Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.

A/N: Thank you once again to my readers, please enjoy the next chapter!

The Truth of His Heart

Regs gripped the narrow shaft of wood between his legs and took a deep breath. His first flying lesson would set the level of the rest of his training at his Uncle Alphard's country property. The broom had risen with good speed into his hand at his command and Sirius, with only the slight shimmer of a glamour spell on his cheek to hide the bruise if you were looking hard enough, had whooped in delight. Regs had half expected a quelling look from his uncle but Sirius obviously knew better because all Uncle Alphard had done was chuckle and slap him on the back, telling him to hurry up and mount it.

Regs inhaled once more and bent his knees. Sirius was already swooping over his head, yelling out into the open sky. Regs squeezed his eyes shut and jumped, opening his eyes again immediately so he could see what was happening. His stomach dropped and he shouted in surprise, his feet hovering several feet above the ground. The broom wasn't vibrating but there was an energy that Regs could feel in the wood, the magic that let it fly. He was tempted to let himself go and fly around to get the feel of it, but he followed his instructions and leaned forward, pushing the handle away from him. He was lowered gently back to earth, until his feet were firm upon the ground.

"Well done, my boy!" shouted Uncle Alphard, grinning from ear to ear. He waved up to Sirius, who zoomed quickly back to join them.

"How'd he go?" asked Sirius breathlessly, perched just above them, leaning precariously over the end of his broom.

"Perfectly! I think he might well be as good as you were, but I'll have to see him move around first," replied their uncle cheerfully. He stepped back and motioned Regs back into the sky, giving him free reign in that open, open blueness. Regs steadied himself and saw Uncle Alphard mutter and jab his short, stout wand at the grass. Probably a Cushioning Charm, Regs thought. He pushed off again, gasping as he rose more quickly this time. When he was about twenty metres above the ground, he stopped and hung there, feeling the small breeze rush through his hair and banner his robes. He stopped and stared around, overcome by the sheer size of the sky. There was so much space around him that he'd never really accounted for before. And all of it was free for his use! Well, almost all of it, he reminded himself, grinning as he saw Sirius spiraling underneath him, giggling madly. Now he understood why Sirius always ran to come here.

"Fly, boy!" yelled his uncle. "Go on; show me what you can do!"

Regs nodded and leaned forward, pulling the broom up a little. He began to move, and rise just a little further into the welcoming heavens. He bent closer to his lifeline and felt the wind begin to sing in his ears, the choir of his freedom. The trees were soon far below and he leaned left, then right, accelerating into the turns, feeling the broom respond to his instinctive movements. When he leaned a little too far, he found himself upside down, and sped along for a few seconds with a breath caught in his throat, halfway between fear and exhilaration, before he realized how to twist back up and powered higher into the sky, where the birds knew their home.

Closing his eyes, Regs spread his arms and called out; not really knowing what he was saying, just asking the clouds of their dreams and telling the world that he was free. When the broom leveled out and began to fall again, he opened his eyes and held on once more. He found Sirius far below, corkscrewing wildly around the trees. Pressing himself close, Regs sped down to him, braking sharply and effortlessly joining him in the other half of the helix. He saw his brother smile at him, gleeful. Regs understood. He finally understood.

They looped together and raced down the pitch, dipping until the grass kissed their toes, sun bright on their faces, lost in the joy of it. But duty could never be silenced.

"Regulus!" The imperious call came far, far too soon. Obediently, Regs slowed and steadied himself, dropping until he came to a slightly stumbling halt. Walburga surveyed him imperiously, observing the brightness in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks and the still panting breaths from the rush. Distaste and approval warred on her face.

Regs looked up at her, making an effort to calm his breathing and stand straight, but he could not repress the smile that lit his face. He desperately hoped his mother would not resent him for it.

"Well?" she demanded of Uncle Alphard, not taking her eyes off Regs' almost-calm face, which was still not any less joyful.

"He's as good as Sirius was for a raw beginner, and with proper technique, he'll do nicely, might even make the house team when he gets to school. There's more to focus on in his technique than on general flying but he's got the instinctive talent for it, same as young Sirius 'ere."

Walburga's face spoke volumes for Uncle Alphard's lack of refinement and formality. "Position?" she snapped, lifting her chin and glaring at Uncle Alphard.

