Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The fireplace in the common room was burning brightly on Saturday morning, and the emerald green flames warmed the room cozy.

There were very few people around at this time; most of the young Slytherin wizards were still huddled in bed.

Of course, the same applies to the junior wizards in other colleges.

Regulus stepped out of his dormitory and paused at the entrance to the corridor.

Snape sat in a chair by the fireplace, holding nothing in his hands, just sitting there, his gaze following Regulus the moment he appeared.

Regulus glanced at him and roughly guessed what it was about.

The two exchanged a glance; Snape didn't move, and neither did Regulus.

Then Snape stood up and walked this way.

Regulus gave a very slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, turned around and walked to the sofa on the other side, away from the fireplace.

Snape walked over, but didn't sit down. He placed a small bottle on the coffee table and then stood there waiting.

The bottle was dark purple and opaque; even in the firelight of the fireplace, the bottom was not visible.

The bottle opening was sealed with black wax, which was pressed flat and the edges were neatly finished.

There were two runes at the seal. Regulus recognized one of them; it was a stabilization rune used by potion makers to mark the grade of a finished product, meaning that the potion's magic power would not diminish on its own after being sealed.

This technology is not something that ordinary students can master.

The other rune is smaller and is engraved on the shoulder of the bottle. The strokes are simple and do not belong to any standard system. It looks like it was engraved casually, but it was engraved very carefully.

Regulus picked up the bottle and gently scanned it with his magical senses.

It is heavy and dense, with a continuous sense of weight. That feeling cannot be achieved by simply piling up materials; it requires technical skill to support it.

He didn't have a deep understanding of potions. He could complete his coursework and occasionally produce items that exceeded the classroom requirements, but he never put much thought into that area.

He only sensed the tendency and texture of the magic, but that was enough for him to judge that the bottle was of high quality and completeness.

Quite skilled.

He also noticed the small rune engraved on the shoulder of the bottle; it wasn't a standard potion-level mark, but more like some kind of personal mark, Snape's.

Regulus found it interesting; no wonder he was a future Potions Master, he was already starting to develop his own brand awareness.

He put the bottle down and said, "Received."

He didn't say anything else, but Snape stood there and didn't leave.

Regulus didn't look up, but simply said, "Sit down."

Snape sat down, trying to appear relaxed, but his body was somewhat stiff.

He neither leaned back nor held onto the armrests; he just sat there upright, as if ready to stand up and leave at any moment.

The common room was not crowded. The fireplace crackled, and the firelight shone from the side, casting two shadows on the wall.

The silence lasted for a while before Snape spoke first, his eyes not on Regulus, but fixed on the bottle on the coffee table.

His tone was flat, but that flatness was forced: "This is a thank-you gift, from the welcome party."

Regulus remained silent.

He leaned back, sinking into the sofa, clasped his hands on his stomach, and gestured with his chin toward Snape.

Snape continued, "This potion is difficult to brew, and the ingredients are not cheap."

He paused, as if waiting for Regulus to answer, but Regulus remained silent, only keeping his gaze fixed on the bottle, his expression unchanged.

Snape glanced up at him, then looked back down at the table, his voice a little dry: "The Blacks have a potions shop in Diagon Alley, don't they?"

The moment he said it, his eye twitched.

The timing of that statement was wrong; it was too hasty, and he knew it himself.

He tried to find something to say, but couldn't. His lips moved, but he didn't say anything; he just left it there.

Regulus showed no expression, only grunted an "Mmm," and then just stared at him.

He realized that Snape's visit today wasn't just to return a favor.

He called Snape up at the orientation party, making him appear in front of Slughorn. Snape remembered this and couldn't stand feeling indebted, so he came to repay the favor.

But this potion wasn't just a thank-you gift; it was the most valuable thing he could offer.

He wanted Regulus to see how much this bottle was worth, to see what a half-blood could do, and to see his abilities.

Incidentally, I also want to sell it through the Black family's channels.

