Phoenix fire burst open in a narrow stone alley, gold light flaring once before Regulus landed on the wet flagstones. Steam curled from the shallow puddle beneath his boots.
Fawkes released his wrist without a glance, spread his wings, and swept out of the alley. The gold-and-red phoenix disappeared around the corner without leaving so much as a cry behind.
Regulus merely shrugged. He was used to the bird's attitude.
The alley was barely wide enough for one person, its old stone walls covered in patches of moss and overgrown branches. Dry leaves drifted into the puddle at his feet as the wind passed overhead. From the far end came faint voices and the clink of cups.
He sniffed the air. Peat, damp stone, and the bitter smoke of cheap firewood filled his lungs, harsher than London coal smoke. He adjusted his belt, then stepped toward the alley mouth.
Beyond it stretched a muddy dirt road, churned into deep ruts by wheels and boots. Low stone houses stood on either side beneath uneven grey slate roofs, their plaster peeling, windows either boarded shut or left as black openings. Crooked chimneys released thin streams of blue or black smoke.
Beyond the settlement, barren hills rolled into the distance beneath a low, heavy sky. Yellow-grey grass covered the slopes, with sparse heather growing close to the ground. There were almost no trees.
Regulus took in the landscape and quickly narrowed down the location.
Northern England, probably somewhere near the Scottish border.
He couldn't pinpoint it. Phoenix fire left no trace of where someone had traveled, but the general direction was clear enough.
Far from Hogwarts. Even farther from London.
To the right stood a slightly larger stone-and-timber building with a crooked doorway and a weathered wooden sign.
A tavern.
Regulus pushed open the door.
The smell hit him immediately: tobacco, overcooked root vegetables, smoked bacon, and stale ale soaked into the floorboards.
Behind the bar stood a short, broad wizard with a thick neck and stained apron, wiping a glass with a rag that probably should have been discarded years ago.
Only a few patrons were scattered around.
Two wizards in heavy leather robes sat near the door. Their weathered faces and rough hands marked them as men who had spent most of their lives working outdoors. Regulus swept his perception over them and found coarse, unrefined magic. Whatever training they had received, it certainly hadn't come from a proper magical school.
Two Butterbeers sat on their table.
At the bar, an old man sat hunched over a dark drink, staring at it without taking a sip.
Regulus's gaze lingered on him.
Dark Magic clung to the man's body. Some kind of old curse had eaten through portions of his Magic Circuit, leaving darkened edges that continued to spread.
He didn't have long.
Then Regulus noticed the man sitting alone in the corner.
He wore a dark grey traveling robe with a brown cast, the hood resting on his shoulders. The fabric was good quality despite its dull appearance. White hair, a white beard, half-moon glasses, and a cup of tea completed the picture.
Every table around him was empty.
No one in this tavern would recognize him. The people here probably didn't read the papers or care about whatever arguments were currently consuming the wider wizarding world. They cared about earning enough Knuts for a drink and waiting for the rain to stop.
To them, he was simply an elderly wizard traveling through the area.
Regulus stepped farther inside.
The atmosphere changed instantly.
Betelgeuse's outward burn was already active. Heat radiated from his skin, warping the air around him. He wasn't suppressing it in the slightest, and in such a small room, there was no need for anyone to possess trained magical perception to notice.
The heat prickled against their skin. Their chests tightened. The hairs on their bodies stood on end.
Their instincts understood before their minds did.
Someone dangerous had entered.
The two leather-robed wizards turned toward him at once. The shorter one quickly lowered his head and nudged his companion. The broader wizard studied Regulus from head to toe, lingering on his white hair, slit pupils, belt, and boots before grunting and turning away.
Their eyes met briefly.
Both lowered their hands beneath the table, closer to their wands.
The cursed old man at the bar didn't react. He continued staring at his drink.
Only the white-bearded wizard in the corner raised his eyes.
Blue eyes behind half-moon glasses settled on Regulus standing in the doorway.
His gaze traveled slowly from the silver-white hair down to the rest of his appearance. The coarse texture of his hair lacked the smooth aristocratic quality associated with the Blacks. His eyes were amber, their slit pupils completely unlike the original grey.
Patterned shoulders, dark grey waistcoat, wide belt, short dragonhide boots.
A complete combat outfit.
From head to toe, he looked like an entirely different person.
For a moment, the old wizard seemed genuinely caught off guard.
Then his mouth curved into a slow smile.
The light in his blue eyes brightened with unmistakable interest and amusement as he set down his teacup, leaned back slightly, and tapped one finger against the table.
His gaze never left the silver-haired wizard in the doorway.
One eyebrow rose above the rim of his glasses.