The common room fireplace burned high on Saturday morning, emerald flames warming the space to a drowsy comfort. Few people were about at this hour. Most Slytherin students were still buried under their covers.
The other houses were no different.
Regulus stepped out of the dormitory and paused at the corridor entrance.
Snape sat in a chair by the fireplace, hands empty, doing nothing. His gaze tracked to Regulus the instant he appeared.
Regulus glanced at him and had a fair idea what this was about.
They held each other's eyes for a beat. Neither moved.
Then Snape stood and walked over.
The faintest twitch crossed Regulus's mouth. He turned and headed for a sofa on the far side, away from the fireplace.
Snape followed but didn't sit. He placed a small bottle on the coffee table and stood there, waiting.
The bottle was deep purple, opaque. Even held against the firelight, you couldn't see through it.
Black wax sealed the mouth, pressed smooth, edges trimmed clean.
Two runes marked the seal. One Regulus recognized: the stability rune that potioneers used to grade finished products, indicating the potion's magical potency wouldn't degrade in storage.
That technique alone was beyond most students.
The second rune was smaller, etched into the shoulder of the bottle. Simple strokes, belonging to no standard system. It looked like it had been carved on impulse, yet carved with care.
Regulus picked up the bottle and swept a thread of magical perception through it.
Dense and layered. A sustained heaviness that raw ingredients alone couldn't produce. That kind of depth required skill to hold together.
He'd never gone deep into potions. He could handle coursework and occasionally produce something beyond classroom expectations, but he'd never invested serious attention in that direction.
What he sensed was only the tendency and texture of the magic, but that was enough. The craftsmanship and quality of this potion were considerable.
Impressive, in fact.
He noticed the small rune again, etched on the shoulder. Not a standard grade marking. More like a personal stamp.
Snape's.
Regulus found that interesting. The future Potions Master was already developing brand awareness.
He set the bottle down. "Received."
Nothing more. But Snape didn't leave.
Regulus didn't look up. "Sit down."
Snape sat. He tried to look relaxed but his body stayed stiff. He didn't lean back, didn't rest his arms. He sat upright, poised to stand and leave at any moment.
The common room was nearly empty. The fireplace crackled, casting their shadows against the wall from the side.
Silence held for a while. Snape broke it first, eyes fixed on the bottle rather than on Regulus.
His tone was flat, the kind of flat that took effort to maintain. "It's a thank-you. For the welcome party."
Regulus said nothing.
He leaned back, sinking into the sofa, hands laced together over his stomach, and lifted his chin toward Snape.
"This potion wasn't easy to brew," Snape continued. "The ingredients weren't cheap either."
A pause, as if waiting for a response. None came. Regulus's gaze rested on the bottle, expression unchanged.
Snape glanced at him, then dropped his eyes back to the table. His voice came out dry. "The Black family has a potions shop in Diagon Alley, don't they."
The moment the words left his mouth, a muscle near his eye twitched.
Wrong timing. Too eager. He knew it.
He groped for something to smooth it over, found nothing. His lips moved without producing sound, and the sentence hung there, exposed.
Regulus's expression didn't shift. He gave a quiet "Mm," then watched him.
The picture was clear enough.
Snape had come to settle a debt. Regulus had pulled him up at the welcome party, given him a moment in front of Slughorn, and Snape had been carrying that weight ever since. He couldn't stand owing anyone.
But this potion wasn't only a thank-you. It was the most valuable thing he could produce.
He wanted Regulus to see what this bottle was worth. To see what a half-blood could create. To see his talent.
And alongside that, he wanted access to the Black family's distribution channels.
Turn Regulus's connections into money. Shed the reputation of poverty. Maybe build a real, lasting partnership with the House of Black.
He'd supply the craft. The Blacks would supply the shelf space. Both sides would profit.
Three objectives stacked together, delivered under the cover of a thank-you gift. In Snape's mind, this framing kept him from bowing. It wasn't bowing at all.
But he had bowed. He was the only one who couldn't see it.
Regulus looked away.
This was worth discussing. But not today. Today, Snape's posture wasn't where it needed to be.
Snape waited. Nothing came.
Regulus stood, slipped the bottle into his pocket, and said, "Time for breakfast."
He took two steps and paused at the edge of the seating area. "Good potion."
Then he walked straight out through the common room doors.
Snape sat there staring at the fire, those two words turning over and over.
Good potion.
What did that mean?
Approval? Dismissal?
Or nothing at all, thrown out without thought?
And that "Mm." What had that been?
Heard you? Noted? Or didn't care to engage?
He mulled it over for a long time, arrived nowhere. His thoughts churned like a botched brew, muddied and thick, refusing to pour clean.
---
The study at 12 Grimmauld Place. Fireplace burning. Papers spread across the desk.
Orion sat behind it, the folder in front of him already closed and set to his right.
He'd started working the Bulgarian matter the day the letter arrived.
Georgi Stoyanov, Head of the Magical Reserve. Fifty-three years old. Eight years in the post.
Orion had people dig for three days. They turned up two things.
First: two cross-border transport permits approved during Stoyanov's tenure contained procedural irregularities. Not enough for impeachment, but enough to make his life unpleasant if anyone decided to push.
Second: his son held a position in the Bulgarian Ministry of Magic that was up for reassessment next quarter. The outcome depended on the opinion of a particular department head.
Orion had no intention of using the flawed permits. Too crude. Play that card and the line was burned.