"Well, he's not solid enough for beater or keeper, and he may yet get enough upper body muscle for chaser, but his best bet would certainly be seeker for his build. Needs to have the eye for it, though."

Walburga nodded approvingly. Seeker was a fine position, the most difficult and highly sought after. "See you give him proper eye training, then. And your progress report on Sirius?"

Uncle Alphard scratched his chin, and nodded enthusiastically. "He's wonderful, simply wonderful. He's quick, agile and he has the talent for it, always has. I reckon he'd make a fantastic chaser or beater. In fact, he might work off some of his boisterousness if he whacked a few bludgers around."

There was no doubt about it; Mother's face was definitely showing distaste now. She said nothing but Regs could imagine what she was thinking. No finesse, just pure physical brutishness to being a beater. But she said none of it, for which Regs was grateful.

"See to it," was her parting shot, and then she turned and left. Regs turned his gaze longingly back to the open blue and did not hesitate when his uncle laughed a booming laugh and said, "Go on, then, lad. Get back up there. We'll get to technique next time."


There was nothing, absolutely nothing good to be said for the daily deportment class, Regs decided. Mother was his teacher, at least for now, until she decided he could hold his own and wouldn't embarrass the family. He was sitting at a desk with his back braced against a board, and a small stack of books balanced on his head.

"It's crude," Mother lectured. "But effective. I expect all your deportment classes to be undertaken thus until it is second nature, and then they shall be removed. For now, stand, walk around the room thrice, and return to your seat."

Regs placed his hands upon the table for balance, jerking them back when the stick came down to smack them. The books, already wobbling, cascaded down as Regs cringed. Before they hit the floor, Mother was already directing them back into the air.

"Sit straight!" she barked. "No hands!"

Regs sat upright and forced his hands by his side. The books were lowered slowly until he could support them and the hover charm was lifted. Taking a deep breath and letting it fill out his stomach so as not to adjust his back, Regs braced his feet and began to stand. The volumes of history he would study after the deportment lesson trembled precariously, and then began to waver. He reached a critical point where he was least supported and managed to hold it steady. As he straightened his legs, he glanced with his eyes at his mother, who seemed blank faced, but radiated a sense of satisfaction. Regs wasn't sure how to proceed, but just then the chair pulled back from his legs. He started and the books teetered alarmingly. Breathing slowly, Regs centred himself and began to shift his weight. Four steps later and the books tumbled a second time. Determined to show no response this time, Regs simply repositioned himself and waited for the books to be set upon his heads again.

On his second circuit, Regs noticed a dark smudge at the corner of his eye and had to wait until he had come a half circle before he could see that it was Sirius peeping around the corner of the room, sporting a commiserating grimace. Regs dared not pause but blinked a few times and received a wink in return. The books dipped and swayed.

"Sirius Orion Black! Why aren't you in your lesson with your father?" The voice screamed out and Regulus jumped, badly frightened, as books began to fly for the sixth time. Sirius skulked into the room, head hanging.

"You have no respect for the teachings of your family and now you come and interrupt your brother's lessons? How dare you? Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Sirius' head snapped up and his eyes were wide with fear.

Regs barely noticed that the books had fallen gently to the ground as Mother stormed towards Sirius, grabbing his arm hard enough to leave bruises and dragging him to the centre of the light. She turned him about and began to strike his backside hard enough that he yelped in shock and pain. Regulus stood helpless, flinching every time Sirius was struck. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it any more.

"Mother, please! Don't hurt him!" he sobbed and ran forwards, tugging her robes. He was knocked flying as she spun, fury making her larger and more fearsome than ever.

"How dare you?" she screeched at him. Regs had so seldom been on the receiving end of her rage that he cowered on the floor, weeping.

"Stand up at once!" Mother shrieked and pulled him up by the scruff of his robes. Regs was so frightened that he cried out and nearly let go of his bladder. He couldn't breathe. Mother loomed before him; hand rising higher and higher into the air to deliver a blow that he would remember for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. As the hard, silver-ringed fingers began to descend, Regs flung his hands up to protect his face and curled away from her, braced instinctively for the slap. It never landed.

