Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Evening at the Potters' house in Godric Valley.

The setting sun bathed the valley in gold, and an owl flew in from the west, carrying a roll of newspaper in its talons—a supplement to the Daily Prophet, still smelling of fresh, barely-dry ink.

An owl flew into the living room through the window, threw the newspaper on the coffee table, shook its wings, and flew away.

Charles Porter leaned over from the sofa to pick it up, just as Euphemia was walking towards the kitchen carrying a plate of fruit.

Sirius Black was lounging on another sofa, his long legs propped up on the coffee table, tossing a Quidditch training snitch in his hand.

James sat on the carpet with a Quidditch whiteboard spread out in front of him, drawing on it with a pen.

A lazy summer evening, fruit, Quidditch, sunset.

Charles finished reading the front page, sat on the sofa in silence, then slowly closed the newspaper, placed it on the coffee table, took off his glasses, wiped the lenses, and put them back on.

Sirius Black was always very perceptive and was the first to notice that Charles's silence was different from usual.

He looked up and saw Charles's expression. He lost his grip on the toy thief, and it slammed onto the floor and rolled away.

"What's wrong?"

Charles shook his head and did not answer.

Sirius Black jumped up from the sofa, took two steps to the coffee table, and grabbed a newspaper.

He read quickly, his gray eyes scanning the headlines and text on the front page.

The front page featured a magical photograph: Regulus stood on the white marble steps of Gringotts, wearing a dark black robe, his wand pointing to the sky, with a golden beam of light shooting straight up from the tip of the wand.

The photo was taken from a low angle, showing him holding up his wand, his robes billowing backward in the wind created by the magic, with the sky behind him covered in golden light patterns, and ancient Latin lettering in gold flowing slowly in the photo.

"He—he activated the family revenge contract? The entire clan? The Rohr family?"

James looked up blankly, completely unaware of what Sirius was saying.

"Someone stabbed him in the back!" Sirius's voice trembled with rage. "Twice! At Hogwarts, that Raoul—"

Dorfin Roll, I've seen him, he looks like a malnourished weasel—he actually—"

He slammed the newspaper on the table, his voice rising higher and higher: "He never told me! Not a single word!"

He thought Regulus was thriving in Slytherin, that no one dared to mess with him, but it turned out that someone was targeting him behind his back, and he didn't even know it.

Anger surged from his navel to his head, directed at the Rohr family, at Dorfin, and at Regulus.

He started walking back and forth in the living room, from the fireplace to the window, from the window to the door, and then back again. His route was completely erratic. He almost bumped into the coffee table twice, but after avoiding it, he changed direction and continued walking.

"Why didn't he tell me?" Sirius's face contorted, his voice cracking as he yelled, "I fucking—I have to go back—"

He was about to rush towards the door when Charles stood up from the sofa, walked over to him, and put his hand on his shoulder.

Charles's gaze was gentle, and his tone was gentle as well: "Sirius."

Sirius Black turned his head, his face still contorted with rage, his eyes red-rimmed.

"If you go there now, the people on the other side will know how to fight as soon as they see you on the battlefield," Charles said patiently. "You are the eldest son of the Black family. If we capture you, the Black family will have to choose between the battlefield and you. What do you think Regulus will choose?"

Sirius opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“He won’t abandon you, so the other side will definitely use you to pressure him,” Charles looked into his eyes. “If you go, he won’t be able to concentrate on the battle.”

Sirius glared at Charles, his teeth practically bared.

He understood perfectly; Charles's meaning was crystal clear: if he went, he would only cause trouble, trouble for Regulus, trouble for the Black family, and there was no place for him on the front lines.

He wanted to yell back, to explode like he had every time before, to throw the phrase "I'm fucking a human being" in Charles's face.

Why? He's the older brother, and the one going to the battlefield is his younger brother. Why can't he go?

But this sense of defiance dissipated almost as soon as it reached his throat, because he couldn't even fool himself.

Everything he considered something to be proud of—transfiguration, spells, duels—was outstanding among his peers, but nothing compared to a group of real adult dark wizards.

He couldn't even cast a complete spell in front of Regulus. When he went to Regulus, Regulus had to take care of him. The Black family had to choose between the battlefield and him.

These things weighed heavily on his mind, and he was still angry. He was angry that Regulus wouldn't tell him anything, angry that Charles was blocking him, angry that he couldn't even get out of the door while standing there, but when he got to the very top, he found that everything below was empty.

He broke free from Charles's hand on his shoulder, paced back and forth in the living room, kicked the coffee table leg, and his chest heaved violently, like a large dog being pulled on a leash, his whole body still tense and ready to charge forward, but he was no longer going to actually break free.

"So I'm supposed to do nothing?" Sirius's ferocious expression slowly crumbled, replaced by an even more distressed look. He forced out a low growl from his throat: "My brother's going to fight a war, and I'm just supposed to sit on the sofa and eat fruit?"

Charles's tone remained mild: "Before the war begins, the Rohr family may come looking for you. Capturing you is their bargaining chip against Regulus."

The Potters are a third party; they can't shield you from any spells. All I can do is hide you away.

He walked back to Sirius: "So the best thing you can do is stay here."

Sirius stood there for a long time, his breathing gradually calming down, and the expression on his face changed from discomfort to suffocation, and from suffocation to frustration.

