Narcissa's expression tightened, her tone turning sharp and serious. "Bellatrix already knows. She'll contact you soon, either by letter or she'll come to Hogwarts herself.
She'll test you, size you up, and then decide whether you're worth recommending to Voldemort."
Regulus was quiet for a few seconds.
"So what's your advice?" he asked at last.
"Rein it in," Narcissa said. "At least in public. You can show talent, but not like that.
At Hogwarts, especially with a professor like Slughorn who collects gifted students like trophies, your name will spread fast. And when the wrong people hear it, it brings trouble."
She paused, eyes steady on his. "Or opportunity, depending on what you want."
I already have, Regulus thought.
And that was the point, even if it was still early.
At eleven, you were only good for being observed. Even Voldemort wouldn't send an eleven-year-old to do anything real. He wasn't some warlord scraping together child soldiers.
Narcissa's voice softened a fraction. "I'm not saying this to scold you. You're smarter than I am, Regulus.
I've known that since you were five. But smart people trust themselves too much. They stop watching what's around them."
Regulus nodded. "Thank you for the warning, cousin. But I have my own reasons."
"I knew you'd say that." Narcissa sighed. "Fine. Just remember, last night isn't over. Travers won't let it go.
He probably won't come after you himself, but he'll send someone. Older students, or his little pack. That's how Slytherin works."
"I'll welcome it," Regulus said, and with Narcissa, someone he could be slightly less guarded with, the words came out almost casual.
Narcissa studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
"You know," she said, "sometimes I think you and Sirius are actually alike. Not the face. Something deeper. That reckless streak.
He uses it to rebel. You use it for something else."
She turned to leave, then stopped again.
"One more thing. Lucius Malfoy is interested in you," she said, and her mouth tightened. "Not in that way.
If he asks to see you, be polite. And be careful."
Regulus nodded once.
I know, he thought. Your fiancé.
Regulus turned toward his next class: History of Magic with Professor Binns.
It would be the easiest lesson of the day.
---
By Friday, the Scottish Highlands sky was washed clean and bright.
On the flying practice grounds, twenty broomsticks lay in a neat line. Every one of them was old and uneven, the kind of battered school equipment Hogwarts had clearly been using for years.
Madam Hooch stood at the front, short gray hair ruffled by the wind. Her eyes cut over the first-years like she was measuring who would break something and how quickly.
"All right, everyone, stand on the left side of your broom!" she barked. "Right hand out, hold it over the broom, and say it clearly. Up!"
They did as told, and the lawn filled with uneven shouts.
"Up!"
At the front of the Gryffindor line, a red-haired boy with freckles, probably a Weasley, snapped his broom straight into his hand almost instantly. He grinned like he couldn't help himself, earning impressed little noises from the students near him.
On the Slytherin side, Cuthbert Avery's broom rolled a half turn on the grass before it grudgingly lifted. He clicked his tongue, irritated.
Hermes Mulciber tried twice. On the second attempt, the broom leapt up so sharply it nearly smacked his chin.
Regulus lowered his gaze to the old Cleansweep at his feet.
"Up," he said, voice level. No coaxing, no hesitation.
The broom trembled. It seemed to think about it for a second, then rose into his open palm.
"Good," Madam Hooch said, striding between the lines. "Weasley, quick reflexes. Now listen carefully. When I count to three, you'll kick off gently and rise one foot off the ground. Hold it there.
No higher than my shoulder. One, two… three!"
Chaos arrived right on schedule.
Brooms shot up.
Girls shrieked.
Boys yelled like they were daring gravity to try them.
At least four brooms jerked too high, and one Gryffindor girl clutched the handle as she squealed.
Madam Hooch snapped her wand up, slowing her and guiding her down before she could panic herself off the thing.
Regulus hovered at exactly one foot, steady as a fixed point.
His body barely moved. Only the hem of his black robes lifted and fell in the cold wind, slow and rhythmic.
"Merlin's beard," a lanky Gryffindor boy named Benjy Fenwick muttered to his friend. "Look at that Slytherin. He's so steady it's like he's glued to the air."
Not far away, a brown-haired Gryffindor girl, Sarah Bones, noticed too.
Her own hovering was decent, a slight bobbing like she was riding a gentle current. But Regulus was something else entirely. No wasted motion. Every shift of balance looked deliberate, as if he already knew exactly how the broom would respond before it did.
"Eyes forward, don't look down!" Madam Hooch shouted, wand flicking as she corrected students who started spinning in place.
"Now try moving forward slowly." She demonstrated a soft, pressing motion with her hand. "Feel how the broom responds. Treat it like a living partner."
The lines began to drift, awkward and scattered. Most first-years wobbled along crooked paths, speeding up and slowing down without meaning to.
Regulus slid forward about fifteen feet, speed constant, line straight. At the next instruction, he turned left smoothly.
"Hah. Show-off." A stocky Gryffindor boy with thick eyebrows grumbled loudly.
His broom was swaying in uneven arcs, and the contrast with Regulus's control was almost insulting.
"He is flying better, Alphard," the girl beside him said, matter-of-fact.
"Better like a block of wood," Alphard said louder, making sure the wind carried his words toward the Slytherins. "Stiff as a statue. Flying takes guts!"
A few Gryffindors snickered.
On the Slytherin side, Cuthbert's brow furrowed. Hermes shot Alphard a dark look. Alex Rosier watched Regulus with nervous concern.
Regulus acted as if he hadn't heard a word.
Alphard Prewett's face darkened.
When the lesson moved into its second half, Madam Hooch told them to practice basic control on their own while she helped the students who were really struggling. The class immediately broke into small clusters across the field.
Alphard deliberately guided his broom toward the edge of the Slytherin space, two friends flanking him.
"So, Black," he called, hovering a few feet away, "does your family train you to ride a broom like a statue? Gotta keep that noble image, right?"
Cuthbert pushed forward at once. "Watch your mouth, Prewett."
"I'm talking to Black, Cuthbert," Alphard shot back, chin tipped in challenge. "Or does he need someone else to speak for him?"
Regulus turned his head slowly. Gray eyes, calm as still water, settled on Alphard.
"Prewett," he said, not raising his voice, "what are you trying to prove? Gryffindor bravery? Or Prewett manners?"
"A Slytherin brat lecturing me about manners?" Alphard's voice rose with anger.
Regulus only looked at him, letting the silence stretch until Alphard's face started to redden. Then he asked, quietly, "Do you have any?"
That did it.
Alphard's pride flared hot and stupid. If he didn't do something, he'd be a joke.
He yanked out his wand. His two friends, Colin Macmillan and Gareth Diggory, followed immediately, wands pointed toward the Slytherins.
"Want a fight?" Cuthbert drew his wand almost at the same time, his face tight with caution and a thread of excitement.
Hermes's wand slid into his hand without a word. He drifted forward half a broom length, shoulder-to-shoulder with Cuthbert, eyes dark.
Alex went pale. After a second of hesitation, he lifted his wand too, though his aim was clearly more toward empty air than anyone in particular.
Alphard shouted, "Expelliarmus!"
Regulus's wand lifted.
"Expelliarmus."
His spell snapped out faster, cleaner. Two red jets met midair and collided with pinpoint accuracy, bursting into a spray of sparks.
The Disarming Charms canceled each other out.
"What?!" Alphard blurted.
He wasn't the only one.
Students nearby stared, frozen.
You could do that with Expelliarmus?