He had no intention of leaning on the department head directly, either. Too obvious. The Black family didn't operate that way. What he wanted was for Stoyanov to arrive at the right conclusion on his own.
Today was the day they would meet.
---
Magic Club, Sofia City, Bulgaria.
Orion arrived in the evening by Apparition, landing in the club's designated receiving area behind the main building.
A private passage for distinguished guests bypassed the main hall and front entrance entirely. The escort led them to a private room, opened the door, and stepped aside.
One figure followed behind Orion. Tall. Draped in a dark robe, hood pulled over his head, standing half a step back.
The escort's gaze lingered on this figure for a moment, then moved away.
The room was small. Two chairs, a low table. Bulgarian magical tea had been set out, steeping to a deep gold, a faint luminous halo ringing each cup.
Stoyanov was already there. When Orion entered, he rose and extended a hand.
His voice was steady, his smile polished, but the handshake lasted half a second shorter than convention. "A pleasure to finally meet the Head of House Black."
Brief pleasantries. Orion took the opposite chair. His companion retreated to the doorway and stood motionless, silent, like a wall that happened to breathe.
Stoyanov's gaze lingered on the companion a beat too long before returning to Orion's face.
He lifted his cup. "Fine weather today."
"Sofia's warmer than London this time of year," Orion said. "We've already had frost."
He took a sip and set the cup down. "How's work at the Reserve these days? Enough staff?"
"Getting by. We've been filling the gaps gradually over the years."
"The Black family maintains a magical creature breeding facility in Ireland. If the Reserve ever needs it, we could offer some technical support." He met Stoyanov's eyes and added, "Not a transaction. Just an exchange between two institutions."
"That's very generous." Stoyanov smiled.
He knew the Head of House Black hadn't traveled to Bulgaria to chat about staffing. He was waiting for Orion to reveal what today was actually about.
They talked a while longer. Bulgaria's climate this year. Recent shifts within the various European Ministries of Magic.
One line after another. Unhurried.
Stoyanov kept pace, but with each passing exchange, something felt increasingly off.
Eight years in the Bulgarian Ministry had exposed him to every type who came to negotiate.
People who opened with a number. People who circled. People who arrived with leverage and squeezed. He'd seen them all and handled them all.
This one, though. He couldn't read the approach.
Orion mentioned a recent personnel change within the British Ministry of Magic, dropping a department head's name. His tone was casual, as if a thought had wandered across his mind mid-conversation.
"He's been busy wrapping up a cross-national cooperation deal. The other party is the Black family. Nearly finished."
A sip of tea. "He's mentioned your Bulgarian side. Said he's an old friend of Boyan Petrov's. Plans to make introductions sometime."
Stoyanov's hand paused on the teacup.
Boyan Petrov. The name dropped in and the thread clicked instantly.
His son's reassessment next quarter. The outcome sat in Petrov's hands.
And Petrov's old friend was in the middle of an unfinished deal with the Black family. Whether that deal closed or not was a matter of one word from the Blacks.
Orion went on. "He's a reasonable man. The cooperation's been smooth. Plenty of opportunity to work together again in the future."
Stoyanov set down his cup and smiled. "He is. He's always had a good relationship with our side."
Orion returned the smile, and the topic drifted naturally. "I hear the Reserve has some Whomping Willows. Growing well, from what I'm told."
Stoyanov's expression tightened, just slightly. This was it.
"Yes. They're the pride of the Reserve."
"The Black family has always been interested in that species," Orion said. Then: "Purely academic curiosity. Nothing beyond that."
The tone was light, as if it truly were an offhand remark. But the appended disclaimer made it something other than offhand.
Stoyanov looked at him. The picture was complete.
The department head. Boyan Petrov. His son's position. The Black family's unfinished deal. And the question about the Whomping Willows that had just been placed on the table.
Orion hadn't stated any of this explicitly. But every piece sat in plain view, arranged neatly.
House Black. The Sacred Twenty-Eight. Wizengamot members.
That surname didn't need explanation. It didn't need to be spoken aloud.
A few trees weren't worth the trouble of crossing it.
And more importantly, the trees weren't his. They weren't anyone's, really. But his son was.
The tea was finished. Orion stood. "A pleasant evening."
Stoyanov rose with him. "Mr. Black..."
Orion didn't let him finish. "Good night."
Stoyanov saw him out, then came back and sat in his chair, staring at the cup that had gone cold.
The luminous halo around the rim had long since faded. The tea sat dark and still, reflecting nothing.
He thought for a long time. He couldn't identify a single sentence in the entire conversation that had pressured him. But he knew what to do.
---
Three days later, Orion received a document.
A number of Whomping Willow saplings, accompanied by cultivation guidelines.
Saplings?
Orion's brow creased. Saplings took sixty years to mature. Sixty years was too long. He couldn't wait.
He wrote back.
"The Black family is prepared to provide five years of herbological yield support to the Bulgarian Magical Reserve, and looks forward to deepening cooperation across further areas."
Five days later, a second document arrived.
The saplings had been changed to mature specimens. Two of them.
Orion read it, pressed the document into a folder, set it on the right side of his desk, and picked up a quill to write to Regulus and then Handed to Kreacher.
Hogwarts, dinnertime. An owl swept into the Great Hall, flew straight to Regulus, dropped a letter, and flapped away.
He opened it.
"Two Whomping Willows. Cornwall before Christmas."
He read it twice, folded the letter, tucked it into his pocket, then picked up his knife and fork and went on eating.
---
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