Chapter 1: The Twin Stars of the Black Family
November 3, 1959.
Inside the delivery room at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and a kind of sacred severity.
Walburga Black lay on a four poster bed, sweat plastering her long hair to her temples.
Three witches, all skilled in healing magic, stood around her. Their robes were embroidered with the crest of the House of Black: twin stars, and the Dog Star.
In the fireplace, deep indigo flames burned with the steady pulse of a family rite.
"Push, Madam," murmured the lead witch, Elma, her yew wand carving a soft arc through the air.
As the midnight bell rang for the eleventh time, an infant's cry tore through the silence.
Orion Black stood by the bedside, his expression carved from stone. He wore deep green robes, his collar fastened with a family brooch: a Sirius star set with Black diamonds. At thirty, he was already the thirteenth generation Head of the family.
Walburga's smile was faint and strained.
"Let me hold him."
The baby was placed in her arms. She stared down at the wrinkled little face, her fingers brushing the tuft of Black hair on his forehead, already promising to grow into defiant curls.
"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 nodded, one after another. A female ancestor in a Victorian high collar whispered, almost kindly, "A good name, but remember, even the brightest star can be hidden by a storm."
Orion leaned down, his voice low.
"Welcome to the House of Black, Sirius. Be worthy of the name."
…
The nursery at Number 12, Grimmauld Place lay in the east wing of the third floor. Deep green carpet covered the floor, and the walls were draped in moving tapestries that displayed the great achievements of Black ancestors.
One had tamed a Peruvian Vipertooth. Another had guarded Gringotts during a Goblin rebellion.
There was also one who glowered down from his portrait with unapologetic arrogance, a man who had once served as Minister for Magic, only to be forced to resign after four months.
One afternoon, when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was receiving her sister, Druella Black, in the next room. Kreacher stood by the cradle, his long, thin fingers fussing over the silk bedding.
Sirius hauled himself upright against the bars and stood, wobbling. His legs were not quite strong enough to hold him for long, but he held on anyway, grey eyes fixed on a silver bell toy lying on the carpet, three feet away.
He stretched out a hand.
The bell rolled half an inch toward him.
Kreacher gasped, then immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg.
"Bad Kreacher! Bad Kreacher, not noticing the young master's magic waking! Bad! Bad!"
Walburga burst into the room, rapture lighting her face.
"He stood up! At only ten months! Orion, did you see?"
Orion lingered in the doorway. A flicker of something complicated crossed his features.
"Too early," he said. "The magic awakening is too early as well."
"It is a gift," Walburga declared, snatching Sirius up and pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek. "My Sirius, you were born for greatness."
From that day onward, the pure blood education began.
Every afternoon, Walburga would hold Sirius and sit him before the family tapestry. It occupied an entire wall, the thousand year lineage of the House of Black embroidered in gold and silver thread.
Some branches were scorched, the marks of those who had been disowned, like ugly scars burned into the fabric.
"Look here," Walburga said, pointing to the top. "This is our first generation ancestor, Linfred Black, a healer from the twelfth century. He laid the foundation of the family."
By the time Sirius turned one, he was already speaking in full sentences.
One afternoon, he pointed at a scorched name and asked, "There. What happened?"
Walburga's face hardened.
"That was your first cousin once removed, Cedrella. She made an unforgivable mistake and married a Muggle, so her name was burned off and erased from the family. Never make such a mistake, Sirius."
…
January 15, 1961.
The winter of 1961 was viciously cold. London streets were buried in snow, and thin ice clung to the edges of the Thames. But at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, protective magic kept the rooms warm as spring.
Walburga's second labour was worse than the first.
The pains began at midnight on January 14 and lasted for a full sixteen hours.
At three o'clock in the morning on January 15, Walburga's screams crested.
A heartbeat later, an infant cried out, lighter and shorter than Sirius's first cry.
Orion stepped forward at once.
"His name?"
Walburga stared down at the child in her arms.
He was unusually quiet. His eyes were open, the unmistakable grey of the Black family, calmly taking in everything around him.
"Regulus," she said softly. "The heart of Leo. The twenty first brightest star in the sky. Not flashy, but indispensable. Steadfast. Loyal. Eternal."
Orion added a middle name, measured and final.
"Regulus Arcturus Black."
Walburga placed Regulus into the cradle and almost immediately slipped into exhausted sleep.
Orion stood between the two cribs.
On the left, Sirius, now two, slept deeply in his own cradle, one hand thrust through the bars to clutch his favourite silver bell.
On the right, newborn Regulus lay silent, eyes still open. He was looking at Sirius.
And Sirius, asleep, seemed to sense something. He rolled over, turning toward his younger brother.
Regulus's gaze shifted.
There lay a two year old boy. Sirius. The man from the original story who would betray his family for his beliefs, and vanish behind the veil. His older brother.
Deep within Regulus's soul, an adult spirit from another world let out a silent sigh.
Then, using an infant brain that was not yet fully formed, he fought to assemble his first clear thought:
I will not repeat Regulus's tragedy. I will walk a different path.
Outside the window, the London night was unusually clear.
The winter constellations glittered sharply. Orion hung high in the south, Taurus shone in the east, and between them burned the brightest star in the night sky: Sirius.
Not far from it, Regulus in Leo flickered more faintly, but steady.
…
On the day Sirius turned two, Walburga held a small celebration in the garden.
Only close relatives of the Black family were invited, but the occasion was still lavish. House elves coaxed roses into bloom in the dead of winter. Silver cutlery rose and arranged itself with perfect manners. Even the fountain was briefly bewitched to spray lemon juice, simply because Sirius liked the sour bite.
At the party, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.
He wore an exquisite dark green velvet baby outfit, a small silver brooch pinned at the collar. He did not look at anyone. He only stared into the distance.
"What is he looking at?" Walburga asked, following his gaze to the garden wall, thick with ancient vines. Nothing stood out.
"Perhaps the glint on the leaves," Druella guessed. "Sunlight on dew can be pretty when it sparkles."
But the direction Regulus watched held a nest of Bowtruckles. The little creatures were tucked deep inside the vines. Ordinary people could not see them at all, and most witches and wizards would miss them too.
Yet whenever a Bowtruckle moved, there was a subtle disturbance in the surrounding magic.
Regulus could feel it.
From the way Druella and Walburga spoke, he guessed they could not.
Later, after hesitating far longer than she would ever admit, Walburga asked Orion one afternoon, a thread of uncertainty in her voice.
"Is Regulus… slow to react?"
Regulus was one year and three months old. At the same age, Sirius had already been racing through the house and speaking in clear sentences.
But Regulus was quiet. He rarely made a sound. He seemed slow to respond to the world.
Orion lowered his copy of The Daily Prophet and walked to the nursery, Walburga close behind.
Regulus sat on the carpet with a magical picture book open in front of him. Moving Fantastic Beasts, a book intended for children older than three. The Hippogriff in the illustration beat its wings, and the Diricawl vanished and reappeared with a cheeky little pop.
Orion watched for ten minutes.
Then he crossed the room, knelt, and met his son's eyes. Without looking away, he said to Walburga, "Look at his eyes, Walburga."
Walburga knelt as well and stared into Regulus's gaze. She saw nothing strange, nothing outward.
Orion's voice remained calm.
"He is not slow. He is listening, watching, learning. He observes. He is simply silent."
As if to prove him right, Regulus lifted his head and looked at his father on his own for the first time.
Grey eyes met grey eyes.
Walburga did not fully understand what Orion meant, but she let out a quiet breath of relief all the same.
She trusted her husband's judgement.
Her son was not slow.