November 3, 1959.
In the birthing chamber at 12 Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and solemnity.
Walburga Black lay upon the four-poster bed, her long hair drenched in sweat.
Three witches, masters of healing magic, gathered around the bed. Their robes were embroidered with the Black family crest: the twin stars and the wolf. In the fireplace, a deep indigo family ritual flame burned.
"Push, Madam," whispered Elma, the head witch, her yew wand tracing a gentle arc in the air.
As the midnight bell tolled for the eleventh time, the cry of an infant pierced the silence.
Orion Black stood by the bedside, his expression solemn.
He wore deep green robes, the collar pinned with the family brooch—a black diamond-encrusted Sirius star. At thirty, he was already the thirteenth head of the family.
Walburga smiled weakly. "Let me hold him."
The baby was placed in her arms. She gazed down at the small, wrinkled face, her fingers brushing the tuft of black fetal hair on his forehead that was destined to curl unyieldingly.
"His name?" Orion asked.
Walburga answered without hesitation. "Sirius. The brightest star in the night sky, the navigator who never gets lost. He will lead House Black to new glory."
The portraits on the walls nodded in agreement. One female ancestor, wearing a Victorian high collar, spoke softly: "A fine name, but remember, even the brightest star can be obscured by storms."
"Welcome to the House of Black, Sirius," Orion whispered, leaning down. "May you prove worthy of the name."
The nursery at 12 Grimmauld Place was located in the East Wing of the third floor. The room was lined with deep green carpeting, and the walls were hung with moving magical tapestries depicting the glorious feats of Black ancestors.
One ancestor was shown taming a Peruvian Vipertooth; another was guarding Gringotts during the Goblin Rebellions.
There was also one portrait looking down arrogantly at the room—a man who had served as Minister for Magic, though he was forced to resign after only four months in office.
One afternoon, when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was in the adjacent room hosting her sister, Druella Black. Kreacher stood guard by the cradle, his long, spindly fingers straightening the silk bedding.
Sirius, holding onto the railing, stood up shakily. His small legs were not yet strong enough to support him for long, but he stood nonetheless, his grey eyes fixed on a silver bell toy lying on the carpet three feet away.
He reached out a hand, and the silver bell rolled half an inch toward him.
Kreacher gasped, then immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg. "Bad Kreacher! Failed to notice the Little Master's magical awakening! Bad! Bad!"
When Walburga rushed into the room, her face was filled with ecstasy. "He stood up! At only ten months! Orion, did you see?"
Orion stood at the doorway, a complex expression crossing his face. "It is too early. His magical awakening is premature."
"It is a gift!" Walburga picked up her son, planting a flurry of kisses on his cheeks. "My Sirius, you were born to do great things."
From that day on, the pure-blood education began.
Every afternoon, Walburga would sit with Sirius before the family tapestry. It occupied an entire wall, embroidered with gold and silver threads detailing a thousand years of the Black family lineage.
Some branches were scorched black—the traces of those who had been disowned, like ugly scars.
"Look here," Walburga pointed to the top of the tapestry. "This is our first ancestor, Licorus Black, a healer from the twelfth century. He laid the foundation for our family."
By the time Sirius was one year old, he could speak in full sentences. One afternoon, he pointed to a scorched name on the tapestry and asked, "There, what happened?"
Walburga's expression darkened. "That is your Great-Aunt Cedrella. She committed an unforgivable error: she married a Muggle. So, her name was burned away, erased from the family. Never make such a mistake, Sirius."
January 15, 1961.
The winter of 1961 was exceptionally cold. The streets of London were blanketed in snow, and thin ice had formed at the edges of the Thames. But inside 12 Grimmauld Place, protective enchantments kept the interior as warm as spring.
Walburga's second delivery was more difficult than her first.
Beginning at midnight on January 14th, the labor pains lasted for sixteen full hours.
At 3:00 AM on January 15th, Walburga's screams reached a crescendo.
Immediately following, the cry of an infant rang out—lighter and briefer than Sirius's had been.
Orion stepped forward quickly, asking Walburga, "His name?"
Walburga looked at the unusually quiet child in her arms. He had the signature grey eyes of the Black family, calmly observing everything around him.
"Regulus," she said softly. " The Heart of the Lion. The second brightest star in the sky. Unassuming, yet indispensable. Steadfast, loyal, eternal."
Orion added his middle name. "Regulus Arcturus Black."
Walburga placed Regulus into the cradle and fell into an exhausted sleep almost immediately.
Orion stood between the two cradles. On the left, two-year-old Sirius was fast asleep, one hand sticking out of the railing, clutching his favorite silver bell toy.
On the right, the newborn Regulus lay quietly. His eyes were open, looking across at Sirius in the opposite cradle.
As if sensing something in his sleep, Sirius rolled over, turning toward his little brother.
Regulus moved his eyes. Lying there was a two-year-old boy—Sirius. The man who, in the original story, betrayed his family for his beliefs and ultimately died beyond the Veil. His older brother.
Deep within his soul, an adult spirit from another world sighed silently.
Then, using an infant brain not yet fully developed, he struggled to organize his first clear thought:
I will not repeat Regulus's tragedy. I will walk a different path.
Outside the window, the London night sky was rarely this clear.
The winter constellations were clearly visible. Orion hung high in the south, Taurus shone in the east, and between them lay the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius.
Not far from it, the star Regulus in Leo flickered quietly—slightly dimmer, but steadfast.
On the day Sirius turned two, Walburga held a small celebration in the garden.
Although only close relatives of the Black family were invited, the occasion was grand. House-elves used magic to make roses bloom in winter, silver cutlery flew automatically into formation, and even the garden fountain was temporarily charmed to spray lemon juice, simply because Sirius liked the sour taste.
At the banquet, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.
He wore an exquisite dark green velvet onesie, a small silver brooch pinned at the collar. He didn't look at anyone; instead, he stared into the distance.
"What is he looking at?" Walburga followed her son's gaze. It was the garden wall, covered in old vines—nothing special.
"He might be looking at the glint on the vines," Druella guessed. "The sunlight on the dew, sparkling... it's quite pretty."
But in the direction Regulus was looking, there was actually a nest of Bowtruckles. The small creatures were hidden deep within the vines, invisible to ordinary people, and even to most wizards.
But whenever the Bowtruckles moved, there was a minute disturbance in the surrounding magic.
Regulus could feel it. However, listening to the conversation between Druella and Walburga, he guessed they probably couldn't.
Later, after hesitating for a long time, Walburga finally asked Orion tentatively one afternoon, "Is Regulus... is his reaction a bit slow?"
At that time, Regulus was one year and three months old. Sirius, at the same age, had been running all over the house and speaking in full sentences.
Regulus, however, was always unusually quiet, rarely made a sound, and reacted slowly to external stimuli.
Orion put down his copy of the Daily Prophet, walked to the nursery, and Walburga followed.
Regulus was sitting on the carpet, a magical picture book spread open before him. It was The Monster Book of Moving Monsters for children over three. In the book, a Hippogriff flapped its wings, and a Diricawl would suddenly vanish and reappear.
Orion observed him for ten minutes.
Then he walked over, crouched down to be at eye level with his son, and said to Walburga, "Look at his eyes, Walburga."
Walburga also crouched down to look into Regulus's eyes but saw nothing unusual.
Orion continued, "He is not slow. He is listening, watching, learning, and observing. He is merely silent."
As if to verify his words, Regulus looked up and met his father's gaze for the first time.
Grey eyes met grey eyes.
Walburga didn't fully understand, but she quietly let out a sigh of relief. She trusted her husband's judgment. Her son was not slow.