In the spring of 1969, Regulus Black turned eight years old.
The room on the east side of the third floor of Number 12, Grimmauld Place officially became his bedroom and study. Orion personally arranged it for him—a wall lined with tall bookshelves, a heavy oak desk polished to a deep shine, and a tall window facing east that allowed the morning light to spill into the room.
It was a quiet, thoughtful space, fitting for the youngest son of the House of Black.
Yet Regulus's attention was not focused on his new room.
What he wanted was access to the storage room hidden in the deepest part of the mansion.
The room lay at the end of the kitchen corridor, behind a thick wooden door that remained locked all year round. According to Walburga, the room was filled with useless junk—items left behind by disowned members of the Black family. They were things too inconvenient to destroy but far too shameful to display in the ancestral home.
Among those belongings were the possessions of Alphard Black, sealed away in 1960.
Alphard had been disowned several years ago for his peculiar hobby of collecting Muggle objects, as well as his openly friendly attitude toward Muggles themselves. Regulus had only ever heard his name in the midst of Walburga's furious curses.
After several years of quiet observation and patient study, Regulus finally succeeded in breaking the protective magic sealing the door.
The enchantment guarding the room was far more complex than a simple Alohomora.
But eventually, the lock yielded.
When Regulus stepped inside, he was surprised.
There were no magical items at all.
Instead, the room was filled with strange, outdated Muggle devices. An old vacuum-tube radio sat on a dusty shelf. Several worn copies of National Geographic from the early 1950s lay stacked in a corner. Nearby were bundles of The Times newspapers and a handful of thick hardcover notebooks filled with cramped handwriting.
Regulus spent two full days repairing the old radio.
When he finally connected the wires and allowed electricity to flow through the machine, the glass vacuum tubes slowly warmed, glowing with a soft orange light. A low rustling sound of static emerged from the speaker.
Regulus turned the tuning knob carefully.
At first there was only noise.
Then suddenly, a clear voice broke through.
"This is the BBC, broadcasting the news."
Regulus froze.
"NASA has announced that the Apollo 10 mission has successfully completed its lunar orbit and is now making final preparations for a manned moon landing."
Regulus sat quietly behind the oak desk.
His hand rested on the warm wooden casing of the radio, but he did not move.
The moon.
Muggles were going to the moon.
Yet most people in the wizarding world either didn't know about it—or didn't care.
To them, the moon was simply a silver disc hanging in the night sky. It was useful for calculating lunar phases when brewing Potions, or perhaps as a romantic symbol in poetry.
But no wizard truly thought of going there.
Because wizards didn't need to.
They had magic.
But could magic truly accomplish it?
Could magic cross the vacuum of space? Resist radiation? Sustain life for long periods beyond the Earth?
Regulus didn't know.
What he did know was this:
Muggles, using nothing but science and engineering, had achieved something that the wizarding world had never even attempted.
Or perhaps…
Something that wizards could not do.
Where exactly were the limits of a wizard?
Muggles were already breaking boundaries that wizards considered impossible.
If magic and science were combined, perhaps even greater limits could be shattered.
These thoughts quietly settled in Regulus's mind, occupying a deep and significant place.
On the night of July 20th, 1969, Regulus stayed awake long past midnight.
He sat by the window with the old vacuum-tube radio resting on his lap.
The voice from the radio crackled with static, but every word was unmistakably clear.
"…Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."
There was a moment of silence.
Then an explosion of cheering erupted over the radio.
Regulus tightened his grip on the radio.
"Roger, Tranquility. We copy you on the ground. You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We're breathing again. Preparing for EVA."
The following minutes stretched endlessly.
Instrument sounds, mission control chatter, and occasional snippets of dialogue filled the room.
"…I'm at the foot of the ladder. The LM footpads are only depressed about one or two inches into the surface… The ground appears very fine-grained, almost like powder…"
"I'm going to step off the LM now."
A long pause followed.
Regulus stood slowly and walked to the window.
He pushed it open.
Warm summer air flowed into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of coal smoke and brick from the streets of London.
Above him, the moon hung in the sky—almost full.
Cold.
Silver.
Silent.
Then the voice from the radio returned.
Stronger.
Clearer.
"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
Regulus stared up at the moon.
That distant silver disc.
The celestial object wizards used to measure potion brewing times.
The romantic symbol in countless poems.
And at this very moment…
Two Muggles were standing on it.
