**November 3, 1959**
It was too hot in the master suite at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Not a natural heat, but a thick, cloying pressure that tasted of burnt herbs and copper. The windows were sealed tight against the London fog, trapping the smell of sweat and the static charge of heavy, ritualistic magic.
Walburga Black lay tangled in damp sheets. Her face, usually so composed, was pale and slick, her dark hair stuck to her forehead in wet strands. She looked less like a noble lady and more like a survivor of a shipwreck.
Around the bed, three mid-witches worked in a hush. They moved with the efficiency of professionals who knew better than to speak unnecessarily in this house. Their robes caught the light—not from the lamps, but from the fireplace, where the flames burned a deep, unnatural indigo. It was an old spell, a family tradition to steep the newborn in magic from the very first breath.
"Push, Madam," the Chief Witch, Alma, murmured. It wasn't a suggestion. She sliced her yew wand through the air, weaving a pain-dampening charm that hummed like a plucked wire.
Downstairs, the grandfather clock began to toll. The heavy, mechanical *thud-thud-thud* of midnight vibrated through the floorboards.
Then, a cry cut through the heat.
Orion Black stepped out of the corner where he'd been waiting like a statue. He wore his dark green robes like armor, the collar fastened with the family brooch—a black diamond set in a silver star. He was thirty years old, the thirteenth head of the family, and his face gave away nothing. No joy, no fear. Just an intense, scrutinizing focus.
Walburga let out a ragged breath, her head falling back against the pillows. A weak smile touched her lips. "Let me... give him here."
One of the witches cleaned the infant with a quick spell and settled him into Walburga's arms. She stared down at the red, wrinkled face. Her fingers, still trembling from the exertion, brushed a tuft of black hair away from his forehead. It sprang right back, stubborn and curling.
"His name?" Orion asked. His voice was quiet, but in the silence of the room, it carried.
Walburga didn't hesitate. She looked at the child with a fierce, almost terrifying adoration.
"Sirius," she said. "The brightest star. The navigator. He will lead this House back to where it belongs."
On the walls, the painted ancestors murmured in their frames. A woman in a stiff Victorian collar leaned forward, her canvas face pinched. "A heavy name," she whispered, her voice like paper rubbing together. "Bright stars burn fast, Walburga. Remember that."
Orion leaned over the bed. He looked at his son, then at his wife.
"Welcome to the House of Black, Sirius," he said softly. "Do not disappoint us."
◈ ◈ ◈
The nursery on the third floor was the kind of room that felt watched, even when it was empty. The dark green carpet swallowed sound, and the walls were lined with tapestries that moved—ancestors waging wars, signing treaties, and looking down their noses at the empty cribs.
One afternoon, when Sirius was ten months old, the house was silent. Walburga was downstairs, taking tea with her sister Druella. Up here, only Kreacher was present. The house-elf hovered by the crib, his long, knobby fingers smoothing out wrinkles in the silk sheets that didn't even exist.
Inside the crib, Sirius gripped the polished wooden bars.
He pulled himself up. His legs were wobbly, trembling under his own weight, but he didn't let go. He stood there, swaying, his grey eyes locked on a silver bell that had been left on the carpet, just out of reach.
He reached a hand through the bars. He didn't cry for it. He didn't wait for Kreacher to notice. He just wanted it.
*Clink.*
The bell moved.
It wasn't the wind—the windows were shut. It was a shove of raw, undirected magic. The bell rolled an inch across the carpet, answering the boy's will.
Kreacher froze. His great, bulbous eyes went wide. Then, with a strangled gasp, he threw himself at the nearest table leg, banging his head against the wood. "Bad Kreacher! Stupid Kreacher! Didn't see the Master's power! Didn't see!"
The noise brought Walburga running. She burst into the room, chest heaving, ready to hex an intruder. Instead, she saw Sirius standing in his crib, staring at the bell.
"He's standing," she gasped. She rushed forward, scooping him up and burying her face in his neck. "Ten months! Orion! Orion, are you watching?"
Orion appeared in the doorway a moment later. He took in the scene—the sobbing elf, the rolling bell, the boy in his wife's arms.
He didn't smile. A shadow crossed his face, something complicated and wary.
"It's too early," he said quietly. "His magic is unstable. It's waking up too fast."
"It's talent!" Walburga snapped, turning Sirius to face his father. "He's born for this, Orion. Look at him."
From that day on, the lessons started.
Walburga didn't believe in waiting for Hogwarts. Every afternoon, she sat Sirius down in front of the main family tapestry. It covered the entire wall, a sprawling tree embroidered in gold and silver thread. But it was the holes that stood out—the black, charred burns where names used to be.
"Look here," Walburga said, pointing to a burn mark near the bottom hem.
irk.
Sirius, barely a year old but already talking in full sentences, pointed a chubby finger at the scorch mark. "Hurt?"
"No," Walburga said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Erased. That was your Great-Aunt Sedreel. She married a Muggle. She made a mistake, Sirius. And in this family, we do not tolerate mistakes."
◈ ◈ ◈
**January 15, 1961**
The winter of 1961 hit London like a physical blow. The Thames froze at the edges, and the frost on the windows of Grimmauld Place grew so thick it blocked out the streetlights.
Walburga's second labor was nothing like the first.
