Dawn had already broken by the time Orion pushed open the front door of Grimmauld Place.
He hadn't come home the night before.
The evening had been spent at the Malfoys', talking with Abraxas until the small hours. On the surface, a social call between two families. In truth, a quiet meeting of the heads of several core pure-blood families within Voldemort's camp. Comparing notes. Taking the temperature.
These gatherings never dealt in specifics. Only impressions.
Abraxas had mentioned the current climate. Said the Dark Lord's demands were growing, both in scope and in urgency. Said some families had begun grumbling in private but lacked the nerve to say it openly. Said the Lestranges were too aggressive, and that sooner or later, it would catch up with them.
Orion listened. Agreed where agreement was expected. Offered little else.
None of this was new. The signs had been there for a while, only growing harder to ignore as the months wore on.
What he'd really been doing was watching Abraxas.
Last year, Regulus had mentioned it in passing. Said the current head of the Malfoy family might not live much longer. That his death wouldn't be natural, and that when it came, it would mark the moment Voldemort stopped cooperating with the pure-blood families and began controlling them outright.
Orion had been skeptical at the time, but he'd filed the words away. Every meeting since, he'd looked a little more carefully.
And after all those careful looks, he'd found nothing.
Abraxas was the same as ever. Grey-white hair, a face well-lined, but his voice was strong and his mind sharp. He'd looked this way for years. No change worth noting. The man was more than a decade older than Orion, and appearances meant little at that level. A skilled wizard could look ancient and still possess staggering power.
When Orion reached out with his senses, Abraxas felt even stronger than before. And he could tell it wasn't a facade.
No sign of trouble. Which might simply mean there was no trouble yet.
Regulus had said might. Not will. Worth continuing to watch.
He crossed the entrance hall and walked into the dining room. Walburga was already there.
She sat in her usual chair, breakfast laid out in front of her, untouched. The moment she saw him, her eyes locked on. "You're back?"
Orion gave a short nod, said nothing, and took his seat.
Kreacher appeared without a sound and set a steaming breakfast before him.
Walburga's gaze didn't waver. "How did it go?"
He picked up his knife and fork and cut into a fried egg. "Fine."
"What do you mean, fine?" She leaned forward. "What's the Malfoy position? What's the Dark Lord saying?"
Orion swallowed. "Abraxas says unity between our families is paramount. That the Dark Lord's cause requires all pure-blood houses working as one."
Walburga's eyes lit up. This was the sort of thing she loved to hear. "Naturally. The Malfoys have always known which way the wind blows."
Orion nodded and kept eating.
"And what about glory?" she pressed. "Did they mention the honor of House Black?"
"They did."
"And?"
"Said House Black is the standard-bearer of pure-blood society. That the Dark Lord values us greatly."
A satisfied smile spread across her face. "As it should be. The Blacks have always led. Always."
Orion didn't respond.
She went on for a while longer. He listened, nodding at the right moments.
Kreacher reappeared, shuffling to Orion's side with his long nose nearly brushing the floor. His voice was reverent. "Master, the young master sent a letter last night."
Orion's hand stilled. He set down his cutlery and took the letter.
Regulus never wrote home without reason. The last time had been the Belmont affair.
So what was it now?
He'd heard about the incident a few days ago. Coaching someone through a Protego on the spot, getting a first-year to cast a full shield in one attempt. On any ordinary young wizard, pulling something like that might have been showing off.
But Regulus didn't do things without purpose. Orion knew his son. Everything had a reason.
He just hadn't asked, and Regulus hadn't volunteered. Now there was a letter, and he was curious.
Walburga jumped in from beside him. "Regulus wrote? What does he say? Has someone at school been giving him trouble again? Or did he win another honor?"
Orion opened the letter and scanned it. Short.
Regulus wanted a mature Whomping Willow. He'd listed several locations. The reasoning was the same as with the Mandrakes. He wanted it before Christmas.
Orion's eyebrow lifted slightly.
A Whomping Willow.
He knew what they were rare and extremely difficult to acquire.
But if Regulus said he needed one, then he needed one. Whatever the cost, it was worth it.
He refolded the letter and handed it back to Kreacher. "That's all."
Kreacher took it with a deep bow and vanished.
Walburga couldn't contain herself. "What did Regulus say? Did Slughorn give him more house points? Did he do something brilliant again?"
Orion glanced at her. "He says Slughorn awarded him house points."
Her face broke into a beaming smile. "I knew it! Regulus is the finest student Slytherin has. Which of those pure-blood children could hold a candle to him?"
Orion nodded without a word.
"Nothing else?" she pushed. "Nobody bothering him? Nobody he had to put in their place?"
He shook his head. "No."
