Regulus made it back to the dormitory, washed up, and felt the soreness fading from his limbs.
He lay in bed but couldn't sleep. The excitement had settled, yet his body still carried the memory.
That crushing pressure pinning him against his own spine. The roar of air tearing apart at his ears. Everything ahead dissolving into smeared streaks of light.
Incredible.
He'd experienced several kinds of spatial travel by now.
Apparition, like being squeezed through a rubber tube and spat out the other end. Portkeys, that miserable sensation of a hook yanking you forward by the navel. The Patronus warp, wrapped in warmth and light.
Each had its own strangeness, but none compared to what he'd felt tonight. That was raw speed.
His own power, driving himself to the edge of sound. Inertia crushing his organs backward. The world stretched into countless lines streaming past.
Humans craved speed. Craved flight. Wizards were no different. He certainly wasn't.
---
Near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, not far from where Regulus had touched down.
Dumbledore stood beneath an old oak, watching the distant lights of the castle.
McGonagall stood beside him, expression severe. "Albus."
Dumbledore tilted his head toward her.
"Horace, Filius, and Pomona were all going to come," McGonagall said. "I sent them back."
"Thank you, Minerva." His tone was gentle.
McGonagall's gaze followed the direction Regulus had gone. He was long out of sight, but the residue of his magic still lingered in her perception.
"That was Fiendfyre," she said.
Dumbledore nodded without speaking.
"He was using Fiendfyre," she pressed. "A second-year student, deep in the Forbidden Forest, in the middle of the night, using Fiendfyre. Albus, that is extraordinarily dangerous."
He looked at her, a trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth. "Minerva, are you worried about him?"
McGonagall drew a long breath. "I'm worried that his talent is too great. What Mr. Black has shown in Transfiguration... he's not even studying Transfiguration anymore. He's thinking about the nature of Transfiguration itself. Do you understand what that means?"
"I do," Dumbledore said mildly.
McGonagall held his gaze. "The Fiendfyre he used tonight, how dangerous that is, you and I both know. One lapse in control and the entire Forbidden Forest burns to ash. And what was he using it for? Flight? What kind of flight is that? Shaping Protego into an airframe and driving it with Fiendfyre? No normal wizard would conceive of something like that."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. Warm. Calm. "Minerva, you find it abnormal?"
McGonagall frowned. "You find it normal?"
Dumbledore smiled. "I find it fascinating."
His gaze drifted toward the forest. "Reshaping Protego into the form he needed, using Fiendfyre for propulsion, flying at that speed under his own power. You're right, no normal wizard would conceive of it. But this child was never a normal wizard."
A beat of silence from McGonagall. "Albus, he was using Fiendfyre."
"I know."
"Fiendfyre is dark magic," she pressed.
"Yes." He nodded without hesitation.
"And you're not concerned?"
Dumbledore turned to face her fully. "Minerva, you taught him for a year. Do you believe he's a child who would be controlled by dark magic?"
"I've seen it," Dumbledore said, a note of quiet pride in his voice. "The Starlight Kite. A Patronus capable of spatial traversal."
"That's an ability native to the magical creature itself. Rare, in fact. But what it represents matters more than any form."
He continued, "That child has light inside him. Bright enough."
McGonagall watched him, and a question flickered through her mind.
A Patronus?
The Black family had few precedents. In all her years of teaching, she'd seen her share of Blacks.
Most were clever. Most were proud. Most had magical talent. But a Patronus?
Precious few could conjure one.
Sirius might manage it eventually. The boy was trouble incarnate, never studying, always pranking, bullying other students, his attention aimed everywhere it shouldn't be.
But he was happy. The genuine kind, the kind that didn't care about anything.
McGonagall had no doubt that when he was older, the moment he tried to summon a Patronus, there'd be enough joyful memories to fuel it.
But Regulus. Did he carry enough joy?
She realized she didn't have an answer. She'd been paying attention to the child, yes, but to his magic.
The gift for Transfiguration. The penetrating questions. The comprehension that outstripped his age.
What his life was like, what went on inside his head, she knew little of that. She was Gryffindor's Head of House, not his.
If Albus said the light was there, she'd believe him.
But the Starlight Kite?
On the level of a phoenix?
A magical creature Patronus?
McGonagall stared at Dumbledore's back, her thoughts drifting somewhere she couldn't name.
What exactly was the younger Mr. Black of Slytherin hiding inside?
Dumbledore took a step forward. "Last full moon, he came out here. Followed his brother. I spoke with him for a while."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. She pulled her focus back. "About what?"
"Many things like magic, identity, werewolves..." Dumbledore said.
McGonagall listened closely.
"That child has already found his path," Dumbledore said. "Everything he does lies along it. Fiendfyre, Transfiguration, that peculiar flight just now. All his own choices."
He looked at her. "Minerva, do you believe a child with darkness in his heart could ask the kind of questions he asks? Could summon that kind of Patronus? Could strand himself in the Forbidden Forest and invent such a... creative way to fly home?"
McGonagall was quiet for a long time. "Perhaps you're right. But I'll still worry."
Dumbledore smiled. "Worry is natural. You're his professor, not his enemy."
"Albus, you're always this optimistic," she said, still stern.
He shook his head. "Not optimism. Belief."
His gaze found the distant castle. "Belief in what's inside that child. In the path he's chosen. In the fact that when he hits a problem, he'll find his own way through. Like tonight. He wanted to fly, so he built something that could."
McGonagall followed his gaze. "That contraption of his was certainly..."
She searched for the right word. "...inventive."
Dumbledore laughed aloud. "Gryffindor might have suited him better."
McGonagall shot him a look. "Albus, he's a Slytherin."
"I know. I'm only saying the audacity, the willingness to act on an idea the moment it forms. That's very Gryffindor."
McGonagall didn't reply.
In the distance, the door of the Shrieking Shack swung open. Several figures emerged.
James and Sirius had Lupin between them, arms slung over their shoulders, half-carrying him. Peter trailed behind. The four moved slowly, Lupin barely managing to keep his feet beneath him.
McGonagall's expression hardened instantly. "Those boys..."
Dumbledore raised a hand, stopping her. "Minerva."
She turned to him, displeasure plain on her face.
He smiled gently. "It's been eventful enough tonight. Let them go back."
McGonagall drew a deep breath, watching the four students' retreating silhouettes, and held her tongue.
They stood together in silence as the figures crept toward the castle.
After a while, McGonagall spoke. "I'm going in."
Dumbledore nodded.
---
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