Orion had it worked out.
Once word got around, anyone curious enough to follow the thread to France and check whether the Black heir was really there would find a Regulus.
Inspecting the repairs to the protective enchantments, dealing with the local staff, coming and going through the proper channels. All of it genuine.
A glance from a distance would confirm the boy was present. Anyone who came closer to poke around would be another matter.
Nobody looked at the Black heir for free.
Measures laid at the key points. Who came, when they came, what methods they used to probe. Whoever walked into it would show themselves.
Death Eaters or otherwise, any party with an interest in Regulus's movements beyond the ordinary would be a name he'd have.
And the fools, too, sticking their necks out on someone else's behalf and rather pleased with their own cleverness.
Enemies had to be guarded against, fools had to be labeled. Later, when there was business to do, he'd know which of them could be used as a knife and which didn't qualify to be one.
As for Slughorn, the letter would reach his hands and whether he passed it on was his own affair.
If he kept quiet, excellent. It meant the old professor had chosen to stand on Regulus's side, in this at least.
If he talked, no loss either. What he'd repeat was false, and whoever chased the false trail to France would expose both their identity and their intent.
Either choice served. Every road led somewhere useful.
A leave request, a false destination, a false Regulus. One arrangement doing four jobs: cover, verification, trap, and tally.
Every detail sat in its slot in his head. Place, event, justification. A flawless story wrapped around a flawless piece of bait.
Whether Slughorn could see through the letter didn't concern him.
If he saw through it, he was willing to cooperate. If he didn't, his performance would be all the more convincing.
No way to lose.
Orion put the letter away and rose to head for the study.
Kreacher reappeared, another letter on the silver tray, this time crossing to Walburga's end, holding it just as high, his voice shaking worse than before.
"Mistress, a letter for you from young Master."
Her hand stopped in midair, the same pause as before, but this time she made no effort to hide it, and had no time to.
She looked up, lips parting, her gaze settling on the envelope, and something in her lit all at once.
She reached for it directly, broke the wax with more haste than dignity, drew out the parchment, and unfolded it.
Greetings. The weather turning warm, the ice gone off the lake, praise from Professor McGonagall in Transfiguration, Professor Slughorn pressing crystallised pineapple on him again, Pumpkin Juice grown tiresome, and take care of your health, Mother.
Nothing of substance in any of it.
She read it once, then read it again, and after that sat with it a long while.
The expression on her face loosened by degrees. The lines between her brows smoothed out, the set of her mouth softened, her eyes reddened faintly, a thin film of water over the gray.
She folded the letter with care and slid it back into its envelope, set it at the edge of the table, and pressed her hand down on it lightly.
Orion watched her from beside the table, staying where he was, saying nothing.
His wife had changed a great deal. His son had noticed, and was answering in his own fashion.
Whatever ran between mother and son needed nothing from him.
He pushed his chair in and left for the study.
---
Friday morning, Hogwarts.
Orion's reply had arrived the previous evening, and the contents left nothing vague.
Southern France, Provence, the Black vineyard. The protective enchantments breached, the magic in the old vines damaged, the heir required on site.
A fixed line, fully furnished with detail, all arrangement and not one word of explanation. Regulus understood it perfectly.
He finished reading and burned it.
His father thought of everything, every detail carrying a purpose. False destination, false itinerary, a false version of him moving through France in plain view.
Old men thought too much. Useful, though.
After breakfast he went straight to Slughorn's office.
End of the corridor on the lower ground floor. He knocked.
"Come in, come in!"
Slughorn's round voice carried through, buoyed by the particular good humor of morning.
The familiar door opened, releasing a pleasant mix of crystallised pineapple, dried herbs, and burning applewood.
Slughorn sat in his velvet armchair with tea and sweets, surrounded by photographs, silver bottles, crystal, and other collected treasures. He dusted sugar over a slice of pineapple, then brightened at the sight of Regulus, his round face breaking into a pleased grin.
"Ah, Regulus, perfect timing. Sit down." He waggled the piece of dried fruit between his fingers. "Try this batch, it's new. Two full grades sweeter than the last lot. Marvelous."
Regulus sat, and declined with polite finality. "No, thank you, Professor. I've only just had breakfast."