Use Regulus's connections to turn his possessions into money, shed his slovenly reputation, and even establish a genuine partnership with the Black family in the future.

He provides the technology, and the Black family provides the shelves; neither side loses out.

With three things piled up, Snape felt that sending them under the guise of a thank-you gift wouldn't make him seem like he was bowing down, much less like he was bowing down.

But he was indeed too low, he just didn't realize it.

Regulus looked away.

This matter can be discussed, but not today. Snape's stance isn't right yet.

Snape waited for a while, but nothing came.

Regulus stood up, put the bottle in his pocket, and said, "It's time for breakfast."

He took a couple of steps, then paused at the edge of the sofa area: "The potion is brewed quite well."

Then he walked straight to the door of the common lounge.

Snape sat there, staring at the fireplace, the same sentence repeating in his mind.

The potion is brewed quite well.

What is this?

Approval? Or just a perfunctory response?

Or was it just a casual remark without any real meaning?

What does "um" mean?

Did you hear me? Do you understand?

Or do you simply not want to answer?

He thought for a long time but couldn't come up with an answer. His mind was a mess, like a tangled mess of medicine that he couldn't pour out.

......

In the study at 12 Grimmauld Place, the fireplace was burning, and several documents were spread out on the table.

Orion sat behind his desk, the folder in front of him closed and placed on his right.

He started taking care of things in Bulgaria as soon as he received the letter.

The head of the conservation department, Georgy Stoyanov, is 53 years old, has served for eight years, and is cautious.

Orion had his men investigate for three days and found two things.

First, he approved two cross-border transportation permits during his tenure, which had procedural flaws. These flaws were not enough to warrant impeachment or dismissal, but if someone took it seriously, they would be enough to give him a headache.

Secondly, his son's position in the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic will be reassessed next quarter, and the outcome depends on the opinion of a certain director.

Orion didn't intend to use those two flawed licenses; they were too crude, and the line would break if he used them.

He didn't intend to directly target the director; it would be too obvious. The Black family wouldn't do such a thing. He wanted Stoyanov to figure things out for himself.

Today is the day we meet.

Sophia, the Dark Amber Magic Club, only accepts wizards with membership badges; it has no sign and is not open to the public.

But within the inner circle of the Bulgarian magical community, those who know this place know what it means.

Orion arrived in the evening, Apparated, and landed in the designated area in the club's backyard.

There was a special passage for receiving distinguished guests. Instead of going through the main hall or the main entrance, the guide led them to a private room, opened the door, and stepped aside.

A tall man, wearing a dark robe with a hood covering his head, followed behind Orion, standing half a step behind him.

When the guide stepped aside to make way, his gaze lingered on that person for a moment, then looked away and continued walking.

The private room was small, with two chairs and a low table. On the table were Bulgarian magic tea leaves, which, when brewed, turned a deep gold color with a tiny halo around the rim of the cup.

The fireplace burns with a blue flame, which is cooler than the orange flames in England, but burns longer.

On the wall hangs an animated portrait of Balkan magical history, in which the figures are all speaking in hushed tones in Bulgarian, though it's impossible to make out what they're saying.

Stoyanov was already there. Orion came in, stood up, and extended his hand.

His voice was steady, and his smile was perfect, but the handshake lasted half a second shorter than usual: "I have long admired the name of the Black family head."

After a brief greeting, Orion sat down opposite him, while his attendant stepped back to the door, standing motionless and silent, like a breathing wall.

Stoyanov glanced at the attendant for a moment, then looked back at Orion's face.

He picked up his teacup: "The weather is nice today."

"Sofia is warmer than London this time of year," Orion said. "We've already had frost there."

Orion took a sip of tea and put down his cup. "How's work in the conservation area lately? Are there enough staff?"

Stoyanov said, "It's alright, we've gradually caught up over the years."

Orion said, "The Black family has a magical animal breeding farm in Ireland and can provide some technical support if the conservation area needs it."

Then he looked at Stoyanov and added, "It's not a deal, just an exchange between the two companies."

