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On the evening of August 31st, 1971, the atmosphere at the dinner table of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was heavy and oppressive.
Tomorrow, Sirius would be leaving for Hogwarts. Walburga had been preparing for it for a full week.
"Remember," she said for the tenth time, her tone sharp with insistence. "You represent the House of Black. Once you board the train, you are to sit in the Slytherin carriage. Do not associate with those—"
Sirius spoke quietly, his voice low but steady. "I will not go to Slytherin."
Walburga's knife and fork froze in midair. "What did you say?"
"I will not go to Slytherin," Sirius repeated, his eyes fixed on the roasted lamb on his plate. "I will go to Gryffindor."
The dining table fell into complete silence.
Even the ancestral portraits on the walls stopped whispering among themselves. Phineas Nigellus stared out from his frame, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open like a fish stranded out of water.
Orion slowly set down his wine glass. "The Sorting Hat does consider a student's wishes, but it also weighs bloodline and traits. For five hundred years, the House of Black has been sorted into Slytherin."
"Then it ends with me," Sirius said stubbornly. "I do not want to spend seven years shut in with a bunch of venomous snakes."
"Venomous snakes?" Walburga's voice began to tremble. "That is where your family has stood for generations! That is Honour!"
"That is a cage!" Sirius shot back, his voice flaring with sudden intensity. "I do not need the honour of the Blacks. I only need to be myself."
He turned to Regulus. His ten-year-old brother looked calm, cutting a piece of steak and lifting it to his mouth without pause.
"And you?" Sirius asked. "You will go to Slytherin, won't you?
Become their perfect heir. Study properly. Perform properly. And wait for the day you take over this rotten family."
Regulus looked up at him. "I will go where I belong."
"Belong?" Sirius laughed. "There is only one place a Black belongs: the dungeons of Slytherin, locked away with a bunch of madmen obsessed with pure-blood glory. Enjoy yourself, little brother."
He turned and left the dining room.
Walburga collapsed back into her chair, her face twisted and pale. Orion remained expressionless, though magic churned restlessly around him.
Regulus, meanwhile, calmly finished the food on his plate.
He knew what would happen. In the original story, Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, becoming the first Black in history not placed in Slytherin.
He also knew that starting tomorrow, many things would begin to change.
On the evening of September 1st, an owl delivered the letter from Hogwarts.
Walburga's hands were shaking as she tore open the envelope. She skimmed the parchment quickly. Her face drained of colour, then turned a hard, livid shade. Her lips quivered, then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed backward.
Orion caught her, and at the same time took the letter from her hand.
It read, "Sirius Black has been sorted into Gryffindor House."
That night, the air in Number 12, Grimmauld Place felt like a house in mourning.
But Regulus knew this was only the beginning.
From the very next day, Walburga shifted all of her attention onto him.
"You must be ten times better than him!" she said at breakfast. "No, one hundred times better! You must prove that the blood of Black has not fallen, prove that the true heir stands here."
Regulus simply nodded and said nothing.
This was exactly what he had hoped for, and yet the cost was Sirius leaving. Leaving this house and eventually leaving their family altogether. At the thought of that, there was no real joy in his heart.
Even so, this was the best possible arrangement.
He was granted new privileges: unlimited access to the family library, permission to borrow certain volumes from the ancestral collection, and under supervision, he was even allowed to consult some experimental notes deemed relatively low risk.
After Sirius left home, the house grew much quieter. Regulus spent four hours a day in the library, two hours in the attic, and the remaining time enduring his mother's lessons and his father's occasional examinations.
The practice of magical circulation and guidance had brought tangible changes over the past two years.
His magical capacity was increasing slowly but steadily, like digging a well one scoop at a time. Given enough patience, the well naturally grew deeper.
It was painstaking work. Every night before sleep, Regulus carried out his circulation practice.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and focused on sensing his magic.
Then he imagined it flowing from his limbs toward his chest, then back out again, beginning a continuous cycle.
Gradually, he no longer needed to guide it deliberately. His magic seemed to develop a rhythm of its own, flowing naturally along the paths he had carved out through repetition and control.
Like a river that had finally found its channel.
Moreover, he could now make several feathers trace multiple perfect circles in mid-air, with a margin of error smaller than a millimeter.
Or he could shape complex ripple patterns across the surface of a cup of water and hold them there for a long time without dispersing.
This was the synchronization of magic and will, a change in control precision.
