The main hall dwarfed the foyer.
Cold buffet. Long tables lined the walls, draped in dark cloth, set with silver candelabras and platters.
Servants in dark uniforms wove through the crowd without speaking, without meeting anyone's eyes, lifting a glass from a silver tray at intervals and placing it before whichever guest's hands had come up empty.
House-elves were nearly invisible, flickering from corners only when a tablecloth needed changing or fireplace ash needed clearing, gone again the instant the task was done.
No fixed seating in the hall. Guests stood in scattered clusters, wine in hand or hands empty, talking.
Regulus paused near the entrance and scanned the room.
Somewhere north of a hundred guests tonight. The sound was a steady hum, laughter and pleasantries and the clink of glass on glass all blending together.
Orion had taken Sirius deeper into the hall to make the rounds with the other Heads of House.
Walburga had already found the wives' circle.
Regulus took a glass of sparkling water from a servant's tray. The glass was cold against his fingers. Bubbles rose through the water and turned into tiny blue-white points of light at the rim, flaring once before winking out.
He took a sip. No real flavor, water with a bit of fizz, but the light was a nice touch.
Then he stepped into the crowd.
"Regulus."
Lucretius Burke approached with a wine glass, stopping in front of him.
Dark grey dress robes, the Burke family crest pinned at his collar: crossed wand and key against an open book.
Nearly half a year since graduation, and the former Slytherin Prefect looked different from the version in Regulus's memory.
At school, Lucretius had carried that particular stiffness Prefects wore like a second uniform, every word and gesture slightly too deliberate.
Most of that student veneer had worn off now. His bearing was more restrained than it had been behind a Prefect's badge, as though the excess motion had been trimmed away.
His gaze drifted across the hall with the ease of a young businessman who'd already grown comfortable in rooms like this.
Regulus touched his glass to Lucretius's. "Lucretius."
"How are things?" he asked.
"Not bad." Lucretius took a sip and dropped his voice.
"The Review Office has loosened up again. When that last shipment got flagged, we thought we'd be dealing with it for at least six months. Wrapped up in three."
"New people?"
"Same people, new wind." Lucretius swirled his glass. "Someone upstairs made a call. We didn't ask who. A few shops in Knockturn Alley have already relocated. The rest are watching."
Regulus read between the lines.
The Burkes were still holding down their Knockturn Alley operation. The pressure had eased considerably, but it hadn't vanished. They were reading the wind and confirming their allies.
"The Black family's interests in Knockturn Alley won't be touched," Regulus said.
Lucretius nodded once. Asked nothing more.
"Mr. Burke says whenever you have the time, you're welcome to visit Borgin and Burkes again." Lucretius's tone lightened a shade. "Some new pieces have come in."
Something stirred in Regulus's mind.
Last time he'd visited the shop, old Burke had shown him three items in the back warehouse.
All three were high-risk artifacts on the Ministry of Magic's watchlist. Burke had traded them for three years of critical support from House Black in the Wizengamot.
Orion had signed off on the deal. All three items had been transferred to the Black family, stored in the rune-warded vault in the deepest level beneath Grimmauld Place.
"Absolutely," Regulus said with a nod.
Lucretius raised his glass and walked away.
Regulus watched him disappear into the crowd, then lifted his sparkling water and took another sip.
The Review Office was still operating, but quieter than before.
Last year the Ministry had created a dedicated department to crack down on Dark artifact trafficking. The initial sweep had thrown Knockturn Alley into chaos.
But the pressure had visibly receded. Either someone above was running interference, or the office's staffing and budget had been strangled.
Whichever it was, the conclusion was the same: Death Eater infiltration of the Ministry was ongoing, step by step, without fanfare, hollowing out the institutions that got in the way from the inside.
And the Burkes occupied a peculiar position in all of it.
Caractacus Burke, current Head of House, had also been Voldemort's first employer after graduation.
Back when Voldemort worked at Borgin and Burkes, everyone assumed it was an unremarkable, faintly embarrassing chapter in his career.
Then he rose. Built his own power base. The Burkes never publicly followed him, and he never moved against them.
They weren't Death Eaters, but their business was deeply entangled with Death Eater interests.
