**Spring, 1966**
Regulus turned five in the spring, and in the House of Black, turning five was not about cake or presents. It was about indoctrination.
The nursery was replaced by the "Honor Room," a small, suffocating study on the second floor. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 3:00 PM sharp, Walburga Black held court.
Dominating the room was the family tapestry. It stretched from the high ceiling to the floor, a sprawling, parasitic vine of gold and silver thread embroidered onto dark velvet. It was a map of marriages, births, and deaths stretching back a thousand years.
Monday was Genealogy.
"Look here," Walburga said, her thin ebony pointer tapping the top of the fabric. "Sir Fred Black. A healer of the 12th century. The root of our modern line."
Regulus sat on a high-backed hardwood chair, his feet barely touching the floor. He sat perfectly still, hands on his knees.
"Regulus," Walburga snapped, "repeat the alliances of the 16th century."
Regulus didn't blink. "From 1578 to 1623, the House of Black solidified its standing through four marriages into the Rosier line and three into the Foley family. These were interspersed with strategic alliances to the Crouches and Traverses to secure Wizengamot seats."
Walburga nodded, a rare flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She turned the pointer toward the other chair. "And you, Sirius?"
Sirius was slouching. He was seven now, all elbows and restless energy. "Who can remember all this?" he groaned, kicking the leg of the table. "They're just names of dead people."
"They are your ancestors!" Walburga hissed. "They are the reason you have magic in your veins!"
"Dead is dead," Sirius muttered under his breath.
Walburga's face tightened, the skin around her eyes pinching with rage. She raised the pointer like a whip.
"Mother," Regulus said, his voice cutting through the tension like a cool blade. "I have a question."
Walburga paused, the pointer hovering in mid-air. She turned to her younger son. "Speak."
"Why did our intermarriage patterns shift so drastically after the 14th century?" Regulus asked, pointing a small finger at an older, faded section of the tapestry. "Here, between the 12th and 14th centuries, we married into the Prewetts, the Macmillans, even the Bones family. But after 1400, those lines stop appearing."
Walburga stiffened. She lowered the pointer slowly. "Because those families fell into depravity."
*Depravity,* Regulus thought. *A convenient word for change.*
"How?" Regulus pressed, his expression innocent.
"They began to dilute their blood," Walburga said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "They accepted those of Muggle descent. They intermarried with filth. It is the sacred duty of the House of Black to remain pure."
"But the Prewetts are still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Regulus pointed out.
"A political compromise!" Walburga slammed the pointer against the wall. Several painted ancestors in the hallway flinched. "A list drawn up by fools at the Ministry! True purity is rare, Regulus. We are the last beacon in a defiled world."
Regulus looked at Sirius. His brother was rolling his eyes, clearly bored by the fanaticism.
Regulus felt a cold knot of realization in his stomach. *He's never going to accept this.*
And in that moment, a dangerous, treasonous thought formed in Regulus's mind: *It would be better if Sirius left.*
It wasn't malice. It was logic.
The House of Black was a sinking ship, weighed down by its own custom and prejudice. They would inevitably side with the Dark Lord. If Sirius stayed, he would either be broken or killed. If he left—if he rebelled early—he might survive. He might find people who would fight for him.
*And I,* Regulus thought, looking at the golden threads of the tapestry, *I will stay. I will take the Mark. I will inherit the library, the gold, the secrets. I will walk into the dark so I can understand it. Take the burden from sirius.*
They were brothers, but their paths were already diverging.
◈ ◈ ◈
Wednesday was "The Theory of Magical Supremacy."
"Muggles are incomplete creatures," Walburga lectured, pacing the room. Her robes swished with every turn. "They possess no magic. They are like birds without wings, fish without gills. They are evolutionary dead ends."
Sirius raised his hand. It was a trick Regulus had taught him—raising a hand forced Walburga to acknowledge him as a student rather than a rebel.
"Speak," Walburga sighed.
"But Muggles build airplanes," Sirius said. "They can fly without wings. I saw a picture in a newspaper Father left out."
Walburga sneered. "Clumsy imitations. Metal tubes filled with fuel, noisy and polluting. A wizard's broom is elegant, silent, and harmonious with nature."
"But airplanes fly higher," Regulus interjected quietly. "They fly faster. And they can carry hundreds of people at once. A broom carries one."
The silence in the room was heavy. Walburga stopped pacing. She stared at her five-year-old son. "Are you defending them?"
"I am stating facts," Regulus said, meeting her gaze. "Mother, if we are truly superior, we should surpass them in every metric. If we console ourselves with 'elegance' while they beat us in speed, altitude, and capacity... then who is actually superior?"
