August 31, 1971. The atmosphere at the dinner table of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was heavy.
Sirius was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, and Walburga had been preparing for it since a week ago.
"Remember," she said for the tenth time, "you represent the House of Black. Once you board the train, sit in the Slytherin carriage. Do not associate with those—"
Sirius's voice wasn't loud: "I'm not going to Slytherin."
Walburga's knife and fork stopped mid-air. "What did you say?"
"I'm not going to Slytherin," Sirius repeated, his eyes fixed on the lamb chops on his plate. "I'm going to Gryffindor."
Silence fell over the dining table.
Even the portraits of ancestors on the walls stopped whispering. Phineas Nigellus stared wide-eyed in his frame, mouth agape like a dehydrated fish.
Orion slowly set down his wine glass. "The Sorting Hat considers a student's wishes, but it also considers bloodline and traits. The Black Family has been in Slytherin for five hundred years."
"Then it breaks with me," Sirius said stubbornly. "I don't want to spend seven years with a bunch of snakes."
"Snakes?" Walburga's voice began to tremble. "That is where your family has been for generations! That is honor!"
"That is a cage!" Sirius's voice suddenly became agitated. "I don't need Black honor! I just need to be myself!"
He turned to Regulus. His ten-year-old brother's expression was calm as he cut a piece of steak and put it into his mouth.
"What about you?" Sirius asked. "You'll go to Slytherin, won't you?
Be their perfect heir, study hard, behave well, and wait for the day you take over this decaying family."
Regulus looked up at him. "I will go where I belong."
"Belong?" Sirius laughed. "There is only one place that fits a Black: the Slytherin dungeons, with those lunatics whose heads are full of pure-blood glory. Enjoy yourself, brother."
He turned and left the dining room.
Walburga slumped in her chair, her face looking terrible. Orion remained expressionless, but his magic was surging.
Regulus continued to finish the food on his plate.
He knew what would happen. In the original story, Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, becoming the first non-Slytherin in the Black Family.
He also knew that from tomorrow on, many things would begin to change.
On the night of September 1st, an owl brought a letter from Hogwarts.
Walburga's hands shook as she tore open the envelope. She scanned the parchment quickly, her face turning from pale to ashen. Her lips trembled, and then her eyes rolled back as she collapsed backward.
Orion caught her while simultaneously taking the letter.
It read: "Sirius Black has been sorted into Gryffindor House."
That night, the atmosphere at Number 12, Grimmauld Place felt like a funeral.
But Regulus knew this was only the beginning.
From the next day on, Walburga shifted all her attention onto him.
"You must be ten times better than him," she said at breakfast. "No, a hundred times! You must prove that the Black bloodline has not fallen, prove that the true heir is here."
Regulus simply nodded without speaking.
This was exactly what he had hoped for, but the price was Sirius's departure, eventually leaving this home altogether. He didn't feel particularly happy about it in his heart.
But this was the best arrangement.
He gained new privileges: unlimited access to the Library, permission to borrow books from the family heritage section, and even the chance to flip through some lower-risk experimental notes under supervision.
After Sirius left home, the mansion became much quieter. Regulus spent four hours in the Library every day, two hours in the attic, and the rest of the time dealing with his mother's lessons and his father's occasional inspections.
The practice of magic guidance circulation had brought about substantial changes over the past two years.
The growth of his magic capacity had been slow but steady, like digging a well one spoonful a day; over time, the well became deep.
It was painstaking work. Every night before bed, Regulus would perform magic circulation exercises.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he would close his eyes, slow his breathing, and sense his magic.
Then he would imagine the magic flowing from his limbs to his chest, then back to his limbs, beginning the cycle.
Gradually, he no longer needed to consciously imagine it. The magicseemed to have its own consciousness, flowing naturally along the paths he had opened.
Like a river finding its channel.
Moreover, he could now make several feathers draw multiple perfect circles in the air, with a trajectory error of less than a millimeter.
Or, he could make a complex ripple pattern form on the surface of a cup of water, maintaining it for a long time without it dissipating.
