**Autumn, 1962**
The nursery was a tale of two cities.
On the left, chaos reigned. Sirius, now three years old, had turned his half of the room into a disaster zone. Dismembered parts of a toy broomstick lay scattered like bones, a Magic Spinning Top buzzed angrily against the skirting board, and a box of goblin-forged metal puzzles had been upended, the pieces glinting sharply in the afternoon sun.
On the right, there was silence. Regulus's corner was meticulously ordered. A stack of picture books sat perfectly aligned on a deep blue rug. Beside them sat a Ragdoll cat plush, staring ahead with a single button eye—the other having been a casualty of Sirius's enthusiasm a week prior.
Kreacher was by the window, ostensibly cleaning the glass with a rag and a murmur of magic. But his large, bat-like ears were swiveled backward, twitching at every sound the young masters made. He watched them out of the corner of his watery eyes, his devotion split between fear and adoration.
Sirius was red in the face. He stood in the center of the room, glaring at a miniature broomstick lying on the carpet. It wasn't a toy, exactly—it was a teaching model stolen from Orion's study, enchanted to resist flight unless the user understood the core theory of levitation.
"Look, Regulus!" Sirius shouted, desperate for an audience. "Watch this! I'm going to make it fly!"
He planted his feet, took a deep breath that puffed out his chest, and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Get up!" he yelled. He threw his hands upward, as if trying to physically heave the air itself.
The broom gave a pathetic wobble. The handle lifted perhaps five degrees, shivered, and then clattered back onto the carpet with a mocking wooden *thud*.
"Get up! Get up!" Sirius stomped his foot. He tried again, grunting with effort, but this time the broom just rolled over lazily.
Kreacher stopped scrubbing, holding his breath. He knew the enchantment on that broom. It required a clear mind, an understanding of weightlessness. It responded to intent, not force. Sirius was all force.
"Why won't it work?" Sirius kicked the thick wool of the carpet, his face crumpling in frustration. "Father makes it fly! Maybe It's broken!"
Regulus moved.
He didn't stumble like a toddler usually would. At one and a half, his movements were strangely economical. He stood up from his rug, walked over to the broom, and sat down cross-legged beside it.
Sirius wiped his nose, looking down at him with a sneer. "What are you doing? You can't do it. You can hardly talk."
Regulus didn't look at him. He looked at the broom.
He extended one small finger. He didn't grit his teeth. He didn't shout. He simply let his mind brush against the magical core of the object.
He flicked his finger upward.
There was no sound, only the smooth displacement of air. The broom rose instantly, hovering perfectly still at eye level. It didn't wobble. It hung there, anchored by his will.
Behind them, Kreacher's rag slipped from his hand and hit the floor.
Regulus tilted his finger down. The broom descended smoothly, landing on the carpet without a sound.
Sirius stared, his mouth hanging open. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a pure, baffled shock. "You... how did you..."
He looked at his baby brother as if he were an alien creature. Why could Regulus do it? Sirius was older. Sirius was stronger.
Regulus turned his head. His grey eyes were clear, unclouded by the frustration that plagued Sirius. He opened his mouth and spoke his first complete sentence.
"Think. Then do."
irk.
"Think about what?" Sirius demanded, dropping to his knees.
"Think of it as light," Regulus said. The words felt heavy on his tongue, his vocal cords still getting used to the shapes of complex sounds. He pointed to the broom. "Not heavy."
"But it *is* heavy! It's wood!"
"Thinking it... makes it heavy."
"That doesn't make sense!"
Regulus tilted his head, watching the gears turn in his brother's head. He sighed—a small, soft sound—and patted the carpet. "Sit."
Sirius sat. For once, he didn't argue. The shock of hearing his silent brother speak with such authority had stunned him into obedience.
Regulus reached out and picked up a dried leaf that had blown in through the open window earlier. He placed it in his small palm.
"This is light," Regulus said.
"Yeah."
"Think of it... as heavy."
irk.
Sirius stared at the leaf. He scrunched up his face, imagining the leaf was a rock. He glared at it until his eyes watered.
Nothing happened. The leaf remained a leaf.
"No," Regulus said. He seemed to know exactly what Sirius was doing wrong. "Don't think 'it is heavy.' Forget that it is light. Then... it is heavy."
irk.
Sirius frowned, scratching his head, his hair sticking up in tufts. The concept was too abstract. It was a philosophy of magic, not a mechanic. It was too much for a three-year-old who just wanted to fly.
Regulus saw the confusion. He didn't push it. He stood up, swayed slightly on his toddler legs, and walked back to his corner. He picked up a book, leaving Sirius alone with the broom and the leaf, trying to wrestle with the nature of reality.
Regulus knew it was unfair. He wasn't a prodigy; he was a cheat. He had an adult's mind in a child's body. Concepts were easy. It was only the body that was slow.
◈ ◈ ◈
That evening, the library was steeped in shadow. The smell of old parchment and wax polish hung heavy in the air.
Orion sat behind his massive mahogany desk. The portraits of his ancestors feigned sleep, but he knew they were listening.
"The teaching broom," Orion said, not looking up from his ledger.
Kreacher stood by the desk, twisting a tea towel in his hands until his knuckles were white. "Yes... yes, Master."