After several moments, Regs looked up. Mother's hand hovered a foot away from his shoulders, stopped by some force. Her face was slack, shock frozen into place. For a moment Regs thought she had been immobilized, but then she turned her head to look at Sirius who had both hands outstretched towards Regs, a determined and beseeching look on his face that was tempered with fear. His face likewise turned to shock and he dropped his hands, looking at them with disbelief. Mother's hand fell from its stopped position as soon as Sirius lowered his hands, but the hard fingers merely grasped Regs' shoulders. She turned him towards his brother.

"Look well, my son," she rasped, hair coming out of its bun. "This is evidence of your brother's power; its first manifestation in the world, spent in an act to prevent harm from coming to you. He respects the brother of his family, if not the wisdoms of his parents. I can only hope that this is an indication that his blood will call to him and show him the truth of his heart." And with that, she began to walk out of the room, an inscrutable expression on her face. She paused before Sirius, looked into his face and nodded at what she saw there. Sirius was still frozen in shock, both at what he had done and at Mother's reaction.

"Return to your father as soon as you can control your face," were her parting words.

When they were alone, Regs ran to Sirius, who seemed unable to pry his face out of its surprise, and hugged him tight about the middle. He began to weep again, in relief as much as gratitude.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered until he felt his older brother's arms come down around him.

"It… it was nothing," replied Sirius, squeezing him and burying his face in Regs' hair.

"She let you go!" said Regs in awe after a time, looking up at last. "She was proud of you!"

Sirius looked clobbered anew. "She was… wasn't she?" he whispered. "I can do magic!"

"Well, we knew that, stupid!" Regs replied. "That dish at dinner the other night didn't send itself into Bella's face, did it?"

"No, but I actually tried to stop her, and it worked!" Sirius said. He leapt into the air and whooped.

"You'd better get off to Father, or she'll get angry again though," warned Regs, and Sirius soon took his leave, stooping for a last hug. With a sigh, Regs took his seat again, stacking the history books in front of him, until Mother returned to teach him. He was happy for Sirius, so very happy, and warmed to his very core that love for Regs had been the catalyst for Sirius' first proper magic, but happiness and love didn't help him learn history after all.

After an hour or two of intense history lecturing and reading some heavy tomes of ancient reports on the lives of notable witches and wizards, Regs was released to attend his very first class on potion-making. He had chosen his hobby after great thought, for astronomy held only a passing interest to him, and serpent care was just the Slytherin pureblood precursor to Care of Magical Creatures, and not all that much use to the elective because it was so limited. Potions on the other hand was quiet and subtle, requiring precision and a steady hand, and was a good source of income if Regs decided he wanted earn a little pocket money even though the wealth of his family would ensure he'd never really have to work a day if he didn't want to.

His teacher was a Potions Master called Professor Morten, an old family friend and another childless remnant of an ancient line. He was tall and lean, and the lack of stoop in his frame only served to make him more intimidating. His face was round and expressive, with pale eyes that gleamed in the candlelight. When he spoke, Regs could hear a slight French accent.

"So!" the Professor said sternly. "You have decided to take up the art of potions. As young as you are, I expect utter obedience for the duration of these lessons, as any deviation, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, from my strict instructions could result in any number of potentially fatal accidents. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" squeaked Regs. He tried to stand straight.

"Potions is exact and precise. It is not the magical equivalent of mundane cuisine; it is not as simple as following a recipe. Magic is invested in the preparation of ingredients of both magical and non-magical origins, and in the careful ministrations of the cauldron regardless of spell casting. You will find that although potions may not require a spell, the input of power comes from your concentration to the technique and precision of your work. It is the difference between waving your wand and saying the words, and actually casting a spell – power is used, exact motions and pronunciation is required, and concentration above all must be devoted! Are you following?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Very well." Professor Morten shoved a book at him across the table. "Look at the first five potions in the index. Choose one of them to brew today. Ordinarily we would start with harvesting ingredients, examining their properties individually and in combination and deciphering the result of motions and temperature, but I wish to see how you cope with the brewing without this knowledge – in effect, I will watch to see how you proceed given only the wand and the incantation."

Regs opened the book and ran his finger down the list. Stain-removing Solution, Silver-Polishing Potion, Cooling Concoction, Simple Cologne and a Bruise Salve. Regs frowned as he contemplated the list but smiled when he read the last one, and sat back, resolute.