This was the synchronization of magic and will, a change in control precision.
Finally, there was the recovery speed.
Previously, he needed long periods of rest after high-intensity practice. Now, by guiding the magic to circulate within his body, he could accelerate its natural recovery.
Just like stretching after exercise to promote blood circulation, magic had its own circulatory system.
From the autumn of 1971 to the spring of 1972, the three Cousins gradually had more in-depth contact with Regulus.
Bellatrix Lestrange's visits to Grimmauld Place became more frequent. At twenty, she had already become an early follower of Lord Voldemort, with a kind of burning fanaticism in her eyes.
"The world is sick, Regulus," she told him in the garden one afternoon. "The filthy blood of Muggles has polluted magic, half-blood Wizards have diluted ancient power, and the Ministry of Magic is held by cowards.
We need a cleansing."
"A cleansing?" Regulus watched as she made a fierce sweeping motion in the air, like an invisible blade.
"To remove impurities," Bella smiled, but it was the kind of smile that made one's spine go cold. "That Lord will lead us. He has power, vision, and determination.
When he takes power, Pure-blood families will stand at the top again. We don't need equality; we want true dominion."
"Dominion over whom?" Regulus looked at Cousin Bella before him, knowing she would gradually go mad until she became the image of Lord Voldemort.
But he could not stop this process, nor did he intend to.
"Everyone!" Bella's words were full of excitement. "Muggles, half-bloods, mudbloods—they will find their place."
Narcissa Malfoy's attitude was different. At sixteen, she was in her sixth year at Hogwarts, a Slytherin prefect, pragmatic and shrewd.
"Bella has her path," Narcissa told Regulus privately during a family gathering. "But you must walk your own. Slytherin isn't just about fanaticism; we have wisdom as well."
"Wisdom?"
"Weighing options." Narcissa lightly poked a cake with a silver fork. "Knowing when to advance and when to retreat, knowing who is useful and who is dangerous, knowing what words should be said and what should be hidden."
She taught him several practical tips: "Always have three excuses ready. For example, if you're caught wandering at night, you should have three different reasons for different people.
Tell a Professor you got lost in the Library; tell a prefect you lost a pet; tell the truth to a friend, but only if you're sure they are reliable."
"Never let anyone fully understand you. Even with your best friend, keep at least one secret. Secrets are bargaining chips and armor."
"In Slytherin, value is more important than friendship. What can you provide? Knowledge? Resources? Protection? Think clearly about your own value, then look for people who need that value."
Regulus listened intently. Although Narcissa's words were cold, they were realistic and very useful.
Andromeda visited the least, but Regulus cared the most about her; among the three Cousins, she showed him the most kindness.
At seventeen, she was still in her seventh year at Hogwarts and was a well-known outlier in the school.
She never participated in the small circles of her pure-blood classmates; instead, she often discussed magical creatures with half-blood and Muggle-born students. For this, she was frequently scolded by Bella for tainting the bloodline.
Her visits to Grimmauld Place became fewer and fewer. Walburga did not welcome her because her thinking was problematic.
On a rainy day in March 1972, Andromeda found Regulus in his room.
"I'm leaving," she said straightforwardly.
"To where?"
"Leaving Britain." Andromeda sat in the chair by the window, rain tracing long, thin marks on the glass. "I'm marrying Ted. He's Muggle-born. You know what that means."
Regulus nodded. It meant being disowned, her name burned off the tapestry, and the family no longer acknowledging her.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"Yes," Andromeda said honestly. "Afraid of losing my family, afraid of being ostracized, afraid of the uncertainty of the future. But I'm even more afraid of staying here and slowly becoming someone I don't recognize."
She looked at Regulus. "I know you're not like Sirius. You are smart, rational, and know how to compromise.
But don't let compromise turn into surrender. Don't let this family consume you. You have your own heart; remember it."
Regulus was silent for a long time, then said, "Thank you."
"Take care." Andromeda stood up and turned back at the door. "And... if one day you need help, real help, you can find me. I'll be in France."
Another Black was leaving.