Sirius held his breath. He looked from his mother to his brother, waiting for the explosion.
But Walburga didn't explode. She looked confused. The argument was logical, and logic was harder to scream at than rebellion.
"It is not about capacity," she said finally, though her voice lacked its usual fire. "It is about the source of power. Ours comes from within. Theirs comes from machines."
"Perhaps," Regulus said. "But what happens when their machines surpass our magic? The Statute of Secrecy relies on them not noticing us. What happens when they invent a machine that can see through a Disillusionment Charm?"
Walburga stood there for a long time. The clock ticked loudly on the mantle.
"That is enough for today," she said abruptly. She turned and swept out of the room, looking unsettled.
Sirius leaned over, whispering loudly. "You scared her."
"Maybe," Regulus said, hopping down from his chair. "But someone has to tell the truth."
"Why did you do that?" Sirius asked, looking at Regulus with new respect. "Why defend Muggles?"
"I'm not defending them," Regulus said, picking up his books. "I just hate lies. If we are strong, we don't need to lie to ourselves to prove it."
Sirius frowned, chewing on his lip. He didn't quite understand, but he knew he liked seeing his mother speechless.
◈ ◈ ◈
Dinner was usually a silent affair, but tonight, Walburga was agitated.
"Did you hear the news?" she asked Orion, slicing her steak with unnecessary force. "Nott's daughter. The girl wants to marry a Mudblood. Can you imagine?"
Orion didn't look up from his plate. "Foolish."
"Mr. Nott has locked her in the tower," Walburga continued, a vindictive gleam in her eye. "He plans to send her to a convent in France. Life imprisonment, effectively."
Sirius stopped eating. His fork clattered onto his plate.
"Why?" he asked. His voice was tight. "She likes him, doesn't she?"
Walburga laughed—a harsh, barking sound. "'Likes'? Can 'liking' maintain a bloodline? Can 'liking' protect our heritage? She is bewitched, Sirius. Confused."
"But what if they love each other?"
"Shut up!" Walburga slammed her hand on the table. The silverware rattled. "How many times must I warn you? Do not let those filthy Muggle romanticisms pollute your mind! You are a Black! You have a duty!"
"Is duty locking up your own daughter?" Sirius stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. "Is duty destroying people's lives?"
"She doesn't know what she wants! She is a child!"
"How do you know?" Sirius roared. "You aren't her! You don't know anything about how she feels!"
"Sirius, sit down," Orion said. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a thundercloud.
"No!" Sirius's eyes were rimmed with red. "It's not fair! Why can't we choose? Why do we have to marry off a list of names? I don't know those people! I might hate them!"
Walburga stood up, her wand sliding into her hand. "Say that again."
Regulus watched them. It was a tragedy in three acts. The rebellious son, the tyrannical mother, the indifferent father.
Sirius was right, of course. Forcing marriage was archaic. But Walburga wasn't listening to morality; she was listening to tradition.
"Mother," Regulus said. He didn't shout. He spoke at a normal volume, but it cut through the noise.
Both of them looked at him.
"Sirius means that emotional compatibility is a factor in a successful union," Regulus said, sounding like a miniature diplomat. "However, from the perspective of family continuity, blood stability is the priority. Perhaps there is a middle ground. One could choose a partner from the Sacred Twenty-Eight that one actually... tolerates."
Walburga paused. The logic disarmed her slightly. "Of course," she huffed, smoothing her robes. "If there is affection, it is... preferable. As long as the blood is pure."
Sirius stared at Regulus. The betrayal in his eyes was visceral.
"You're on their side?" Sirius whispered. "You think blood is more important than... than being happy?"
"I am talking about reality," Regulus said, looking straight into his brother's eyes. "The reality is that this family will never accept a Muggle. If you rebel, you will be burned off the tapestry. You have to choose: play by the rules, or leave the game."
*Understand me,* Regulus pleaded silently. *I'm telling you the cost.*
Sirius looked at him. Then he looked at his parents, standing like statues at the head of the table.
Something in Sirius's face changed. The anger didn't vanish, but it cooled into something harder. Resolve.
He smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a sad, knowing smile.
"I see," Sirius said softly.
He turned and walked out of the dining room. He didn't slam the door. He didn't scream. He just walked away.
Orion watched him go, then turned his gaze to Regulus. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of assessment and regret.
"Eat your dinner," Orion said.
The rest of the meal passed in silence, broken only by the sound of silver scraping against china.