The Astronomy Tower.
Regulus stood on the exact spot where Dumbledore had set him down last time. The same flagstone beneath his feet.
Dumbledore had told him afterward to try sending his Patronus through the castle. Said it should work.
He'd remembered. He'd never tested it.
Light Source Magic had consumed most of his attention. Trips to the Forbidden Forest to run experiments with Baruk, then back again to work on light compression and information encapsulation. One thing led to another and the weeks slipped past.
Now that the Light Source Magic had reached a milestone, he planned to visit the Acromantula again with something new. But before that, he wanted this settled.
He drew a deep breath.
Silver-white light surged from his chest and spread across the night sky. Starlight condensed into shape. One wing first, then the head, then the other wing.
The Starlight Kite unfurled completely, each feather igniting in sequence, its edges trimmed with fine silver radiance, glowing soft against the dark.
It settled on his shoulder, ruffled its wings. Silver light rippled from feather to tail plume. It cocked its head at him, then launched upward and circled once above his head.
A cry rang out. Clear, piercing, it echoed across the open tower and scattered on the wind.
He watched the circling bird, tipped his chin toward the castle, and said, "Try."
The Starlight Kite flew toward the castle.
It angled downward in a glide, wings half-folded, gathering speed. Then the wings tucked tight, the body straightened, and silver light compressed into a single line along its form.
The light stretched forward, as if carving a channel through the air.
The channel didn't open.
Space tightened in front of it. The air turned viscous, then hard.
It couldn't stop in time and slammed into the resistance. Force closed in from every direction, seized it, and shoved it back.
It rolled, steadied, and tried again. Different angle this time. Faster.
At the same boundary, the same force returned. Seized and pushed.
It tried high. Tried low. Tried the side of the castle. Every attempt ended the same way. The moment it reached that invisible threshold, space clamped down and threw it back.
It hovered in midair, wings spread, hanging there as if considering where else to go.
After a moment, it tried once more. Faster this time, silver light flaring, its entire body becoming a bolt of white streaking forward.
The force came harder, gripped tighter, threw it further. It tumbled twice through the air before finding its balance.
It flew back to Regulus and landed on his shoulder, tilting its head toward his neck.
He reached up and touched one of its wings.
Flying was fine.
It could loop, dive, and climb all over the tower top without issue. But the moment it tried to traverse, space shut down.
Space itself was refusing.
Regulus looked toward the castle and fell into thought.
When Dumbledore had said those words, he'd assumed the old man had either granted him permission in his capacity as Headmaster, or was certain the Starlight Kite could do it on its own, exempt from the castle's anti-Apparition enchantments.
It had failed. Setting aside the possibility that the old man was having him on...
Dumbledore did tease people sometimes. He'd wear that slightly mischievous smile, deliver a sentence that took half a day to unpack, then stroll off with his hands clasped behind his back, leaving bewilderment in his wake.
He wasn't the kind of rigid old relic who kept the world at arm's length. He had curiosity about new things, enjoyed watching someone work through confusion to the moment of clarity.
There was a youthfulness in him that had no business belonging to someone his age. Everything seemed to interest him, everything worth trying, his eyes would light up at anything novel.
But Dumbledore wasn't only that kind of old man. He was also the greatest white wizard of the century and the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
When he had a clear teaching intent, he didn't waste words. He wouldn't toss out "it should work" as a joke for the pleasure of watching someone make a pointless trip.
So those words weren't a joke. They were guidance. A nudge in a particular direction, delivered in his usual fashion: never spelling it out, offering only the heading, leaving the walking to you.
The old man. Riddler to the last.
The corner of Regulus's mouth twitched.
But he liked this approach. Working something out on your own was always more interesting than being handed the answer.
So what did Dumbledore want him to figure out?
Regulus looked at the Starlight Kite on his shoulder.
Its glow had dimmed. It had tucked its head beneath one wing, only the sharp tip of its beak poking out.
Those rebounds had stung its pride.
The message was plain enough: I can do this. It won't let me.
The Starlight Kite traversed space through invitation.
When it opened a channel, the process was less like forcing a path and more like finding a route that already existed, then asking space to cooperate, to walk that route together.
That was its gift, and his gift. They were the same thing. What it couldn't do, he couldn't do.
But outside the castle, in Hogsmeade, in Germany, it had worked without issue.
Regulus thought back to his earlier attempts at weaving his protective will into Hogwarts' spatial fabric. He'd tried many times. All failures.
He'd assumed the method was wrong, or that his will wasn't strong enough. Placed alongside tonight, the two failures pointed toward a different explanation.
Hogwarts' space wasn't cooperating.
This wasn't a technical problem. It was a problem of attitude.
The Starlight Kite's invitation had been declined. His protective will had been declined.
Not a coincidence. The castle's space had a will of its own. Without its consent, the Starlight Kite couldn't get in.
Regulus looked down at the flagstone under his feet, then up at the castle's outline.
Hogwarts was alive. The thought wasn't new, but before now he'd treated it as a figure of speech.
Staircases changed direction on their own. Doors decided whether to open. Rooms rearranged themselves.
All magic. Arrangements left by the Founders.
But what if they weren't only magic?
What if these things were part of the castle itself, expressions of something living?
A thousand years of stone. A thousand years of magic. A thousand years of wizards passing through, leaving traces, giving it habits, judgments, a temperament.