"That's wonderful," Stoyanov replied with a smile.

He knew that the head of the Black family must have something to discuss with him in Bulgaria, so he was waiting for Orion to reveal what he truly wanted to talk about today.

The two chatted for a few more minutes, discussing the weather in Bulgaria this year and the recent activities of the Ministries of Magic in various European countries.

One sentence after another, at a leisurely pace.

Stoyanov joined in the conversation, but the more they talked, the more something seemed off.

He worked at the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic for eight years and met all sorts of people who came to discuss business.

He's seen and dealt with all sorts of people: those who offered direct prices, those who beat around the bush, and those who used leverage against him.

But he couldn't figure out the pattern of this one.

Orion mentioned the recent personnel changes at the British Ministry of Magic, casually bringing up the name of a director, as if he had suddenly remembered something during a conversation.

"This person is currently busy wrapping up a multinational collaboration with the Black family, and it's almost finished."

He picked up his teacup and took a sip: "He mentioned your side in Bulgaria, saying that he is an old friend of Boyan Petrov and that he would like to introduce him to someone another day."

Stoyanov paused for a moment, his hand holding the teacup still.

When the name Poyan Petrov came in, the line in Stoyanov's mind instantly became clear.

Petrov's old friend had an unfinished collaboration with the Black family, and whether or not the collaboration would be completed depended entirely on the Black family's decision.

Orion continued, "That director was a very easy person to talk to, we had a pleasant working relationship, and there will be opportunities to continue in the future."

Stoyanov put down his teacup and smiled. "Yes, that man has always had a good relationship with us."

Orion smiled and naturally changed the subject: "I heard there are a few 'beating willows' in the conservation area, and they're growing well."

Stoyanov's expression hardened slightly, knowing that this might be the important matter at hand.

"Yes, those trees are the pride of the conservation area."

Orion said, "The Black family has always been very interested in these kinds of plants."

Then he added, "It's purely academic curiosity, nothing more."

The tone was casual, as if it were just a casual remark, but adding the following sentence made it less casual.

Stoyanov looked at him; the matter was already clear.

That director, Poyan Petrov, his son's position, the unfinished deal with the Black family, and the willow tree that this person just asked about.

Orion didn't say a word about any of these things, but they were all laid out on the table, clearly laid out.

The Black family, one of the Twenty-Eight Holy Clans, members of Wizengamo.

The surname is there; it needs no explanation or mention.

He doesn't deserve to cause this trouble for a few trees.

And more importantly, the tree is not his, or even anyone else's, but the son is his.

After finishing his tea, Orion stood up: "I had a very pleasant day."

Stoyanov stood up as well: "Mr. Black—"

Orion didn't let him finish: "Goodbye."

Stoyanov saw him out, then returned and sat down in a chair, staring at the cold cup of tea.

The halo around the rim of the cup had long since faded, and the tea soup was dark and dull, unable to reflect anything.

He thought about it for a long time, but couldn't figure out which sentence in the conversation was pressuring him, but he knew what to do.

Three days later, Orion received a document.

Several young *Willow saplings*, along with cultivation instructions.

seedling?

Orion frowned. The seedlings would take sixty years. Sixty years was too long. He couldn't wait.

He picked up his pen and wrote a reply.

"The Black family is willing to provide five years of herb garden production support to the Bulgarian conservation area, and looks forward to in-depth cooperation between the two sides in more areas."

Five days later, Orion received the second document.

Transform the seedlings into two mature plants.

After reading the document, Orion put it into a folder, placed it on the right side of his desk, and picked up a pen to write a letter to Regulus.

He wrote a few words, sealed it, and handed it to Kreacher.

During dinner at Hogwarts, an owl flew into the Great Hall, flew straight to Regulus, dropped a letter, and then fluttered away.

He opened it; it was Orion's handwriting, and the content was brief.

"Two willow trees will arrive in Cornwall before Christmas."

He read the letter twice, folded it, put it in his pocket, then picked up his knife and fork and continued eating.