November 3, 1959
Inside the delivery room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the air was heavy with tension and solemn expectation.
Walburga Black lay upon a four-poster bed, sweat darkening the strands of her long hair that clung to her temples. Three witches skilled in healing magic stood around her, their dark robes embroidered with the crest of the House of Black, the twin stars and the Dog Star, picked out in silver thread.
Within the fireplace, deep indigo flames flickered and burned, sustaining an ancient family ritual.
"Push, Madam," murmured the lead witch, Elma, as her yew wand traced a gentle arc through the air.
As the midnight bell tolled for the eleventh time, the cry of an infant tore through the silence.
Orion Black stood at the bedside, his expression grave and unreadable. He wore deep green robes fastened at the collar with the family brooch, a Sirius star set with Black diamonds. At just thirty years of age, he was already the thirteenth Head of the House of Black.
"Let me hold him," Walburga said weakly.
The baby was placed into her arms. She gazed down at the small, wrinkled face, her fingers brushing a tuft of dark hair upon his forehead, hair destined, one day, to curl defiantly.
"His name?" Orion asked.
Walburga did not hesitate.
"Sirius. The brightest star in the night sky, the navigator who never loses his way. He will lead the House of Black to new glory."
The portraits lining the walls stirred, nodding one by one. A witch clad in a Victorian high collar leaned forward from her frame and whispered, "A fine name. Yet remember, even the brightest star may be veiled by stormclouds."
Orion bent closer to the cradle.
"Welcome to the House of Black, Sirius," he murmured. "May you prove worthy of the name you bear."
The nursery at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place occupied the eastern wing of the third floor. Deep green carpet muffled every footstep, and the walls were hung with living tapestries depicting the great achievements of Black ancestors.
One showed a wizard subduing a Peruvian Vipertooth. Another depicted the defense of Gringotts during a Goblin rebellion.
Yet another, its subject gazing down with thinly veiled arrogance, commemorated a Black who had once served as Minister for Magic, though he had been forced to resign after barely four months in office.
One afternoon, when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was entertaining her sister, Druella Black, in the adjoining room. Kreacher stood watch beside the cradle, his long fingers fussing endlessly with the silk bedding.
Sirius grasped the bars of the crib and pulled himself upright, swaying unsteadily. His legs were not yet strong enough to support him for long, but he persisted all the same, grey eyes fixed intently upon a silver bell lying on the carpet several feet away.
He stretched out one small hand.
The silver bell rolled half an inch toward him.
Kreacher gasped and immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg.
"Bad Kreacher! Bad! Kreacher failed to notice the young master's magic awakening!"
Walburga rushed in, her face alight with rapture.
"He stood up! At only ten months! Orion, did you see?"
Orion lingered in the doorway, a flicker of unease crossing his features.
"Too early," he said quietly. "The magic has awakened far too soon."
"It is a gift," Walburga insisted, lifting her son and pressing kisses to his cheeks. "My Sirius, you were born for greatness."
From that day forward, Sirius's pure-blood education truly began.
Each afternoon, Walburga would seat herself before the great family tapestry with Sirius in her arms. The tapestry covered an entire wall, its golden and silver threads tracing a lineage more than a thousand years old.
Some branches were scorched black, the marks of those who had been disowned, standing out like old, ugly scars.
"Look here," Walburga said, pointing toward the highest threads. "This is Linfred Black, our first ancestor, a healer of the twelfth century. He laid the foundation of our House."
By the time Sirius was a year old, he could speak in complete sentences. One day, he pointed to a scorched name and asked, "What happened there?"
Walburga's expression hardened.
"That was Cedrella, your cousin, several times removed. She committed an unforgivable betrayal by marrying a Muggle. Her name was burned away and erased from our family. Never make such a mistake, Sirius."
January 15, 1961
The winter of 1961 was bitterly cold. Snow lay thick upon London's streets, and ice crusted the edges of the Thames. Yet inside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, ancient protective enchantments kept the air as warm as spring.
Walburga's second labor was far more difficult than the first.
The pains began shortly after midnight on January fourteenth and dragged on for sixteen relentless hours.