Lucretius showing up at an event like this said plenty.
A voice came from his right. "Mr. Black?"
Regulus turned. A wizard in his early forties approached, brown dress robes, a modest family crest pinned to his chest: a bent old oak tree.
He didn't recognize the man, which meant this wasn't a family worth remembering.
"Philip Wendell." The man extended his hand, smile modest and amiable. "Wendell family. We have some holdings in Wiltshire. Your father may have mentioned us."
Orion hadn't. Regulus shook his hand anyway.
"We've all heard about Mr. Black's accomplishments at Hogwarts."
Wendell's smile was perfectly calibrated. "The Wendell family may be small, but we've always stood with House Black. That won't change."
Regulus thought for a moment. This was probably about the Belmont affair.
"You're too kind, Mr. Wendell," he said.
Wendell waited. Regulus made no move to continue.
"I won't keep you, then." Wendell smiled and stepped back, raising his glass. "Enjoy your evening."
Regulus gave him a nod. Wendell turned away, satisfied.
"Regulus."
Another voice, this one carrying weight.
Mr. Rosier, current Head of the main Rosier branch, early fifties, grey-white hair combed neatly back, fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
He emerged from the crowd, wine glass in hand, long stride, steady pace.
"Mr. Rosier." Regulus inclined his head, the barest degree.
Rosier raised his glass, dispensing with preamble entirely. "Alex is at Hogwarts. Thank you for looking after him."
"Alex has performed well at school." The distance in Regulus's voice eased, replaced by something else. "Good judgment, reliable work. I'm pleased with him."
One of Rosier's eyebrows lifted.
I'm pleased with him.
A twelve-year-old evaluating someone from another family, speaking like a superior assessing a subordinate.
But he didn't correct it.
A branch family's child working under the Black heir was, for the Rosier main branch, a net positive.
The young Black had already demonstrated ability and reputation far beyond his age. Anyone close to him stood to benefit down the line. There was no losing side to that arrangement.
And a branch child didn't represent the main branch's position. If something went wrong, the main branch could distance itself. That was their business, not ours.
But if the Black heir did reach the heights his trajectory suggested, that connection could become a main-branch asset at a moment's notice.
So he had come in person. The gesture was the message.
"Alex, to be honest, wasn't someone I'd paid much attention to before."
"Branch family matters... the distance is what it is. If it weren't for you, I might not have matched the name to the face."
Something turned over in Regulus's mind.
The gap between the Rosier main and branch families was real, wide enough that Mr. Rosier might genuinely not have known a boy named Alex existed in his own bloodline.
But because of Regulus, Alex had entered the main branch's field of vision.
Using a personal relationship to tilt an entire family's attention was its own form of leverage, another way of exerting influence from the outside.
And there was an interesting pattern. Both Dark Lords, it seemed, attracted a Rosier into their orbit.
Grindelwald had Vinda Rosier. His foremost confidante, core deputy, fervent disciple, the Black Rose of France.
Voldemort had one too. Evan Rosier, graduated this year, almost certainly a Death Eater by now.
And, as it happened, Regulus had a Rosier of his own.
The connection ran deeper than that. House Black and House Rosier were actual relatives by blood.
Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa's mother, his aunt Druella, had been a Rosier before she married into the Blacks.
Pure-blood families were like that. Your family married into mine, mine into theirs. Somewhere along the line, everyone shared blood.
"You're too kind, Mr. Rosier," Regulus said. "Alex has earned it."
Rosier raised his glass. They touched rims once, and then he turned and walked away.
Regulus drifted to a column at the side of the hall, glass in hand, and surveyed the room.
The guests, as he saw it, fell into three categories.
The first were the true core: Heads of the great families. Wherever they stood became the center of gravity. They looked relaxed, unhurried, never seeking conversation, because conversation sought them.
The second were the followers: the middle and minor families. They orbited the core, wine glasses in hand, eyes always tracking. Who was talking to whom determined where their feet carried them next.
The third were the periphery: people who'd come to be seen. They lingered near the buffet tables, pretending to deliberate over the food, waiting for someone to approach. Their highest ambition for the evening was probably not to look too alone.
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