After that, the castle fell completely silent.
Wrapped in a Disillusionment Charm, Regulus slipped out of the Slytherin common room.
The corridors were empty. Portraits dozed in their frames, suits of armor stood motionless, and only the torches along the walls still burned, casting wavering shadows across the stone.
He deliberately expanded his senses.
His magic spread outward, brushing through the air, catching even the faintest disturbance.
At the same time, his spatial awareness unfolded. Within its range, the castle's structure formed clearly in his mind, every seam in the walls, every turn in the corridor, even the subtle eddies of moving air.
No house-elves and no signs of surveillance.
He wasn't surprised.
Dumbledore's observation was likely intermittent, not constant. Perhaps nothing had been arranged tonight or perhaps the elves were busy elsewhere.
Either way, it didn't matter.
He reached the library. Madam Pince's desk sat empty. Moving with practiced ease, he made his way to the Restricted Section and stopped before the shelf devoted to soul magic.
Soul Resilience: On Resisting the Imperius and Mental Enchantment.
As usual, he began to read.
The book described defenses against the Imperius Curse.
At its core, the curse worked by forcing the caster's will over the target's, blending thoughts until the victim could no longer tell which ideas were their own.
The standard defense was strengthening one's will and erecting mental safeguards.
Conventional thinking.
But Regulus was thinking further.
Over Christmas break, Orion had tested his mental strength with the Imperius Curse.
He had resisted. His victory came from the unyielding will forged through star guided meditation and the labyrinth of thought constructed through Occlumency.
Yet afterward, an idea had lingered.
The Imperius overlaid the will. What if it went a step further?
Not overlay.
Not suppression.
But Replacement.
If a person's will was a castle, the Imperius sent an army to storm it, slaughter the defenders, and plant its own flag.
It was a violent conquest from the start, and resistance was inevitable. Failure was always a possibility.
But what if the method changed?
Instead of sending soldiers, send architects, craftsmen, officials or even spies. Slowly infiltrate, alter the structure, replace key figures. Quietly reshape the castle until it no longer belonged to its original master.
By the time the target noticed, it would be too late.
That would no longer be the Imperius Curse. It would be something higher. A more refined form of mental control.
It would demand immense mental strength and precision. A deep understanding of the structure of will itself.
But in theory, it was possible. Especially against someone weak-willed or mentally flawed.
Regulus withdrew his magic and closed his eyes.
An intriguing thought. For now, nothing more than speculation. His mental strength wasn't sufficient yet, and his understanding of will structures was nearly nonexistent, let alone the fine control required.
Still, it was a direction.
When star guided meditation advanced further, when the fifth star was lit or more, his mental strength would rise to an entirely new level.
Then he could experiment.
Like start with small animals.
Regulus continued browsing the other restricted texts. Every visit left him with the same impression.
Hogwarts was a vault of treasures.
It was already two in the morning when he returned to the dormitory.
Cuthbert and Alex were asleep, their breathing steady behind their bed curtains. Hermes's bed remained empty, curtains drawn tight, no one inside.
After washing up, Regulus lay down.
Hermes was absent from the dormitory more often than he was, and Regulus frequently wandered the castle at night.
Last term, even when Hermes roamed, he at least returned to sleep. This term, entire nights passed without him.
He no longer followed the small circle either. Cuthbert had already voiced his displeasure, calling withdrawal from the group a betrayal.
Alex had no complaints. If anything, he seemed faintly pleased. A gloomy boy like Hermes didn't attract affection.
Slytherin always had its little factions. Some bound by blood, others by shared interests.
Among the older students, many gathered around Voldemort's ideals. Once they graduated, they would don black robes, wear silver masks, and dedicate their strength to the grand cause.
Regulus wasn't concerned with that. He was thinking about Hermes.
Was his task entering a critical phase?
Images from last term surfaced in his mind: cursed books, empty glass bottles, maps marked with hidden areas of the castle, and the occasional scorch marks on Hermes's skin, the faint scent of sulfur clinging to him.
He was searching for something. Or carrying out a family mission.
As long as it didn't interfere with him, Regulus had no intention of intervening.
Everyone had secrets. As long as Hermes's didn't become a threat, he would let him be.