At three o'clock in the morning, her screams reached their peak.
Moments later, the cry of another infant filled the room, lighter, shorter than Sirius's had been.
Orion stepped forward at once and asked quietly, "His name?"
Walburga gazed down at the unusually quiet child resting in her arms.
His eyes were open, clear, steady, and unmistakably grey, the signature eyes of the House of Black. Unlike most newborns, he did not cry or fidget, but simply watched the world around him with unsettling calm.
"Regulus," she said softly. "The heart of the constellation Leo. The twenty-first brightest star in the sky. Not dazzling, yet indispensable. Steadfast. Loyal. Eternal."
Orion inclined his head.
"Regulus Arcturus Black," he added, granting the child his middle name.
Satisfied, Walburga placed Regulus into the cradle beside her bed and, utterly exhausted, fell almost at once into a deep sleep.
Orion remained standing between the two cradles.
To his left, two-year-old Sirius slept soundly in his own, one small hand thrust through the bars, clutching his favourite silver bell. To the right, the newborn Regulus lay perfectly still, awake.
His gaze was fixed upon Sirius.
And Sirius, though asleep, seemed to sense something. He shifted, rolling onto his side, turning unconsciously toward his younger brother.
Regulus's eyes moved slowly.
There lay a two-year-old boy, Sirius. His brother. The man from the original story who would one day defy his family for his beliefs, and eventually fall through the Veil.
Deep within Regulus's soul, the adult consciousness from another world released a silent sigh.
Then, using an infant mind not yet fully formed, he struggled to shape his first clear thought:
'I will not repeat Regulus Black's tragedy. I will walk a different path.'
Outside the window, the London night sky was rarely so clear.
Winter constellations stood sharp against the darkness. Orion hung high in the south, Taurus gleamed in the east, and between them burned the brightest star in the heavens, Sirius.
Nearby, Regulus flickered quietly in Leo, a little dimmer, yet unwavering.
On the day Sirius turned two, Walburga hosted a small celebration in the garden.
Though only close members of the Black family were invited, the occasion was lavish. House-elves coaxed roses into bloom despite the winter chill, silver cutlery floated into neat arrangements of its own accord, and the garden fountain had been temporarily enchanted to spray lemon juice, solely because Sirius enjoyed the sharp, sour taste.
Regulus sat upon Walburga's lap throughout the festivities.
He wore a finely made dark green velvet outfit, a small silver brooch fastened at the collar. He did not look at the guests, nor at the decorations, but stared instead toward the far edge of the garden.
"What is he looking at?" Walburga asked, following his gaze to the vine-covered wall. There was nothing remarkable about it.
"Perhaps the light on the leaves," Druella suggested. "The dew sparkles prettily in the sun."
In truth, hidden deep within the vines was a nest of Bowtruckles. The tiny creatures were invisible to ordinary eyes, and even to most wizards, but each subtle movement they made caused a faint ripple in the surrounding magic.
Regulus could feel it.
Judging by their conversation, his mother and aunt could not.
Some time later, after much hesitation, Walburga finally voiced her concern to Orion one afternoon.
"Is Regulus… slow?" she asked quietly.
Regulus was one year and three months old. At that age, Sirius had already been running through the house and speaking in full sentences. Regulus, by contrast, was always quiet, rarely cried, seldom reacted, and appeared slow to respond to the world around him.
Orion folded his copy of The Daily Prophet and rose, Walburga following him into the nursery.
Regulus sat on the carpet, a magical picture book open before him, Moving Fantastic Beasts, meant for children several years older. A Hippogriff beat its wings upon the page; a Diricawl vanished and reappeared without warning.
Orion watched in silence for ten minutes.
Then he crossed the room, knelt before his son, and said calmly, "Look at his eyes, Walburga."
She did as instructed, but saw nothing amiss.
"He isn't slow," Orion continued. "He is listening. Watching. Learning. He observes, he simply does not announce it."
As if in response, Regulus lifted his head and looked at his father of his own accord for the first time.
Grey eyes met grey eyes.
Walburga did not fully understand, but she exhaled softly in relief. She trusted Orion's judgment.
Her son was not slow.