Narcissa's tone turned grave. "Bellatrix already knows. She'll contact you soon — perhaps by owl, perhaps in person at Hogwarts.
She will test you, evaluate you, and then decide whether to recomnd you to the great gentleman."
Regulus was quiet for several seconds.
"So what do you suggest?" he asked.
"Rein it in. At least in public. You can display talent, but not to that degree.
At Hogwarts, with a professor like Slughorn who collects geniuses, your reputation will spread fast.
And when a reputation reaches the wrong ears, it brings trouble — or opportunity, depending on how you look at it."
'I already am holding back,' Regulus thought. 'And besides, this is precisely what I intended. But the timing is still too early.'
At eleven, one was only suitable for observation. Even Voldemort would not send an eleven-year-old on a mission — he was not so African warlord in need of child soldiers.
Narcissa softened her tone. "I'm not lecturing you. You're smarter than , Regulus.
I knew that from the ti you were five. But clever people sotis trust themselves too much and overlook their surroundings."
Regulus nodded. "Thank you for the warning, Cousin. But I have my own considerations."
"I knew you'd say that." Narcissa sighed. "Very well. But rember — last night isn't over. Travers won't let it go.
He probably won't co at you himself, but he'll send others — upperclassn, or his lackeys. That's how things work in Slytherin."
"I welco anyone, anyti." In front of a cousin he was reasonably close to, Regulus allowed himself a more casual air.
Narcissa studied him for a long mont, then suddenly laughed. "You know what?
Sotis I think you and Sirius are actually quite alike. Not just in appearance — it's that reckless stubbornness at your core. He just channels his into rebellion, and you direct yours elsewhere."
She turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing — Lucius Malfoy. He's very interested in you — not that kind of interest.
If he seeks a eting, be polite. Be careful."
Regulus nodded. 'I know. Your fiancé.'
With that, she departed briskly, the hem of her robe tracing an elegant arc across the stone floor.
Regulus headed for his next classroom. History of Magic with Professor Binns — the most relaxing class of the day.
......
Friday. The sky over the Scottish Highlands was washed clear.
On the Flying Class training lawn, twenty broomsticks lay in neat rows — every one of them old, with twigs askew, accumulated over years of Hogwarts use.
Madam Hooch stood at the head of the line, grey hair cropped short, sharp eyes sweeping every student.
"Right then, everyone stand to the left of your broom!" Her voice was crisp and commanding. "Extend your right hand over the broom and say clearly — Up!"
The students obeyed. A ragged chorus echoed across the grass.
"Up!"
At the front of the Gryffindor line, a red-haired, freckle-faced boy — probably a Weasley; Regulus recalled seeing him at the start of term but had not bothered to rember the na —
made the broom leap into his palm almost instantly. He was grinning with pride, drawing murmurs of admiration from the Gryffindors nearby.
On the Slytherin side, Avery Cuthbert's broom rolled a half-turn on the ground before reluctantly rising. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Hers Mulciber needed two attempts; on the second, the broom sprang up so hard it nearly struck him under the chin.
Regulus dropped his gaze to the worn Cleansweep at his feet.
"Up." His voice was steady — neither urging nor hesitant.
The broom trembled on the ground, hesitated for one second, then settled into his open palm.
"Very good!" Madam Hooch strode briskly between the two lines.
"Mister Weasley, excellent reflexes! Now, everyone listen — on my count of three, push off gently and let the broom rise to about one foot above the ground. Then hold that hover.
No higher than my shoulders! One, two... three!"
Chaos arrived on schedule.
Broomsticks lurching upward, girls screaming, boys grunting bravado — it all blended together.
At least four brooms rocketed out of control. A Gryffindor girl shrieked while clutching her broom handle and had to be rescued by a well-tid Slowing Charm from Madam Hooch.
Regulus hovered at precisely one foot, perfectly still.
His body was almost motionless — only the hem of his black robe stirred rhythmically in the cold wind.
"rlin's beard, look at that Slytherin..." muttered Benjy Fenwick, a tall, thin boy in the Gryffindor line, to his neighbor. "He's steady as if he were glued to the sky."
Not far away, a brown-haired Gryffindor girl — Sarah Bones — had also noticed the anomaly.
Her own hover was quite good: a gentle rocking, like swaying on a breeze.
But Regulus's kind of stability was sothing else entirely — no wasted movent whatsoever, every shift of weight so precise it was as though he already knew the broom's full response a second before it happened.
"Eyes forward — don't look down!" Madam Hooch called, tapping her wand to nudge several spiraling students back into line.
"Now, try moving forward slowly!" She demonstrated a gentle forward press. "Feel the broom's response — treat it like a living partner!"
The group began an awkward, crawling advance. Most first-years veered off course at irregular speeds.
Regulus glided forward about fifteen feet — constant speed, arrow-straight — then turned left on command.
"Ha! Show-off!" In the Gryffindor line, a stocky boy with dark hair and heavy brows grumbled.
His own broom was stubbornly tracing arcs left and right, a glaring contrast with Regulus's composure.
"He really does fly better, Alphard," the girl beside him said matter-of-factly.
"Better like a plank of wood!" Alphard raised his voice, deliberately letting the wind carry his words to the Slytherin ranks. "Stone-still, like he's terrified of falling off! Flying takes guts!"
A few Gryffindors snickered.
On the Slytherin side, Avery Cuthbert's brow furrowed, Hers Mulciber shot Alphard a dark glance, and Alex Rosier looked anxiously toward Regulus.
Regulus appeared not to have heard a thing.
Alphard Prewett's expression soured further.
In the second half of the lesson, Madam Hooch released the students for free practice while she went to coach several who were struggling badly. The training field fragnted into a dozen small clusters.
Alphard deliberately steered his broom toward the Slytherin area, his two friends flanking him.
"So, Black," Alphard said, hovering a few feet away. "Does your family specifically train you to ride a broom like a statue? Got to maintain that noble image, I suppose."
Avery imdiately urged his broom forward. "Watch your mouth, Prewett."
"I'm talking to Black, Cuthbert." Alphard jutted his chin. "Or does he need soone else to speak for him?"
Regulus slowly turned his head. His grey eyes settled on Alphard, calm as still water.
"Prewett," he said quietly. "What exactly are you trying to prove? Gryffindor courage — or Prewett manners?"
"A Slytherin brat lecturing about manners?" Alphard's voice climbed with anger.
Regulus simply looked at him, waiting until the boy's face was crimson before he spoke again, deliberately: "Do you have any?"
The provocation worked. Alphard knew that if he did nothing, he would beco the butt of the joke.
He wrenched out his wand. His two friends — Colin Macmillan and Gareth Diggory — drew theirs at once, all three aiming toward the Slytherin side.
"Want a fight?" Avery Cuthbert drew almost simultaneously, his face a mix of alertness and a flicker of excitent.
Hers Mulciber's expression darkened. His wand slid into his hand and, without a word, he nudged his broom half a step forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Avery.
Alex Rosier went pale, hesitated a beat, then raised his wand with a trembling hand — though it was conspicuously aid at empty air.
Alphard bellowed: "Expelliarmus!"
Regulus's wand tapped out: "Expelliarmus."
His spell was faster, denser, launched second but arriving first. The two jets of red light collided head-on in midair and exploded in a shower of sparks.
Disarming Charm — mutual cancellation.
"What?!" Alphard was not the only one stunned; every student in the vicinity froze.
'A Disarming Charm can do that?'
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