**Spring, 1965**
The beech trees in the garden of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, were beginning to wake up. Tender green buds broke through the grey bark, shivering in the cool London breeze.
"Regulus! Watch this!"
Sirius burst out of the back door, his boots thudding against the flagstones. He was brandishing a toy sword—a wooden replica of a goblin-made blade, painted silver.
"Look! Watch this!" Sirius shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face scrunching with effort. "Lumos!"
He didn't have a wand, just his will. A faint, flickering silver light sputtered at the tip of the wooden sword. It pulsed weakly for two seconds, like a dying firefly, before vanishing.
Sirius was five years old. His magic was growing, but it was wild, like a hose with a kink in it.
"Not bad," Regulus said. He didn't look up from his book. He sat on the stone bench, wrapped in a heavy cloak against the chill.
Sirius groaned and stabbed the sword into the damp earth. "You're boring. Let's go to the basement. Kreacher says there are boxes down there that bite if you touch them."
"I am reading," Regulus said, turning a page.
"What is so interesting about books?" Sirius marched over, leaning his chin on Regulus's shoulder to peer at the illustration. "It's all fake anyway. Dragons don't look like that. They're bigger. Scarier."
Sirius puffed out his chest. "Cousin Bella told me. She said *The Lord* has a pet dragon."
Regulus froze. His finger stopped halfway down the page.
He looked up slowly. "Which... Lord?"
Sirius looked around the empty garden, then leaned in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "The Dark Lord. Bella says he is gathering followers. She says he is going to make the pure-bloods kings again. Dad says he's a dangerous radical, but Bella thinks he's amazing."
Regulus felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his spine.
*Lord Voldemort.*
It was starting.
Regulus's mind—the mind of a man from another world—began to race, calculating dates and timelines. In the original history, Voldemort rose to public power in the 1970s. But the shadows always lengthen before the night falls. By 1965, he would already be moving in the dark, whispering in the ears of the ancient families, recruiting the ambitious and the cruel.
"What else did Bella say?" Regulus asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"She said he can perform miracles," Sirius said, kicking a pebble. "She said he can do magic that breaks the rules."
"Regulus?" Sirius nudged him. "Why do you look like that?"
"I'm thinking," Regulus said, staring at the cover of his picture book. "Knowledge is power, Sirius. That Lord... he must have read a lot of books to do those miracles."
"No way!" Sirius laughed, swinging his sword again. "He's just naturally strong! Like a hero!"
*Naive,* Regulus thought, watching his brother fight invisible enemies. *Power isn't a gift; it's a process. Voldemort didn't just wake up powerful. He hunted for it. He dug it out of forbidden books and dead souls.*
A sense of urgency crashed over Regulus. He was five years old physically, but he knew the clock was ticking. The House of Black was walking toward a cliff edge. The Lestranges, the Malfoys, the Notts—they were already choosing sides.
If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to save anyone—he couldn't just be a child. He needed to be a weapon.
◈ ◈ ◈
That afternoon, the heavy oak door of the master study creaked open.
Orion Black sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a fortress of parchment stacked in front of him. He was reviewing Wizengamot legislation, his quill scratching aggressively against the paper.
He looked up, surprised to see a small head peaking around the doorframe.
"Regulus?" Orion put down his quill. "What is it?"
Regulus walked into the room. He carried three children's books in his arms. He placed them gently on the corner of the desk.
"Father," Regulus said. "I have finished these."
"And?"
"I want to read real books."
Orion raised an eyebrow. "Real books?"
"Books with words," Regulus said, his grey eyes serious. "Books with history. Magic. Theory."
Walburga bustled into the room at that moment, a tea tray floating in front of her. She stopped dead when she heard him.
"He is four years old!" Walburga scolded, setting the tea down with a clatter. "Orion, do not spoil him. He should be learning the *Code of Etiquette for the Sacred Twenty-Eight*. He needs to know how to act like proper noble first, not how to cast spells."
"Glory needs strength to back it up," Regulus said.
The room went silent.
It was a strange thing to hear from a toddler in a velvet suit.
"If I am not strong enough," Regulus continued, looking from his mother to his father, "how can I maintain the status of this family? Etiquette does not stop a curse, Mother."
Walburga opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked unsettled, as if she were looking at a stranger.
Orion leaned back in his leather chair. He studied his son for a long moment, assessing him not as a child, but as an asset.
"Starting tomorrow," Orion said slowly, "you may spend one hour in the library each day. Kreacher will accompany you."