When it didn't want someone to reach a place, the staircases took extra turns, doors locked themselves, corridors stretched to twice their normal length.
Seen that way, the Starlight Kite's rebound made perfect sense.
It wasn't a matter of speed. It wasn't a matter of strength. The castle was saying NO.
So what did Dumbledore want him to attempt?
Regulus followed the thread downward.
Was the lesson that the castle was alive?
He knew that now. Hogwarts had a will and its own judgment. Whether his magic took effect here depended on its consent.
Or was the point to build a relationship with the castle?
The Starlight Kite's traversal ran on invitation. The merging of his protective will was something deeper still. If the castle never agreed, neither would succeed.
But if one day it did?
That wouldn't mean he could traverse. It could mean the castle had accepted him. Chosen to fold his magic into its own system.
His gaze settled on empty air. A handful of words turned over in his mind. Protection. Hogwarts is alive. The Starlight Kite's invitation to space. Partnership.
Laid side by side, they pointed toward something whose edges he couldn't yet feel.
He couldn't think it through.
So he let it go for now. But he could come back often. Try again.
Partnerships, after all, didn't form in one visit. You had to show good faith, keep showing up, let the other side decide you were worth the trouble. Patient enough. Sincere enough.
Maybe one day the castle would think, All right. This one's not bad. Come in.
Regulus pulled himself back.
"That's enough," he told the bird on his shoulder. "We're done for tonight."
The Starlight Kite folded its wings and sank into his chest, its silver light drawing inward.
He looked toward the Headmaster's office. The highest level of the castle, the west tower. Those windows were still lit.
Still awake at this hour. No telling what the old man was up to.
He stopped looking, stepped off the crenel, and dropped. Wind rushed up from below, flipping his robes upward. He steadied himself and drifted toward the Forbidden Forest.
---
The Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore stood at the window in a deep purple dressing gown embroidered with silver stars, his hair loose, his beard flowing free.
He watched the figure drifting toward the Forbidden Forest and smiled. "Off to the forest again."
On the perch beside him, Fawkes lifted his head from beneath one wing. Golden feathers glinted in the firelight.
The phoenix tilted his head, glanced at Dumbledore, then followed his gaze out the window.
"Don't worry, he'll come to see you," Dumbledore said gently. "You'll need to be patient. That boy loses track of time when he's busy."
Fawkes let out a single note. It sounded like acknowledgment, but carried a distinct air of indifference.
"That attitude." Dumbledore shook his head. "Don't be like that when he comes."
Fawkes tipped his head to one side, ruffled his wings once, tucked them back, and buried his face in his feathers, leaving a single eye trained on the old man.
Dumbledore looked back at him, laughed aloud, and turned toward the center of the room.
Along the walls, the portraits occupied themselves in various ways. Some dozed. Some murmured to one another across their frames. A few noticed him approaching and turned their heads, feigning oblivion.
He walked behind the desk and sat. His silver-white beard pooled on the surface.
"Meddling with the Black boy again?" A thin, sharp voice came from the right.
Dilys Derwent, leaning against the edge of her frame, an open book in her hands, her eyes peering over the top of the page.
Dumbledore didn't answer. He smiled.
"You've got him flying around the Astronomy Tower in the middle of the night to see if he can walk through walls?"
Another voice cut in, tinged with skepticism. Everard.
"He needs to know where the wall is," Dumbledore said lightly.
"Know where the wall is?" Everard's tone sharpened. "Does he?"
"Nearly."
Everard studied him for a moment, shook his head, and said nothing more.
In the highest frame, Phineas Nigellus Black straightened in his chair. He wore a green robe, his silver cravat knotted with immaculate precision.
His gaze settled on Dumbledore. "You've truly made up your mind?"
The office went quiet. Derwent set down her book. Everard raised his head. Even the dozing portraits opened their eyes.
Dumbledore lifted his hot cocoa and took a sip, in no hurry to respond.
"A thousand years of castle," Phineas said. "Albus, do you really believe that boy..."
He stopped. Started again. "You've thought this through?"
A tall-hatted portrait to his side seized the opening, dripping with sarcasm. "Phineas, don't tell me it's because his name is Black that you..."
Phineas ignored him. His eyes never left Dumbledore.
A Headmaster tucked into a corner frame let out a derisive snort. "He's one of your Blacks. Of course you'd want him to be the one."
Phineas ignored that too. Only watched Dumbledore.
"A Patronus is the mirror of a soul," Dumbledore said, his voice slowing. "His Patronus is the Starlight Kite. You know what kind of temperament that bird has. I've seen it. That isn't something trained into existence. That's who he is."
Phineas pressed a finger against the edge of his frame, though being a portrait, it produced nothing.
He was silent for a time. In the end, all he said was, "There's still time."
"Yes. There's still time." Dumbledore set down his cup. His tone was warm, but his gaze reached somewhere far away. "The castle will choose for itself."
Phineas watched him for a long while. In those eyes, bearing a resemblance to Regulus's own, something deep and turbulent churned beneath the surface.
Dumbledore said nothing more. He returned to the window and rested his hands on the sill, looking out.
Over the Forbidden Forest, tree canopies sank into the night, dark and featureless. He couldn't see anything, but the boy was in there somewhere.
The castle's stone walls stood silent in the night wind. A thousand years old, and still the same.
Fawkes glided from his perch and landed on Dumbledore's shoulder.
"Only when it chooses," Dumbledore murmured, "does it count."
---
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