November 3rd, 1959.
Inside the delivery room at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and gravity.
Walburga Black lay upon the four-poster bed, sweat soaking through her long hair.
Three witches skilled in healing magic surrounded the bed, their robes embroidered with the Black family crest: twin stars and the Dog Star.
In the fireplace, deep indigo ritual flames burned.
"Push, my lady." Elma, the senior witch, spoke softly as her yew wand traced gentle arcs through the air.
As the midnight bell struck its eleventh chime, an infant's cry shattered the silence.
Orion Black stood beside the bed, his expression solemn.
He wore deep green robes with the family brooch fastened at his collar: Sirius rendered in black diamonds. At thirty, he was already the thirteenth head of the family line.
Walburga smiled weakly. "Let me hold him."
The baby was placed in her arms. She gazed down at that wrinkled little face, her fingers brushing the black baby hair at his brow that would surely grow into unruly curls.
"His name?" Orion asked.
Walburga answered without hesitation. "Sirius. The brightest star in the night sky, the navigator that never loses its way. He will lead House Black to new glory."
The portraits on the walls nodded in approval. One ancestress wearing a Victorian high collar murmured, "A fine name, but remember: even the brightest star can be obscured by storms."
"Welcome to House Black, Sirius." Orion leaned down and whispered, "May you prove worthy of that name."
...
The nursery at Number 12 Grimmauld Place occupied the east wing of the third floor. Deep green carpet covered the floors, and enchanted tapestries hung on the walls, depicting the great deeds of Black ancestors.
One ancestor taming a Peruvian Vipertooth. Another defending Gringotts during the goblin rebellions.
And yet another, this one gazing down haughtily at the room, had served as Minister for Magic, though he'd been forced to resign after only four months.
One afternoon when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was in the adjacent room receiving her sister Druella Black. Kreacher kept watch beside the cradle, his long fingers straightening the silk bedding.
Sirius gripped the railing and pulled himself shakily to his feet. His little legs weren't quite strong enough to support him for long, but there he stood, gray eyes fixed on a silver bell toy lying three feet away on the carpet.
He reached out his hand. The bell rolled half an inch toward him.
Kreacher gasped, then immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg. "Bad Kreacher! Did not notice young master's magic awakening! Bad! Bad!"
When Walburga burst into the room, her face was alight with joy. "He's standing! Only ten months old! Orion, did you see?"
Orion stood in the doorway, a complex expression flickering across his face. "Too early. His magic awakened too soon as well."
"This is talent!" Walburga scooped up her son, planting a flurry of kisses on his cheek. "My Sirius, you were born to do great things."
From that day forward, the pure-blood education began.
Every afternoon, Walburga would hold Sirius before the family tapestry, that massive work occupying an entire wall, embroidered in gold and silver thread with a thousand years of Black lineage.
Some branches had been burned away. Those were the marks of the disowned, ugly scars.
"Look here," Walburga pointed to the top of the tapestry. "This is our first ancestor, Linfred Black, a healer from the twelfth century. He laid the foundation for our family."
By the time Sirius turned one, he could already speak in complete sentences. One afternoon, he pointed to a scorched name on the tapestry and asked, "What happened there?"
Walburga's expression darkened. "That was your great-aunt Cedrella. She made an unforgivable mistake and married a Muggle, so her name was burned away, erased from the family. Never make such a mistake, Sirius."
...
January 15th, 1961.
The winter of 1961 was exceptionally cold. London's streets lay buried under snow, and thin ice formed along the Thames' edges. But within Number 12 Grimmauld Place, protective enchantments kept the interior warm as spring.
Walburga's second labor proved more difficult than her first.
Beginning at midnight on January 14th, the contractions lasted a full sixteen hours.
At three o'clock in the morning on January 15th, Walburga's screams reached their peak.
Then an infant's cry rang out, lighter than Sirius's had been, more brief.
Orion strode forward and asked Walburga, "His name?"
Walburga looked down at this unusually quiet child. He gazed up with the trademark gray eyes of House Black, calmly observing everything around him.
"Regulus," she said softly. "The heart of Leo, the second-brightest star in the sky. Not flamboyant, but indispensable. Steadfast, loyal, eternal."
Orion added the middle name. "Regulus Arcturus Black."
Walburga placed Regulus in his cradle, almost immediately falling into exhausted sleep.
Orion stood between the two cradles. On the left, two-year-old Sirius slept soundly in his own cradle, one hand reaching through the bars to clutch his favorite silver bell toy.
On the right, the newborn Regulus lay quietly, eyes open, watching Sirius in the opposite cradle.
And Sirius, as if sensing something in his sleep, rolled over and turned toward his brother's direction.
Regulus shifted his gaze to where the two-year-old boy lay. That was Sirius, the man from the original story who had betrayed his family for his beliefs and ultimately died beyond the veil. His brother.
Deep within his soul, an adult spirit from another world sighed silently.
Then, with his underdeveloped infant brain, he struggled to form his first clear thought:
"I won't repeat Regulus's tragedy. I'll walk a different path."
Outside the window, London's night sky was unusually clear.
The winter constellations stood out sharply. Orion hung high in the south, Taurus blazed in the east, and between them shone the brightest star in the night sky: Sirius.
Not far from it, Regulus of Leo twinkled quietly, slightly dimmer, but steadfast.
...
On Sirius's second birthday, Walburga held a small celebration in the garden.
Though she'd only invited close Black family relations, the affair was still grand. The house-elves used magic to make roses bloom in winter, silver utensils flew up to arrange themselves, and even the garden fountain was temporarily enchanted to spray lemonade, simply because Sirius liked sour flavors.
At the party, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.
He wore an exquisite dark green velvet baby outfit with a small silver brooch at the collar. He wasn't looking at anyone, only staring into the distance.
"What's he looking at?" Walburga followed her son's line of sight to the garden wall, covered in ancient vines. Nothing special.
"Perhaps at the shimmer on the vines," Druella guessed. "The sunlight on the dewdrops makes them sparkle beautifully."
But in the direction Regulus was looking, there was actually a nest of Bowtruckles. Those small creatures hid deep within the vines, invisible to ordinary people and even to most wizards.
Yet whenever the Bowtruckles moved, the surrounding magic would stir ever so slightly.
Regulus could sense it. From Druella and Walburga's conversation, though, he suspected they couldn't.
Later, Walburga hesitated for a long time before asking Orion one afternoon, her tone somewhat uncertain, "Is Regulus... a bit slow to respond?"
Regulus was one year and three months old then. Sirius at the same age had already been running all over the house, speaking in full sentences.
But Regulus was always unusually quiet, rarely making sounds, and slow to react to external stimuli.
Orion set down his copy of the Daily Prophet and walked to the nursery. Walburga followed.
Regulus was currently sitting on the carpet with a magical picture book spread before him. It was Magical Creatures in Motion, meant for children three and older. The hippogriff in the book would flap its wings, and the Diricawl would suddenly vanish and reappear.
Orion observed for ten minutes.
Then he walked over, crouched down to meet his son's eyes, and said to Walburga, "Look at his eyes, Walburga."
Walburga likewise crouched down to look into Regulus's eyes, but couldn't see anything unusual.
Orion continued. "He's not slow to respond. He's listening, watching, learning. And observing. He's simply quiet."
As if to confirm his words, Regulus lifted his head and looked at his father for the first time of his own accord.
Gray eyes met gray eyes.
Walburga didn't quite understand, but she quietly breathed a sigh of relief. She trusted her husband's judgment. Her son was not slow to respond.