**Late Autumn, 1968**
The last leaf clung to the beech tree in the courtyard of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, brown and curled like a dead spider, before finally letting go. It hit the wet flagstones with a wet slap.
Regulus was seven years old.
The past year spent in the attic, forcing magic through his veins in a "cyclical training" regimen, had changed him. It wasn't just a theory anymore. His body felt denser, the muscles tighter. His perception of the world had sharpened; he could hear the house settling, feel the hum of the wards in the walls, and sense the emotional temperature of a room before he even entered it.
Sirius was eight. And if Regulus was becoming iron, Sirius was becoming fire.
His rebellion had evolved. It was no longer about tantrums; it was calculated sabotage.
When Walburga forced him to recite the family tree, Sirius didn't refuse. instead, he butchered the names. *Phineas Nigellus* became *Phineas the Penis*. *Elladora* became *hella-bored-a*.
When she forced him into formal dress robes, he "accidentally" caught the collar on a door handle, ripping the expensive silk.
When she demanded he practice etiquette during tea, he transfigured her teacup into a bullfrog. It croaked right as she raised it to her lips.
Dinner became a minefield. During one meal, Sirius loudly questioned why Muggles were considered inferior if they could invent television while wizards were stuck with moving portraits. Walburga had screamed until the windows rattled. Regulus had tried to mediate, offering a neutral logical point to diffuse the tension, but Sirius had looked at him with sheer betrayal.
That look was becoming common.
They passed each other in the dim, gas-lit hallways like strangers. Sirius would stare at him, his grey eyes filled with a toxic mix of anger and disappointment.
*He thinks I've chosen them,* Regulus thought, watching Sirius slam his bedroom door. *He thinks I'm a collaborator. And in a way, he's right.*
◈ ◈ ◈
**December, 1968**
The guest arrived on the first weekend of winter.
Everyone knew this wasn't a social call. Abraxas Malfoy was visiting, and he was bringing the shadow of the Dark Lord with him.
Abraxas was fifty-five, a man who wore his age like a crown. His silver-grey hair was pulled back in a severe, elegant tail. He wore robes of deep emerald, the cuffs embroidered with silver serpents that seemed to writhe when he moved. He carried an ebony cane topped with a black opal that swallowed the light.
"Walburga, you look radiant," Abraxas lied smoothly. "Orion. It has been too long. How is the Wizengamot?"
Orion sat at the head of the drawing room table, his face a mask. "Predictable. And you, Abraxas?"
Abraxas sipped his tea. "Thinking. About the future. Our future."
Lucius was notably absent. Regulus guessed he was being groomed elsewhere—perhaps receiving his Mark, or perhaps he was simply too young for the high-level negotiation happening here.
"The Lord holds the House of Black in high esteem," Abraxas said, dropping the pleasantries. "He believes that among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, your lineage is the most steadfast. The purest."
"Steadfast?" Orion repeated, swirling his wine.
"Others waver," Abraxas said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The Potters open their doors to mud. The Weasleys are a breeding joke, barely better than Muggles. Even the Longbottoms are soft. But the Black family... you hold the line."
He leaned forward, the opal on his cane glinting. "The Lord believes such a family belongs at the head of the new order."
Walburga leaned in, hooked. "What are his plans? Specifically?"
"Revival," Abraxas said, the word tasting like religious sacrament. "A purge of the weak elements rotting the Ministry. Restoring the Wizengamot to its ancient authority. Standardizing magical education to exclude the... unworthy."
"It sounds ambitious," Orion noted cautiously.
"It is foresight," Abraxas corrected. "He has the power, Orion. He has the knowledge. He has the will to rewrite reality. The Lestranges are with him. The Notts. The Carrows. They have all pledged support."
"What does 'support' mean?"
The voice cut through the room. Sirius.
Walburga's face snapped toward him. "Sirius! When adults are speaking—"
"I am asking for the truth," Sirius said. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, his hands gripping the wood. He stared straight at Abraxas. "Support him for what? Murder? Hunting Muggles? Making everyone slaves?"
"Sirius!" Walburga shrieked.