"Orion!" Walburga gasped.
"Yes, Father," Regulus said with a polite bow. He turned and walked out of the room before they could change their minds.
Walburga turned on her husband. "Have you lost your senses? The library contains—"
"Our son needs a different kind of education," Orion cut her off. His voice was grim. "Times are changing, Walburga. You hear the rumors. That man... Riddle... he is gathering power."
Walburga's expression shifted from anger to a strange, feverish excitement. "You know of him? They say he is the heir of Slytherin himself."
"The whole world knows he is recruiting," Orion said, rubbing his temples. "He seduces with power and threatens with fear. The Lestranges have already bowed to him. The Malfoys are circling like vultures. The House of Black will have to make a choice soon."
He looked at the closed door where Regulus had exited.
"We need more than just heirs who know which fork to use for salad," Orion muttered.
◈ ◈ ◈
**The Next Day, 10:00 AM**
The entrance to the Black Family Library was located at the end of the third-floor corridor. It was a double door of dark, ancient oak, devoid of handles. Instead of knobs, two keyholes shaped like the open beaks of ravens waited in the wood.
"Both keys must turn at the exact same moment, Young Master," Kreacher whispered.
The elf fished two heavy iron keys from his apron. One was silver, with a sun engraved on the bow. The other was jet black, carved with a crescent moon.
*Click.*
The mechanism groaned, heavy tumblers shifting deep inside the wood. The doors swung inward silently.
Regulus stepped inside.
The air in the library hit him like a physical wave. It was heavy, pressurized with centuries of concentrated magic. Silver dust motes floated in the shafts of light that pierced the gloom.
The room was a cathedral of knowledge. Bookshelves towered ten meters high, reaching a ceiling painted with moving constellations.
"The open section is to the left," Kreacher whispered, his voice trembling as if he were in a church. "The right side is the Family Heritage section—Master's permission only. And directly ahead..."
Kreacher pointed a trembling finger.
"The Restricted Section. Do not go near it, Young Master. The books there... they bite."
Regulus walked to the center of the room. A massive brass planetarium dominated the floor, clicking softly as it modeled the solar system—and several other celestial bodies that Muggles didn't know existed.
He walked to the left first. He scanned the spines of the genealogy records. *Malfoy. Lestrange. Nott. Carrow.*
The names of the future Death Eaters.
*If these families join him,* Regulus calculated, *Voldemort controls half the wealth and political power in Britain overnight. We are not just fighting a wizard; we are fighting the establishment.*
He moved deeper into the room. He ignored the heritage section and walked straight toward the back wall.
The Restricted Section wasn't just a shelf. It was a vault.
A wall of black iron bars, thick as a man's arm, blocked the alcove. The lock was a bronze skull with a hinged jaw; the keyhole was inside its left eye socket.
Regulus stood before the bars. He squinted into the darkness beyond.
The shadows seemed to cling to the books in there, as if the darkness was leaking out of the pages. The gold lettering on the spines glinted malevolently.
*The Darkest Art: Origins of the Unforgivable.*
*Blood and Bone: The Rituals of Lineage and Eternity.*
*Necromantic Communication: Piercing the Veil.*
Regulus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Lord Voldemort had read these. He had likely read far worse. While other wizards were learning to float feathers, Riddle had been in places like this, tearing secrets out of the dark.
*I need to know what he knows,* Regulus thought. *I don't need to use it. But I need to understand the weapon if I'm going to break it.*
"Young Master?" Kreacher tugged at his sleeve. "It is time. The magic here is too strong for a child."
Regulus looked at the skull lock one last time. "Let's go, Kreacher."
◈ ◈ ◈
Back in his room, the sun had set.
Regulus stood by the window, looking out at the Muggle street below.
Cars moved in a steady stream, their headlights cutting through the London fog—red taillights going one way, yellow headlights the other. It was noisy, dirty, and alive.
The light pollution washed out the sky. You couldn't see the stars from here.
But Regulus knew they were there.
He looked at his reflection in the glass—a small, pale boy with black hair and grey eyes.
Somewhere out there, in a forest in Albania or a manor in the countryside, Tom Riddle was preparing to burn the world down. The pure-blood families were polishing their masks. The war was coming.
Regulus placed his hand against the cold glass.
*I am small,* he thought. *I am trapped in the dust.*
But even dust, if it gets into the gears of a machine, can bring the whole thing crashing down.
*Time to get to work.*