Finally, there was recovery speed.
In the past, intense training always required long periods of rest afterward. Now, by guiding magic to circulate steadily within his body, Regulus found that he could accelerate its natural recovery.
Much like stretching after physical exercise to promote blood flow, magic too possessed its own internal circulation. Once that flow was maintained, fatigue no longer lingered as heavily as it once had.
From the autumn of 1971 to the spring of 1972, his three cousins each began to have more substantial contact with him.
Bellatrix started visiting Grimmauld Place far more frequently. At twenty years old, she had already become one of Voldemort's earliest and most devoted followers, her gaze always alight with a burning and unsettling fanaticism.
"The world is sick, Regulus," she said one afternoon as they walked through the garden. "Muggle filth has polluted magic. Half-blood wizards have diluted ancient power. The Ministry is controlled by cowards."
She stopped suddenly and turned toward him.
We need a cleansing!"
"A cleansing?" Regulus watched as she slashed the air with her hand, as if wielding an invisible blade.
"To remove the impurities," Bella said with a smile. It was the kind of smile that sent a chill down the spine. "That Lord will lead us. He has power, vision, and resolve."
Her voice grew more fervent with every word.
"Once he takes control, pure-blood families will stand at the top again. We do not need equality; we want true rule!"
"Rule over whom?" Regulus looked at his cousin Bella standing before him, already knowing she would grow steadily more unhinged, until she eventually became a reflection of Voldemort himself.
But he could not stop that process, nor did he intend to.
"Everyone!!" Bella said, her voice brimming with feverish excitement. "Muggles, half-bloods, Mudbloods. They will all find their proper place."
Narcissa Malfoy's attitude was entirely different.
At sixteen years old, she was already in her sixth year at Hogwarts and served as a Slytherin prefect. She was practical, composed, and sharp minded in a way that felt deliberate rather than impulsive.
"Bella has her path," Narcissa said privately to Regulus during a family gathering. "But you must walk your own. Slytherin isn't just about fanaticism; we value wisdom as well."
"Wisdom?"
"Judgment," Narcissa replied, lightly tapping her cake with a silver fork. "Knowing when to advance and when to retreat. Knowing who is useful and who is dangerous. Knowing what can be said aloud and what must remain hidden."
She passed on several practical lessons without ceremony.
"Always prepare three excuses. For example, if you are caught out after curfew, you need three different explanations, each suited to a different kind of listener.
To a professor, say you got lost in the library. To a prefect, say you lost a pet. To a friend, tell the truth, but only if the friend is trustworthy."
"Never let anyone fully understand you. Not even your closest friend. Always keep at least one secret… secrets are leverage, and they are armour."
"In Slytherin, value is more important than friendship. What can you offer? Knowledge? Resources? Protection? Understand your own value, then find those who need it."
Regulus listened carefully. Although Narcissa's words were cold, they were real, and they were useful.
Andromeda visited the least, but Regulus cared about her the most. Of the three cousins, she was the one who showed him the greatest kindness.
Seventeen years old, she was in her seventh year at Hogwarts and widely known throughout the school as an oddity.
She never joined the small circles of pure-blood students. Instead, she often discussed magical creatures with half-blood and Muggle-born classmates, for which Bella had scolded her repeatedly for sullying their bloodline.
She came to Grimmauld Place less and less often. Walburga did not welcome her because her thinking was considered problematic.
On a rainy day in March of 1972, Andromeda found Regulus in his room.
"I am leaving," she said straightforwardly.
"Where are you going?"
"Leaving Britain." Andromeda sat on the chair by the window, rain tracing long, thin lines down the glass. "I am going to marry Ted. He is Muggle-born. You know what that means."
Regulus nodded. It meant being disowned, having her name burned from the tapestry, and being erased from the family entirely.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"I am," Andromeda said honestly. "Afraid of losing my family. Afraid of being cast out. Afraid of an uncertain future. But I am more afraid of staying here and slowly becoming someone I no longer recognise."
She looked at Regulus. "I know you are not like Sirius. You are intelligent, rational, and you know how to compromise. But do not let compromise turn into surrender. Do not let this family devour you. You have your own heart; remember it."
Regulus was silent for a long time, then said, "Thank you."
"Take care." Andromeda stood up, then turned back at the door. "…And if one day you need help, real help, you can come to me. I will be in France."
Another Black was about to leave!
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[CHAPTER END]