"Breakfast is breakfast, sweets are sweets. Two separate stomachs."
Slughorn winked, popped the pineapple into his own mouth, chewed twice, and narrowed his eyes in evident bliss before reaching for his teacup.
He wiped his fingers on a handkerchief, folded both hands over his stomach, and looked Regulus up and down with amusement.
Then, with a hint of mischief in his voice, "Minerva asked me the other day whether you'd handed in your Potions essay."
Regulus blinked.
Professor McGonagall had gone to Slughorn about it?
Did she think he'd written a Potions essay and deliberately skipped Transfiguration? Because he was a Slytherin?
Hardly.
If he wasn't writing one, he wasn't writing any of them.
He arranged an embarrassed expression, and if he'd been capable of it, would have reached up to scratch his cheek. "Professor..."
"Not to worry, not to worry." Slughorn raised a hand and patted the air, his smile deepening into something thoroughly scheming. "I'd never tell Minerva to her face that you'd already turned it in."
He picked up another sweet and crammed it in, cheeks bulging as he chewed.
Regulus let out a breath, grateful. "Thank you, Professor."
They talked about nothing for a moment before Regulus came to it. "Professor, I've come to request leave. There are family matters that need handling. My father should have written."
Slughorn's face gave nothing away. He made a small noise of acknowledgment and drew a letter from beside a stack of documents.
The envelope had been opened already, Orion's wax seal still clinging to the flap.
He held it between two fingers and gave it a light shake, tone offhand. "I received Orion's letter. This business in France..."
Another shake, and the rest of the sentence went with it, the cheerful expression on his round face never shifting a hair.
An heir of a Pure-blood family taking leave for family business was hardly unusual in Slytherin.
Every term, a few students left to deal with estates, attend ceremonies, or settle problems at home. Family affairs rarely cared about the school calendar. Usually, the student was older, fifth year at the earliest. Property and negotiations required a certain presence, and sending a child too young only made matters worse.
Regulus Black, however, was hardly ordinary.
A second-year who had gone head-to-head with Bellatrix Lestrange and left Lestrange Manor in ruins, while Tom himself had appeared in person and done nothing to him.
Slughorn had spent decades running the Slug Club and watched countless talented students pass through his hands. The ones he genuinely cared about could be counted on one hand.
Regulus was one of them.
A student like that could take whatever leave he wanted.
Still, Orion Black's letter was almost suspiciously thorough. It specified the vineyard's location, the damage to its protective enchantments, the contamination across each batch of vines, and precisely why the Black heir had to attend in person.
No ordinary leave request contained that much detail.
Slughorn had lived long enough to recognize secrets when he saw them. Regulus wasn't really going to France. Orion had simply prepared a story for anyone who came asking.
Slughorn could recite the letter word for word, giving them an answer without inventing anything or betraying anyone's confidence. If nobody asked, it remained an ordinary leave request. He could even say nothing at all.
Either way, the choice was his.
Orion was clever. The letter placed the request in Slughorn's hands while leaving the decision entirely to him. If he cooperated, Orion would owe him a favor. If he refused, there was no offense to take, since none of this was his responsibility.
Whether he spoke would depend on who came asking, when they came, and how they asked. Slughorn had built his network on precisely such judgments.
The Black name carried weight, but Orion's goodwill was only useful insofar as it served his interests.
The boy was what mattered.
Regulus Black.
Thirteen years old and already more capable than most grown wizards. Exceptionally talented, careful-minded, and wise enough to know when to press and when to yield.
Bellatrix had come to grief before him, and even the older boys with Dark Marks on their arms lowered their voices when his name came up in the Slytherin common room.
More importantly, Regulus treated Slughorn with genuine respect and trusted him enough to speak about Tom, something even Albus might not know.
That was worth investing in.
Slughorn beamed as he pulled a leave form from his desk drawer. He signed it with a flourish, pressed the seal into the wax, and passed it across.
"March in France is still cold," he said casually, a hint of concern in his voice. "Take an extra robe."
Regulus accepted the form and inclined his head. "Thank you, Professor."
Slughorn waved him off. "Off you go. Don't be late for lessons."
Regulus turned and left.