"I would like to attempt the Bruise Salve, Professor," he requested, looking up with wide, beseeching eyes. The man glared down at him.

"Oh, don't think to try your eyes on me, little master Black," he scolded. "I have taught many students potions and none of them have wheedled assistance out of me to make them seem any better than they are. I do not expect that your first attempt will be very successful, so be warned."

Regs was provided with the ingredients for the potion and did not notice Professor Morten watching him with calculating eyes as his face creased into lines of determination, quite set on proving the man wrong. He began to follow the instructions in the book, using the mortar and pestle to crush beetles to a fine powder, and measure out exact lengths of plant roots. Professor Morten lit the fire when he was ready and wordlessly filled it two-thirds full of water. Regs let it heat up, then added the powder, stirring it three times clockwise, and two counterclockwise. He looked in askance at the professor, who turned down the flame obligingly, and then added his roots one at a time, stirring once clockwise after each addition. Then he sat back to wait for ten minutes, letting the potion boil until it turned light green. As he watched it carefully, he thought about the hard hands of his mother as they descended upon Sirius; the bruise that was left on his face and those on his arms as she dragged him to the centre of the room. His teacher was silent.

After the time was up, Regs leapt towards the cauldron, reaching for a small vial which held salamander tears. His small hands carefully let two drops fall, then he was stirring again, the tip of a small pink tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.

When he had completed the instructions, Professor Morten removed the flame and immediately placed the now yellow paste into a large jar.

"Impressive," the man said, examining the salve with narrowed eyes. "It certainly looks as I'd expect, but whether or not it works shall be the true test. It so happens-" Professor Morten raised the sleeve of his arm to reveal a dark bruise just below his elbow. "That I have a bruise on which it may be tested."

At Regs' questioning gaze, he elaborated. "Even with dragon-hide gloves, the spikes of the Venomous Tentacula strike hard enough to bruise," he growled. "But now, let us see."

He dipped his fingers into the greasy paste and rubbed it between fingers and thumb, giving it a sniff. "Slightly lumpy; there are still some small grains, but nothing unexpected from a first potion," he muttered. "Smells normal, clears the sinuses."

Regs shifted from foot to foot nervously. The professor spread the salve onto his skin, massaging it into the purple and black area. After it had been absorbed, he wiped his fingers, and reached for his wand, ready to act if the potion had gone wrong. However, after a few seconds, the edges of the bruise began to turn brown, then green and yellow. Under the professor's astonished gaze and Regs' triumphant one, the bruise gradually faded.

"Well, well, Mr. Black, it appears you may just have a talent for the art!"

Regs was tempted to whoop. "Thank you, sir!" he chirped.

"That shall be all for today, but next lesson we shall begin the study of some common ingredients, so be prepared for some reading," Professor Morten replied sternly. His pale eyes still held a hint of amazement. "You may keep your product, a very useful salve for young boys overly fond of Quidditch, I daresay. Dismissed."

With another stammering of thanks, Regs took up his precious jar and climbed the stairs back to his bedroom. Placing the yellow ointment carefully on his shelf, he went eagerly in search of his brother. After waiting for him outside one of the workrooms on the middle level, Sirius eventually emerged from a hard lesson in economics, wearily rubbing his face. He brightened at the sight of his brother.

"How did potions go, Regs?" he asked keenly. "Blow anything up?" Regs only beckoned in reply and took off for his bedroom. He took great pride in lifting down the jar and carefully presenting it to Sirius, who raised his eyebrows and took it.

"Bruise salve!" was all Regs could get out in his excitement. He put some on Sirius' arms and they watched together as the marks disappeared. Sirius beamed at Regs and gave him a tight hug.

"Thanks, Regs!" he said, and sighed in relief. "Can you put some on my cheek?"

Regs nodded solemnly and squinted at the shimmering area on his brother's face where the glamour was hiding the evidence. He put it all over, not sure where the bruise actually was, but covering the whole glamour surface. As soon as he finished, the glamour vanished and all that was left was a slightly greasy-faced Sirius, grinning at him. Regs sniggered.

"Oi, you be quiet or I'll paint your face too!"