Still, he needed to keep watch. Hermes had value. He was worth pulling up at a critical moment.
Last term, he had demonstrated strength. Now, it was clear that it wasn't enough.
Regulus closed his eyes and let his consciousness sink into star guided meditation.
Four silver stars flared in the darkness, outlining Orion's shape. Magic flowed along their paths in a steady cycle, easing the day's fatigue. The pressure on his mind gradually lightened.
---
Late January, Friday afternoon.
The Charms classroom was half empty.
Professor Flitwick had formally invited Regulus to attend an advanced Charms seminar. In reality, it was just him and a handful of upper-year students.
Regulus knew this was a Hogwarts tradition. Professors would invite truly talented young witches and wizards for individual instruction.
He had accepted readily, though privately he thought, Flitwick is in place. How long before Professor McGonagall?
He already had questions prepared for her.
Professor Flitwick stood atop his stack of books. Only five students faced him.
Three seventh-years, two from Ravenclaw and one from Hufflepuff, and a sixth-year Gryffindor. They sat in the front row, quills poised over parchment.
Regulus took a seat by the window in the second row. The chair beside him remained empty.
The older students glanced at him repeatedly, their gazes friendly and curious. No one treated him differently for being only a first-year.
In truth, his reputation preceded him.
"Today's topic isn't in the syllabus," Professor Flitwick began. His voice was softer than in regular class, lower, his eyes bright.
"Emotional resonance in spellcasting. Or rather, how a caster's state of mind affects magical results."
"With the same Wingardium Leviosa," he raised his wand, "first like this—"
A tap of his wand, and the quill on the lectern rose smoothly into the air.
It wobbled gently, like a dandelion seed floating in a light breeze.
The ascent was slow and soft. At the peak, there was even a faint pause.
"When I cast it, I was thinking of lightness and joy. Like seeing a butterfly for the first time in spring."
Flitwick smiled faintly. "Now—"
He flicked his wand. The quill dropped back onto the desk. A moment later, he cast again.
This time the quill shot upward, twice as fast as before, nib pointing downward. It stopped exactly thirty centimeters above the table.
There was no wobble at all. The ink sac cast a long, thin shadow in the sunlight.
"This time, I was thinking of responsibility," Flitwick said, studying the quill. "It must rise. It must be stable. It must be precise."
Regulus stared at the quill.
He could feel the difference. The magical intensity hadn't changed but its texture had.
The first spell's flow was gentle and steady. The second was taut and focused.
Both had accomplished levitation. But the manner was different.
"The incantation is fixed," Flitwick continued.
"The movement, the pronunciation, the magic. They're all written in your textbooks.
But witches and wizards aren't magical tools. We have emotions. We have states of mind. Thoughts in the moment.
Those extra elements seep into magic and influence the spell."
A seventh-year Ravenclaw raised her hand. "Professor, is there a standard for that influence? I mean, can it be quantified?"
"Very difficult," Flitwick shook his head. "Everyone's emotions differ. Even the same person's emotions vary from moment to moment. But what we can confirm is that mental state affects the spell's texture."
Regulus's gaze remained on the quill as a thought formed. He raised his hand.
"Mr. Black."
"Professor," Regulus asked politely, "the incantation and wand movement are fixed, but a wizard's inner state alters the spell's effect.
Is that alteration governed by patterns? Can it be deliberately controlled and reproduced?"
Flitwick regarded him seriously. "You're suggesting consciously manipulating one's mental state to adjust spell outcomes?"
"Yes, Professor." Regulus nodded.
"With the same Wingardium Leviosa, casting under different emotional conditions produces perceptible differences in magical trajectory and final result.
Do those differences stem from the wizard's inner state influencing the magic itself—"
He paused, searching for the right word.
"Infusing it?
If so, what is the mechanism behind that infusion? Through systematic training, can a specific inner state become a stable casting condition that can be reliably invoked?"
The classroom fell silent.
Professor Flitwick drew in a deep breath.
"You've touched upon a subject of advanced spellcraft," he said gravely.
"The spell determines what can be done. The wizard's mind determines how it is done. When he was young, Professor Dumbledore researched this field extensively. He called it the resonance between mental imagery and magic."
---
Next target 600PS :)