Regulus felt a quiet shock.
Muggles—with their short lifespans, fragile bodies, and magicless hands—had reached the moon.
Meanwhile, wizards possessed the power to reshape reality.
They could bend space.
They could live for centuries.
And yet…
What were they doing?
Fighting each other for power.
Arguing endlessly about blood purity.
Researching darker and more destructive magic.
Cursing one another over imagined superiority on a small island.
And Regulus himself was born directly into the center of it all.
He suddenly smiled.
Since he had come to this world, perhaps it was his duty to change something.
One evening in late August, Regulus found Orion Black in the study.
His father sat behind the desk reviewing documents. Recently, the atmosphere within the Ministry of Magic had grown increasingly tense, as Death Eater activity shifted from hidden operations to semi-public displays of power.
"Father," Regulus said calmly. "I have a question."
Orion placed his quill aside and rubbed his brow.
"Speak."
"How high can a wizard fly?"
The question was sudden and somewhat strange.
Orion paused before answering.
"That depends on the method."
"The highest broomstick record is about fifteen thousand feet above sea level. Any higher and the air becomes too thin to breathe. Thestrals can fly slightly higher, but even they have limits."
He studied his son carefully.
"Why do you ask?"
Regulus did not answer directly.
"What if someone wanted to fly higher?" he asked instead.
"High enough to leave the atmosphere."
Orion stared at him.
"Why would anyone want to leave the atmosphere?"
"Just curiosity," Regulus replied calmly. "Some books say ancient wizards tried to fly to the sun or the moon, but they all failed."
"Those are myths," Orion corrected. "Much like the Muggle story of Icarus. The lesson is not to be arrogant."
He continued thoughtfully.
"Wizards possess magic, but magic also has limits. Outside the atmosphere there is no air, no pressure, extreme temperatures, and dangerous radiation."
"A Bubble-Head Charm only lasts a few hours. Protective charms fail against certain types of radiation. And Apparition requires familiarity with the destination and has distance limits."
He paused and looked at Regulus more closely.
"What exactly are you thinking about?"
Regulus considered his response.
"I was thinking… Muggles landed on the moon this year."
"They have no magic, yet they succeeded."
Orion remained silent for a long time.
Eventually he spoke.
"I know."
"The Daily Prophet printed a small report about it. Most editors believed it was simply another Muggle illusion."
"But it's the moon," Regulus said.
"To a wizard," Orion replied, "the moon is simply the moon."
"It influences werewolves. It affects potions. It governs the tides."
"But it's not a place," he finished quietly.
"No wizard truly wants to go there."
"Why?" Regulus asked.
Orion turned toward the window.
"Because wizards see the world through magic," he said softly.
"Magic exists on Earth—in life, in living things, in the human soul."
"The stars are too far away."
"Too cold."
"Too alien."
"They are not our domain."
Regulus answered immediately.
"Domains can be expanded."
Orion returned to his desk slowly.
"Perhaps," he admitted.
"But at what cost?"
"How much must a wizard sacrifice to explore the stars? How many risks would society tolerate?"
He looked at Regulus directly.
"Tell me your real thoughts."
Regulus took a deep breath.
"If wizards spent the energy they waste on political struggles… the intelligence used to research the Dark Arts… and the obsession with blood purity…"
He paused.
"And used it instead to explore the universe…"
"How far could we go?"
Orion folded his hands together.
After a long silence, he answered.
"Very far."
"But only if wizarding society first solves its own problems."
"Voldemort is dividing the magical world. The Ministry is weak and fearful. Conflicts between pure-bloods and half-bloods are escalating."
"At a time like this," Orion said quietly, "no one will care about the stars."
"But maybe the stars are the way out," Regulus insisted.
"If people could see far enough… far enough that the struggles on Earth seemed small…"
"Maybe they could transcend them."
Orion smiled faintly.
A tired smile.
"Idealism," he said.
"I once had similar thoughts when I was young."
"But reality is different."
"People rarely transcend the level they live on. Wizards are trapped by their bodies, their society, and their relationships."
His voice then grew serious.
"Besides… in the current wizarding world, this idea is considered heretical."
"Pure-blood families would accuse you of being influenced by Muggle technology."
"Radicals would call you weak."
"And Voldemort would believe you are distracted."
He looked directly at his son.
"Until you are strong enough to protect yourself…"
"Keep these thoughts hidden."
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