"Did Regulus make it levitate?"
"Master Regulus... he made it fly, sir," Kreacher croaked, terrified of delivering the wrong news. "A foot high. Very steady. No wobbling."
Orion finally looked up. His eyes were sharp in the lamplight. "And he spoke?"
"He said... he told Master Sirius to 'think, then do'."
Orion leaned back in his leather chair. The silence stretched out. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly.
Orion wasn't smiling, but the tension in his jaw relaxed. He had expected Sirius to be the power. He hadn't expected Regulus to be the mind.
"From now on," Orion said quietly, "let Regulus do as he pleases. Give him access to the books. Let him experiment. Just watch him."
"Watch him, Master?"
"Record it. Report to me every evening before dinner." Orion picked up his quill again. "If he is going to be quiet, we must make sure we hear what he is thinking."
"Yes, Master."
◈ ◈ ◈
**December, 1963**
Christmas at Grimmauld Place was a serious affair. The house was draped in silver and green, and the air smelled of pine needles and expensive cologne.
Sirius Black, now four years old, felt like a king.
He stood in the center of the drawing room, wearing dress robes that cost more than most wizarding families earned in a month. He planted his hands on his hips and shouted at the twelve-foot Christmas tree.
"I'm going to make the bells ring!" he announced. "By themselves!"
From the landing above, Walburga leaned over the railing. "Sirius, stop shouting. Kreacher, that silver ball is too low. Andromeda nearly took an eye out last year."
"Yes, Mistress," Kreacher muttered, levitating the ornament higher with a snap of his fingers.
Regulus sat by the fireplace on the thick rug. He was two and a half now. He sat as still as a statue, watching the flames lick the logs.
He had long since accepted his reality. He was Regulus Black. He was the spare. He was the one destined to die in a cave filled with Inferi.
*Not this time,* he thought, watching the sparks fly up the chimney.
His goal wasn't just survival. It was knowledge. The original Regulus had been limited by his family's narrow view. This Regulus wanted the stars.
As for Sirius?
Regulus looked at his brother, who was currently waving his arms at the tree like a windmill. *Let him be,* Regulus decided.
*Let him be a hero. He's the Gryffindor. Let him fight the Dark Lord. I'll just use the Black family gold for my own motives.*
"Regulus! Watch!" Sirius yelled, demanding attention.
Sirius took a deep breath. He stared at a large golden bell near the top of the tree. His face turned beet red. He wasn't visualizing; he was pushing. He was trying to bully the magic into obedience.
"Ahhhh!" Sirius screamed. "Move!"
Regulus felt it before it happened.
His perception of magic was visceral. He saw the air ripple around Sirius. The magic wasn't flowing; it was boiling. It was a pressure cooker with the lid rattled loose.
*He's going to blowaa,* Regulus thought calmly.
*BANG!*
The explosion wasn't fire—it was pure force.
The Christmas tree shuddered violently as if hit by a giant invisible hammer. The star on top dislodged and plummeted, bouncing off Kreacher's head. Glass ornaments shattered. The magical lights that were supposed to twinkle gently suddenly began to strobe violently, flashing red and green at a seizure-inducing speed.
"Stop! Stop it!" Walburga came rushing down the stairs, her robes flying.
But Sirius couldn't stop. He was terrified. He had opened the tap and broken the handle. He stood there, eyes wide, hands waving frantically, which only churned the magic into a frenzy.
*BOOM!*
The three massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the east wall blew out.
Thousands of shards of glass erupted outward into the London night. The ancestral protective wards caught them just in time, freezing the glass in mid-air before it could rain down onto the Muggle street below, but the sound was deafening.
The crystal chandelier swung wildly, chiming like a funeral bell.
"Barbarians!" Phineas Nigellus roared from his portrait frame. "The House of Black is falling!"
" *Finite!* " Walburga shrieked.
A wave of calming magic washed over the room. Sirius stumbled back, the connection severed. He fell onto his bottom, staring at his shaking hands.
The room was a wreck. Freezing wind blew in through the shattered windows.
Walburga stood over Sirius. Her chest was heaving.
Regulus watched her face. He expected anger. He expected a punishment.
Instead, a slow, twisted smile spread across Walburga's face. Her eyes glittered—not with maternal warmth, but with fanatic pride.
"So much power," she whispered. She looked at the destroyed windows, then down at her son. "You have no control, Sirius. But the power... it is overflowing."
She smoothed her hair, the mask of the noble lady slipping back into place. "Next time, aim it at something useless. Like those hideous vases your father bought in Paris."
irk.
Sirius blinked, confused. He looked at the broken glass. He had nearly hurt someone. And he was being praised?
Regulus closed his book with a soft snap.
*And so this begins here,* he thought. *The encouragement of chaos.*
Walburga swept out of the room, barking orders at Kreacher to repair the damage.
Sirius sat on the floor, looking small in the wreckage. He looked at his hands, then he looked at Regulus.
"I did that," Sirius whispered. He sounded scared.
Regulus looked at the hole in the wall where the window used to be.
"Impressive," Regulus said.
He didn't mean it as a compliment. He was being sarcastic But Sirius didn't know the difference.