But he eventually stopped.

He started thinking about another question, from what I wanted to do, to what I could do, and then to what I could do to truly help him.

There is no answer to this question.

Sirius Black, who was almost fifteen, stood in the Potter family's living room and managed to stop himself from rushing out, which was probably the hardest thing he had ever done.

James didn't say a word from beginning to end. He drew half of the Quidditch route on the whiteboard, his pen stopping in the middle of a dotted line, his brows furrowed and his mouth tightly shut.

Only one thought kept running through his mind: Regulus Black was going to wage a real war, a war in which people would die, while he was still planning his Quidditch training for the summer and thinking about how to teach Snape a lesson when school started.

He always thought he was pretty amazing.

The Seeker of Gryffindor Quidditch, who could hang Snape from a tree, dared to talk back to the professor, and dared to put stinky dung balls in the corridor, what he did was not impressive.

Then today the newspaper arrived, and that little Slytherin snake is about to wage a war of annihilation.

He didn't voice these thoughts; to do so would be too serious and unlike him.

Charles walked over and sat down directly on the carpet next to James. The father and son were quiet for a while.

His voice was soft: "Some people walk fast, not to embarrass those who walk slowly."

After saying that, without waiting for his son's reaction, Charles stood up and walked towards the door.

He pushed open the front door and stood on the stone steps.

Dusk had crept into the sky over Godric Valley, the grass in the yard had a bluish-green hue, and the old broom under the porch was gently spinning in the wind.

Charles drew his wand, pressed the tip against the door frame, and without chanting a spell, magic seeped from the tip, drilling down the door frame into the foundation, and then climbing up the wall.

The entire house was gently enveloped by magic, becoming unnoticed. Light bypassed it, the wind blew around it, and even the dirt road in front of the door was pulled by some force to turn a corner and drift away into the distance.

He put away his wand, and the courtyard became extremely quiet.

The Potters have sunk from the magical realm; any wizard passing by will only see an ordinary hillside, a few old trees, and a road that doesn't exist.

This house, and the people in it, will no longer be seen by anyone starting tonight.

The Potter family is good at this; generations of them have been.

That cloak, passed down from the hands of death, sat in the Potter family's closet for centuries, teaching them a lesson: true security is being invisible, not enduring hardship.

Charles understood this long ago, his father understood it, his father's father understood it, and hopefully James will understand it in the future: hiding is never a shameful thing.

If even death can be hidden, so can a wizard.

Euphemia glanced at the people in the living room from the kitchen doorway. Her husband was outside, her son was sitting on the floor holding a pen, lost in thought, and Sirius was standing by the window, clenching his fists and watching the sunset.

She didn't say anything, turned around and went back to the kitchen. The sound of pots and pans clattering came from inside, very soft and ordinary.

James got up from the carpet, walked over to Sirius, patted him on the shoulder, and the two stood side by side by the window, neither of them speaking, clenching their fists as they watched the sunset.

A picture suddenly popped into Sirius's mind.

By the Black Lake, he told Regulus that he wouldn't be going back to Grimmauld Place for the summer vacation, but instead going to the Potters' house. Regulus told him that was a good idea.

He initially thought it was just a perfunctory response.

He was now standing in front of the Potter's window, where the sunset was beautiful and the aroma of food wafted from the kitchen.

His brother is preparing for a war somewhere hundreds of miles away.

So that's what "it's pretty good" means.

I'll put you in a safe place, and then I'll go do what I need to do.

......

The Phoenix Order's safe house was a small living room with a fireplace burning and several maps and intelligence documents spread out on the table.

Moody leaned against the window, his wand resting on the windowsill, staring out the window as he and the Prewitt brothers finished discussing the route for their next patrol.

Dumbledore sat in the corner, his half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, reading a document.

A flash of silver light appeared, and a newspaper appeared on the table, attracting everyone's attention.

Gideon reached out, picked it up, unfolded it, and glanced at the front page.

"Look at this—" He tossed the newspaper aside and gestured with his chin toward Fabian: "Voldemort's own people are fighting amongst themselves. The Black kid issued a family revenge pact, an ancient relic from hundreds of years ago, declaratio sanguinis. The Rolle family is in big trouble."

Fabian took the newspaper, glanced at it, and grinned: "Serves them right, they're all cut from the same cloth. They killed themselves to save us the trouble."

Moody approached Fabian, glanced down at him, and scoffed with undisguised sarcasm: "Purebloods, fighting amongst themselves for centuries, always the same few surnames. After the fighting, they'll still kill Muggles and bully half-bloods. It doesn't matter who wins."

Gideon turned to Dumbledore in the corner: "Professor, what's your opinion on this?"

Dumbledore looked up from the document, his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles blinking.

"Uh—" His voice was unusually muffled as he looked at the Pwitt brothers, then at Moody, his expression subtle: "Young people's affairs, sometimes... are more... well, more than they seem."

That's it, he didn't even utter a complete sentence.

Moody stared at Dumbledore for a moment, then narrowed his eyes.

His intuition told him that something was wrong with Dumbledore's stuttering.

Fabian tossed the newspaper aside, thought for a moment, and a glint of expectation flashed in his eyes: "Professor, where did Geralt go?"

Dumbledore blinked again.