only three hours."
"That was ingredients," the old wizard said, frowning. "Billywig stings are not what they used to be. I will solve it."
From there, Portkeys carried them to Wales, then to Cornwall.
The Wales workshop sat inside a cave, and the heat wrapped around them like steam. Dozens of anvils were arranged in two long rows. Goblins and wizards worked side by side, and the clang of hammer on metal never stopped.
Regulus looked around and realised quickly that this was closer to a forge than any refined laboratory. The work was not delicate. It was practical and repetitive, built for output rather than elegance.
Then he considered what the shop sold.
These were goods for ordinary buyers. Volume mattered. Technical sophistication did not need to be beautiful, only reliable enough to sell.
Cornwall was different.
The herb garden stretched across dozens of acres, sealed behind a magical barrier and thick with living magic.
Moonflowers kept their silver petals folded in daylight. Venomous Tentaculas writhed under glass domes, restless as if they could sense the presence of a child and disliked it on principle. Mandrakes were kept in soundproof greenhouses, danger signs hanging outside like quiet threats.
The gardener was a short witch with sun darkened skin, thick fingers, and soil packed beneath her nails. She spoke while loosening earth around a plant with a careful hand.
"Good weather this year. Harvest is twenty percent higher than last," she said, still working. "Just those gnomes keep causing trouble. I set traps and caught over a dozen."
Orion's expression did not shift.
"Handle them as usual. Sell the pelts in Knockturn Alley. Feed the meat to the animals in Ireland."
Their final stop was a magical creature farm in Ireland.
It was larger than any of the places before it, stretching to the horizon. Magical fences divided the land into sections, each holding different creatures.
A pond teemed with Grindylows. A wooded patch sheltered Bowtruckles. A cave held a few Hinkypunks, their lights flickering faintly like sulky lanterns.
A Graphorn wandered a steep rocky enclosure where little grew. In a tall wooden shed, the faint movement of an Occamy's plumage could be seen through slats.
The manager was a big man with a ruddy face and a voice that could have terrified a Banshee into silence.
"Everything is fine," he boomed, thumping his chest. "Only the feed prices have gone up again. Dragon liver is forty percent more than last year."
"Raise prices as needed," Orion said calmly. "Do not skimp on the animals. If they are not kept well, they will not fetch a good price."
Regulus stood by one fence, watching a Bowtruckle peek out from a tree hollow. The creature was only palm sized, with dark bead eyes and thin fingers like twigs.
It stared at him for a moment, then suddenly flicked an acorn. It landed at Regulus's feet with a soft tap. The Bowtruckle vanished back into the hollow at once, making a rustling sound that could only be described as giggling.
"It likes you," the manager laughed. "Bowtruckles usually ignore people."
After following Orion for three days, Regulus had finally seen the core industries of the Black family.
Not in depth. Only enough to understand shape and scale.
And only then did he truly comprehend how small Grimmauld Place was compared to everything that fed it.
The Black holdings stretched far beyond an old house in London and three shops in Diagon Alley.
From the Scottish Highlands to the Irish coast. From the valleys of Wales to the plains of Cornwall. The Black family owned land, workshops, plantations, and farms across the country.
And this, Orion implied without needing to say it, was only Britain.
One night, staying at an inn in Ireland, Regulus asked while the fire crackled.
"What about other places?"
Orion sat by the hearth with a ledger in hand, the flicker of flame reflecting in his calm eyes.
"A vineyard in France that produces magical wine," he said. "A mine in Germany for rare metals. A spice plantation in India. A magical creature reserve in North Africa. You are about to begin school properly. We will see those later."
Regulus sat on the bed opposite, absorbing it all.
He had always known the Blacks were wealthy.
He had never understood where the wealth came from.
Now he did.
Potions, alchemy goods, herbs, magical creatures. Essential industries, the sort that kept the wizarding world functioning even when the Ministry stumbled or factions fought. The Blacks did not control everything, but their share was far from small.
More than that, they had been doing it for centuries.
They had integrated the supply chain. Raw materials grown and bred under their oversight. Processing and production managed by their own workshops. Sales and retail carried by their own shops.
A complete chain, held in Black hands.
The most striking part, though, was not the land or the buildings. It was the people.
Managers who ran each branch. Craftsmen in the workshops. Gardeners in the plantations. Keepers on the farms.
They did not bear the surname Black, but they were tied to it all the same.
Some had served the Blacks for generations. Some were distant branches. Some were smaller families who depended on Black contracts to survive.
It formed a vast ecosystem, complete and self sustaining.
The House of Black stood at its peak.
Below it lay layers of industries and dependents, like a great tree.
The trunk was the Black name.
The branches and leaves were the businesses.
The roots were the countless lives anchored to the family for work, food, shelter, and security.
Regulus understood at last.
This was the true value of an ancient pure blood noble family.