Regulus heard the question but didn't answer right away. He watched Sirius, and something close to relief stirred in his chest.
The fact that he'd asked at all meant Sirius had started thinking about strength. That beating hadn't been for nothing.
No matter how much the aftershock still lingered, this was a start.
But "how did you do it" was too broad a question. Regulus barely knew where to begin.
Should he talk about the scientific thinking and rational habits that let him treat magic as a system to be decoded? The years of magical control he'd practiced since childhood, enough to cast wandlessly and silently years ago? The innate sensitivity to magic that let him feel the subtlest currents of power? The nightly star guided meditation that kept soul, body, and magic growing in lockstep?
All of those answered how, but saying them aloud would be pointless.
Talent couldn't be copied. Training methods varied from person to person. And ways of thinking were rooted in personality and lived experience.
Regulus set down his teacup.
"Think." That was the answer he chose.
Sirius's brow furrowed, his expression darkening.
Think? Who couldn't think?
Think about what?
Textbook knowledge? A professor's lectures?
It sounded like a dismissal, the kind of thing adults said to children. You'll understand when you're older. He half-wondered if Regulus was calling him an idiot who didn't know how to use his brain.
"Think about what?" His voice went cold.
Regulus noticed the irritation but let it pass.
"Think about what you're good at," he continued. "Think about what magic means to you. Think about what you want to accomplish with it, and what you're willing to sacrifice to get there."
He glanced at Sirius. The anger on his face was shifting toward confusion.
Regulus understood the state of the wizarding world well enough.
Most wizards plateaued at the stage of simply being able to cast a spell. They could use the right one when needed, achieve the intended result, and that was enough. The more ambitious ones aimed to cast better, hit harder, squeeze more utility out of their magic. Academic wizards studied theory, trying to understand the logic behind spells, develop new ones, discover additional applications. Combat wizards honed their craft for the battlefield, chasing greater lethality, more efficient ways to bring down an enemy.
But very few ever stopped to ask: What is my path in magic? What am I truly suited for? Which direction should I walk?
Regulus had found his path, but there was no point sharing it with Sirius. It would only muddy the waters.
For the vast majority of wizards, discovering a talent was already a stroke of luck, let alone a path.
With that thought, he picked up a copper ring from the table, probably some trinket Sirius had tossed there.
It spun once around his fingertip.
"Some people have a natural gift for Transfiguration. Others are sensitive to potions. Some pick up combat spells with ease. Finding the area where you excel, then going deep... that's the first step."
Sirius stared at the ring. "How do you know what you're good at?"
"Try." One word, nothing more.
"Try everything you can get your hands on. Watch where you improve fastest, where the work feels effortless, where you finish and still want to keep going."
Easy enough to say. Regulus knew perfectly well he hadn't done it that way himself. Honestly, it was a clumsy method. Inefficient, time-consuming, and dependent on luck.
He thought of Ollivander's shop, the old man sifting through thousands of wands to find the one that matched a young witch or wizard.
If a wand could be matched, could a wizard's talent be detected the same way?
Was there some spell that could reveal the path a person was best suited for? It didn't have to be a spell, exactly. A ritual, a divination, anything.
Regulus filed the idea away.
The wizarding world had no record of such a thing, at least not in any publicly available text. And if it did exist, it would be fiercely guarded, locked in the deepest vault of some ancient family or sealed within the forbidden archives of a long-dead school of thought.
But he wanted to try. Someday, when his power and knowledge were sufficient, he wanted to pursue this line of research. Even a rough prototype, something that could reveal the faintest outline of a person's talent, could revolutionize the way wizards were trained.
That was a problem for the future. He didn't have the ability yet.
As for Sirius, Regulus had a fair idea that his brother's talent likely lay in Transfiguration.
He had no intention of saying so.
Handing someone the answer robbed them of the discovery. Sirius needed to find it himself. Only what you uncovered on your own earned real investment, real passion. If he was simply told, and the two of them truly ended up on opposite sides someday, Sirius might look back on this moment with resentment. He might see it as guidance from an enemy, a form of charity he'd never asked for, and abandon the talent out of sheer spite rather than accept it.