Abraxas raised a hand, silencing her. He looked at the eight-year-old boy. He didn't look angry. He looked amused, like a man watching a puppy try to growl.
"It is good to question," Abraxas said smoothly. "The Lord does not seek tyranny. He seeks order. In a proper world, everyone has a place. Pure-bloods lead. Half-bloods serve. Muggles... Muggles are managed."
"On what grounds?" Sirius stood up, his voice cracking. "Who gave you the right to decide who leads and who serves?"
"Nature," Abraxas said simply. "Strength. History. Magic itself. Pure-bloods are stronger. It is a biological fact."
"I don't think so—"
"You think it does not matter," Abraxas interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, cold timbre. "But the laws of the world do not change because a child dislikes them. When you grow up, Sirius, and you see the Muggles encroach on us, when you see our magic diluted... perhaps you will understand."
"What if I never understand?" Sirius challenged, his chin raised.
Abraxas smiled. It was a terrifying, shark-like smile.
"Then you have two choices. You can follow the rules you do not understand. Or you can be crushed by them."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Sirius went pale, but he didn't sit down.
"Mr. Malfoy is correct."
The words came from the other side of the table.
Regulus spoke calmly, cutting his ham into a perfect square. "Order requires power to maintain it. If pure-bloods possess greater magical potential—which the data suggests—then a hierarchy based on ability creates the most stable society."
The room went silent.
Walburga beamed, looking at Regulus as if he were a miracle. Orion remained impassive.
But Sirius... Sirius looked at Regulus as if his brother had just stabbed him in the chest. The shock melted into horror, and then settled into a deep, breaking disappointment.
"You think so too?" Sirius whispered. "You really believe that?"
Regulus met his brother's gaze. He kept his face blank, burying his guilt under layers of Occlumency he didn't even know he had.
"I am stating facts," Regulus said. "Logic dictates the strong lead."
Sirius opened his mouth to scream, but Walburga stood up.
"Sirius! To your room! Now!"
Sirius looked at his mother. Then at his father. Then at Malfoy. And finally, one long, last look at Regulus.
He turned and walked out.
When the door clicked shut, the tension in the room broke.
Abraxas continued as if nothing had happened. "The future is not just Britain. The Lord's influence is global. Supporting him means resources, knowledge, and power beyond what the rotting Ministry can provide."
Regulus listened, unimpressed. *Global ambition,* he thought. *He can't even secure a high school in Scotland, yet he wants the world.*
"We need time," Orion said finally.
"Of course." Abraxas stood, smoothing his robes. "He does not force. There is a gathering in Wiltshire next month. A private exchange of ideas. If the House of Black is interested..."
"We will consider it," Orion said.
Abraxas bowed and left.
The moment the front door closed, Walburga turned on Orion, her eyes feverish. "We must go! Did you hear him? This is our chance! The House of Black should lead this era!"
"Walburga," Orion sighed, rubbing his temples. "Be careful. 'Purging weak elements' sounds noble until the weak element is your cousin. Or your son."
"Andromeda is dead to us," Walburga snapped. "And if Sirius continues..."
"Then let him go!" Walburga shouted. She pointed a shaking finger at the ceiling, then at Regulus. "We don't need a rebel. We have Regulus. Did you hear him today? Rational. Logical. Perfect. That is what an heir looks like."
Regulus looked down at his plate. He didn't say a word.
◈ ◈ ◈
**The Attic**
Regulus sat in the dark. He didn't light a candle.
He replayed the conversation in his mind.
Abraxas Malfoy was selling a dictatorship wrapped in the promise of order. He was tempting the pure-blood families with power they felt they had lost.
But Regulus saw the cracks. *Cleansing.* *Purging.* Violent words for violent ends.
He knew the ending. He knew Voldemort would fail. He knew the "order" was a lie built on insanity.
But right now, the threat was real.
*Sirius hates me now,* Regulus thought, looking at his hands in the gloom. *Good. If he hates me, he'll leave easier. He won't look back.*
He closed his eyes and felt the magic humming in his veins.
*I need to be stronger,* he told himself. *Strong enough to survive the lie I just told.*