It was brutal. For sixteen hours, the house echoed with her screams. The magic in the bedroom grew volatile, rattling the glass in the windowpanes and flickering the candles until they smoked.
It ended at 3:00 AM.
The silence that followed was heavy. Then, a cry—softer than Sirius's had been, shorter, as if the baby was already conserving his energy.
Orion stepped forward, looking exhausted. "The name?"
Walburga looked down at the bundle. She was pale, drained of all color. The baby in her arms was quiet now. He had the Black eyes—grey and sharp—but he wasn't fussing. He was just looking. Watching the shadows on the ceiling.
"Regulus," she rasped, her throat raw. "The heart of the Lion. He won't be the star that burns everyone, Orion. He'll be the one that stays. Steady. Loyal."
Orion nodded. "Regulus Arcturus Black."
Walburga placed the baby in the cradle and passed out before her head fully hit the pillow.
Orion stood alone in the nursery, between two cribs. On the left, two-year-old Sirius was sprawled out, asleep, one hand dangling through the bars, clutching that silver bell he refused to let go of.
On the right, Regulus lay awake.
Sirius turned in his sleep, shifting to face his new brother. Regulus blinked.
And then, inside the infant's mind, something shifted.
*Sirius Black.*
The name didn't feel like a brother. It felt like a memory. A headline. *The man who died behind the Veil.*
A profound, exhausted sigh echoed in the baby's chest—a sigh that belonged to a soul far older than the body holding it.
It was disorienting. Sickening, really. His mind was clear, sharp, filled with the regrets and knowledge of a previous life, but his brain was mush. The neurons weren't connected yet. He tried to lift his hand and only managed a jerk. The frustration was immediate and terrifying. He was trapped in a cage of soft bones and undeveloped muscle.
He looked at Sirius through the bars of the crib. He knew how this story was supposed to go. He knew the ruin that was coming for this house.
*No,* he thought. The thought was hard to form, slippery in his infant brain, but he held onto it. *I'm not doing that again. I'm not dying in a cave. I'm not letting him die behind a curtain.*
Outside, the clouds broke. The constellation of Orion hung in the south, cold and distant. Sirius, the Dog Star, blazed in the east, demanding attention.
But nearby, quieter, harder to see but impossible to move, the star Regulus flickered in the dark.
◈ ◈ ◈
**Winter, 1962**
On Sirius's second birthday, the garden was a display of arrogance.
London was buried in snow, but the back garden of Grimmauld Place was blooming with red and white roses. Heating charms kept the air balmy, silver cutlery floated in mid-air, and the fountain had been transfigured to spray lemonade because Sirius had decided he liked sour things that week.
Regulus sat on Walburga's lap at the head of the table.
He was dressed in dark green velvet that itched, a silver brooch pinned at his throat. He was a year old. He should have been grabbing at the floating food or crying at the noise. Instead, he was staring at the garden wall.
"What's he looking at?" Walburga asked, frowning. She followed his gaze. "There's nothing there. Just the ivy."
"Maybe he likes the light," her sister Druella said, looking bored as she sipped her tea. "The sun on the ice. It's shiny."
Regulus ignored them. He wasn't looking at the ice.
He was looking at the magic.
Deep inside the ivy, hidden from normal sight, a colony of Bowtruckles was moving. They were small, stick-like guardians of the wood, blending in perfectly. To his mother and aunt, they were invisible.
But to Regulus, they glowed. Every time they moved, the air rippled. It was like seeing heat haze on a tarmac road. He could see the disturbance in the atmosphere, the faint hum of magical life.
He watched them scuttle back and forth, realizing with a jolt that this wasn't normal. The adults couldn't see it.
He stayed quiet.
◈ ◈ ◈
Months went by, and the silence began to grate on the family.
"Is he... slow?" Walburga asked Orion one afternoon. Her voice was tight.
Regulus was fifteen months old. By this age, Sirius had been a terror—running, shouting, breaking things with accidental magic. Regulus just sat. He rarely made a sound. He didn't run.
Orion put down his copy of *The Daily Prophet*. He folded it, creasing the paper sharply. "Show me."
They walked into the nursery. Regulus was on the floor. He had a book open—*Fantastic Beasts That Move*, the toddler edition. He wasn't chewing the corners or ripping the paper. He was staring at a loop of a Hippogriff flapping its wings. Flap, land, bow. Flap, land, bow.
He was studying the mechanics of it.
Orion watched him for a long time. The room was unnervingly quiet.
"Get down here," Orion said softly to his wife. "Look at him. Look at his eyes."
Walburga knelt on the expensive carpet. She leaned in, looking into the grey eyes of her second son.
At first, she just saw a baby. But then she looked closer. There was no vacancy there. No confusion. He was focused.
"He isn't slow," Orion said. It was the first time he'd sounded defensive of the boy. "He isn't reacting because he's thinking. He's watching everything. Listening to everything."
As if he heard them, Regulus looked up. He let go of the book and looked straight at his father.
Grey eyes met grey eyes.
It was a strange moment, a sudden flash of understanding between the cold, distant father and the silent son.
Walburga let out a breath she'd been holding. She stood up, smoothing her skirts. She trusted Orion. If he said the boy was fine, the boy was fine.
"He's our son," Orion murmured, mostly to himself. "He's not slow."