He was more than capable of doing exactly that.
Regulus pulled his thoughts back and set the copper ring on the table.
"But finding your strength isn't enough on its own. You need to decide what magic is to you. A tool? Power? An art? Something else entirely? That answer shapes how you treat magic, and how far it takes you."
Advice, but only so much. Say any more and it would be too deep.
What Sirius took from it, how far he thought it through, that was his own affair.
The room went quiet. A log popped in the fireplace.
Sirius lowered his head, lost in thought. He'd never considered any of this before.
Magic was magic. What they taught at school, what you used in daily life, what you hurled at someone in a fight. The Disarming Charm knocked a wand out of someone's hand. Shield Charm blocked a spell. The Stunning Spell put someone on the ground. Simple as that.
He'd never once asked himself what he was good at.
Transfiguration or Charms?
Defence Against the Dark Arts or Potions?
Maybe he should give Divination a shot?
"Why are you telling me all this?"
His expression was unreadable, slightly softer than before, but the voice stayed stiff. Being warm and open wasn't something he could manage.
Regulus didn't plan to answer. He could hardly say so you'll stay alive.
He stood and walked toward the door. Passing Sirius, he paused.
"Goodnight, Sirius."
He pulled the door open, stepped through, and it closed softly behind him.
Sirius stood where he was, staring at the two cups of tea on the table. One had been sipped. The other sat untouched.
Regulus returned to his room and pushed the window open.
A summer night breeze drifted in, carrying London's particular dampness. Fog veiled the sky, hiding every star.
He hoped what he'd said to Sirius would help, but how much of it stuck was out of his hands.
Regulus lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the holiday shifted into training mode.
One month. Enough time to push several key areas forward by a significant margin.
The wind kept blowing through the window, stirring the curtains.
He ran through his training plan one final time, then let his consciousness sink into the star guided meditation.
Four and a half stars of Orion glowed in the dark. The fifth was still half-formed.
---
Nine the next morning. The training room.
Orion tested Sirius's magical ability first.
The format was straightforward: cast the Disarming Charm, Shield Charm, the Impediment Jinx, the Knockback Jinx, and the Stunning Spell in sequence, followed by a handful of counter-curses covered in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The results were underwhelming.
Sirius could produce every spell, but that was about the extent of it.
His Disarming Charm flared bright enough, but the trajectory was predictable, with no variation. Shield Charm held its shape, but the barrier was uneven, the weak points obvious. The Impediment Jinx covered too small an area and faded too quickly. The Knockback Jinx lacked force. The Stunning Spell traveled too slowly, easy to dodge.
The problem wasn't what Hogwarts had taught him. Sirius's grades were decent, and he'd learned everything on the syllabus. The problem was that his repertoire was too narrow and too shallow. Everything he knew came straight from class, with almost no independent study. His power sat at the level of a strong lower-year student, and no higher.
Orion finished the assessment and said nothing for a long time.
He looked at Sirius, something complicated moving behind his eyes, and finally spoke. "Wait here."
He left the training room and returned half an hour later with someone in tow.
Gerald Hawke. One of the Black family's affiliated wizards.
Early forties, lean build, close-cropped grey hair. A scar ran down his left eye from brow to cheekbone. He'd spent ten years in the Ministry of Magic's Auror Office before an injury forced him into retirement. Orion had recruited him afterward to handle certain family matters and train new blood.
"For the next two weeks," Orion told Sirius, "Mr. Hawke will teach you the fundamentals. Do what he says."
Sirius's expression soured.
He'd imagined getting stronger meant sparring with someone like Regulus, breaking through in live combat, or learning devastating spells. Not grinding fundamentals, and certainly not under some outsider.
But he didn't object. Last night's display was still fresh in his mind. He knew exactly how far behind he was.
Shore up the basics first, then figure out where his strengths lay. He could live with that.