Walburga started muttering. "That boy. Never writes to me, only to you. I'm his mother, and I have to hear everything secondhand..."
Orion said nothing.
You don't know why he doesn't write to you?
He finished breakfast, rose, and headed for the study. Walburga was still talking behind him.
The dining room door shut. The world went quiet.
Orion settled into the chair behind his desk and leaned back. He was tired, if he was honest. Not in any way that mattered physically. His body was fine, his energy sufficient. But he'd reached the age where he noticed a night without sleep, where it occurred to him that he couldn't treat his body the way he had at twenty.
He wanted more years. He wanted to see how far Regulus could go. Wanted to see how high his son could carry the House of Black.
The letter had been brief, but the meaning was plain.
A Whomping Willow. Regulus said it complemented the Mandrakes.
The Decomposition Curse.
Orion thought of that spell, and for a moment, his breath quickened.
He'd felt its power firsthand. In this very study, Regulus had used the second form, and it had left him reeling for some time afterward.
Then Regulus had told him that was the lowest setting.
A spell developed by a twelve-year-old, rivaling the Killing Curse in raw lethality, with applications that went further still.
What did that mean?
It meant Regulus's understanding of magic had already passed beyond what any ordinary wizard should possess. Talent didn't cover it. This was a difference in kind, not degree.
Orion thought of himself at that age. He'd been good at Hogwarts. Strong, even. But compared to Regulus now, the gap was vast.
He caught himself wondering: Was Dumbledore this capable at twelve?
He didn't know. Dumbledore's youth was ancient history by now.
What about Voldemort?
At the same age, had he possessed a spell like this?
Orion didn't know that either.
But he knew one thing. Regulus deserved his full support.
Three thousand Galleons for the Mandrakes had yielded the Decomposition Curse. Now Regulus said he needed a Whomping Willow to complement it.
There was nothing to debate. It had to be done.
He leaned back, running through the locations in his mind. The Bulgarian Magical Reserve. The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary. Some estate in southern France. Deep in the Black Forest in Germany.
As long as the trees existed somewhere, he could get one.
If money could solve it, he'd spend. If money couldn't, he'd trade. And if trading failed...
He didn't finish the thought. That was the last resort. But if it came to it, there'd be no hesitation.
For Regulus, it was worth it.
He sat up straight, pulled a sheet of parchment toward him, and began to write.
[Regulus:
Understood. I'll see to it.]
He paused, thought for a moment, then added a few more lines.
[Andromeda's wedding. October 21.
Location: Provence, France. The Luberon Mountains. Wisteria Manor. Map enclosed.
You may wish to know.]
He folded the letter and called for Kreacher.
The elf appeared soundlessly. "Master."
"Send this to Regulus."
Kreacher took the letter in both hands, bowed, and vanished.
Orion leaned back and closed his eyes.
After a while, he opened them, pulled the European Magical Reserve Directory from a drawer, and turned to the Bulgaria page.
He began to think.
At Hogwarts, the reply reached Regulus at lunchtime.
An owl dropped it squarely into his plate.
Perhaps realizing its aim had been off, it didn't linger for a treat. Just flapped away.
Regulus brushed off the crumbs, broke the seal, and read.
The first line was exactly what he'd expected. His father never hesitated on things like this.
He read on, and his eyebrow rose.
Andromeda. His cousin. It had been nearly two years since he'd seen her.
Of the three cousins, she was the one he'd spent the least time with. And also the one who'd shown him the most genuine kindness.
Before his first year at Hogwarts, at Grimmauld Place, Andromeda had pulled him aside and told him something he hadn't forgotten.
Don't let compromise become surrender. Don't let this family consume you. You have your own heart. Remember that.
Then, as she was leaving, one more thing.
If you ever need help. Real help. Come find me. I'll be in France.
Last Christmas, he'd had Kreacher deliver a key to a Gringotts Paris vault to her.
Of the three cousins, she was the one who mattered most to him.
He and Narcissa shared affection, but what they had was closer to alliance. A bond of family strategy, a thread woven through the fabric of House politics.
What he felt for Andromeda was different. It had nothing to do with blood or utility. It was respect, pure and simple. For her honesty. Her courage. Her refusal to walk any path but her own.
She hadn't done what Sirius did. No rebellion, no war against the family.
She'd simply chosen her own way and accepted the cost.
She'd offered counsel. Left an open door. That made her someone worth trusting.
And now she was getting married.
Regulus looked at the line again, then at the rough little map his father had enclosed.
It was barely a sketch. A few lines. A few circles.
But as he traced them, a place formed in his mind. The Luberon Mountains. A stone house at the foot of a slope, draped in climbing vines, next to a field of lavender.
He could find it.
He folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and turned his attention to lunch.
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