August 31, 1971.
The atmosphere at the dinner table of Number 12, Grimmauld Place was unusually heavy.
Tomorrow, Sirius would leave for Hogwarts. Walburga Black had been preparing for this moment for an entire week. Everything had to be perfect. The heir of the House of Black must represent the family's honor properly.
"Remember," Walburga repeated for what felt like the tenth time that evening, "you represent the House of Black. Once you board the train, sit in the Slytherin carriage. Do not associate with those—"
"I'm not going to Slytherin."
Sirius's voice was not loud, but it cut through the room like a blade.
Walburga froze. Her knife and fork stopped mid-air.
"What did you say?"
"I'm not going to Slytherin," Sirius repeated calmly, his eyes fixed on the lamb chops on his plate. "I'm going to Gryffindor."
Silence fell across the dining table.
Even the ancestral portraits hanging on the walls seemed to stop whispering. Phineas Nigellus stared wide-eyed from his frame, his mouth hanging open like a dehydrated fish.
Orion Black slowly set down his wine glass.
"The Sorting Hat considers a student's wishes," Orion said slowly, "but it also considers bloodline and character. The Black Family has belonged to Slytherin for five hundred years."
"Then it ends with me," Sirius said stubbornly. "I don't want to spend seven years with a bunch of snakes."
"Snakes?" Walburga's voice trembled with disbelief. "That is where your family has been for generations! That is honor!"
"That is a cage!" Sirius snapped, suddenly agitated. "I don't need Black honor! I just need to be myself!"
His chest rose and fell with anger. Then he turned abruptly toward Regulus.
Regulus, who was ten years old, sat quietly at the table. His expression remained calm as he carefully cut a piece of steak and placed it in his mouth.
"What about you?" Sirius asked sharply. "You'll go to Slytherin, won't you? Be their perfect heir. Study hard, behave well, and wait for the day you inherit this decaying family."
Regulus slowly looked up at him.
"I will go where I belong."
"Belong?" Sirius laughed harshly. "There's only one place for a Black—down in the Slytherin dungeons with those lunatics obsessed with pure-blood glory. Enjoy yourself, brother."
With that, Sirius stood up and left the dining room without another word.
The door slammed.
Walburga collapsed back into her chair, her face pale with fury and humiliation. Orion remained expressionless, but the magic in the air around him surged like a rising tide.
Regulus simply continued eating.
He knew what would happen.
In the original timeline, Sirius would indeed be sorted into Gryffindor, becoming the first member of the Black family in centuries to enter a house other than Slytherin.
And Regulus also knew that beginning tomorrow, many things would start to change.
On the night of September 1st, an owl arrived carrying a letter from Hogwarts.
Walburga tore open the envelope with trembling hands. Her eyes raced across the parchment.
Then her face turned deathly pale.
Her lips trembled.
The next moment, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.
Orion caught her just in time while simultaneously grabbing the letter.
The message was simple.
"Sirius Black has been sorted into Gryffindor House."
That night, the atmosphere at Number 12 Grimmauld Place felt like a funeral.
But Regulus knew that this was only the beginning.
From the next day onward, Walburga shifted all of her expectations onto him.
"You must be ten times better than him," she said at breakfast the following morning. "No—one hundred times better! You must prove that the blood of the Black family has not fallen into disgrace. You must prove that the true heir is here."
Regulus simply nodded.
This outcome was exactly what he had hoped for.
Yet the price for it was Sirius's eventual departure from this home, perhaps forever. When Regulus thought about it carefully, he couldn't say he felt particularly happy.
But this was still the best arrangement.
Because with the fall of Sirius, Regulus gained new privileges.
He now had unlimited access to the family library. He was allowed to borrow books from the heritage section, many of which had been restricted before. Occasionally, under supervision, he was even allowed to flip through some experimental notes considered relatively safe.
After Sirius left, the enormous mansion grew noticeably quieter.
Regulus developed a strict daily routine.
He spent four hours every day in the library, absorbing as much knowledge as possible.
Two more hours were spent in the attic, where many old magical artifacts and research notes were stored.
The remaining time was devoted to his mother's lessons and his father's occasional inspections.
Over the past two years, the practice of magical circulation had gradually begun to show results.
The growth of his magical capacity was slow but steady.
It was like digging a well with a spoon—one small scoop at a time. At first, the progress seemed insignificant. But over months and years, the well eventually became deep.
Every night before going to bed, Regulus would perform his magical circulation exercises.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing.
Then he would sense the magic within his body.
At first, he needed to imagine the flow deliberately—guiding it from his limbs to his chest, then letting it circulate back through his arms and legs.
Gradually, however, something changed.
He no longer needed to imagine it consciously.
The magic seemed to develop its own instinct, flowing naturally along the pathways he had opened.
Like a river discovering its channel.
His control was also becoming more precise.
Now he could levitate several feathers at once and guide them to draw perfect circles in the air. The margin of error in their trajectory was less than a millimeter.
Alternatively, he could create complex ripple patterns on the surface of a cup of water and maintain them for long periods without letting the waves dissipate.
This was the synchronization of magic and will.
A sign of increasing control.
There was also the matter of recovery speed.
Previously, after intense magical practice, Regulus would need long periods of rest.
Now, by guiding his magic to circulate within his body, he could accelerate its natural recovery.
Just like stretching after physical exercise helps blood circulation, magic seemed to possess its own internal circulation system.
From the autumn of 1971 to the spring of 1972, Regulus gradually had deeper contact with his three cousins.
Bellatrix Lestrange began visiting Grimmauld Place more frequently.
At twenty years old, she had already become one of the early followers of Lord Voldemort. A burning fanaticism constantly flickered in her eyes.
"The world is sick, Regulus," she told him one afternoon while walking through the garden. "The filthy blood of Muggles has polluted magic. Half-bloods have diluted ancient power. And the Ministry of Magic is ruled by cowards."
She made a sharp sweeping gesture through the air, as if cutting something invisible.
"We need a cleansing."
"A cleansing?" Regulus asked calmly.
Bella smiled, but her smile made one's spine shiver.
"To remove impurities. The Dark Lord will lead us. He has power, vision, and determination. When he rises to power, the pure-blood families will once again stand at the top."
Her voice grew almost ecstatic.
"We don't need equality. We need dominion."
"Dominion over whom?" Regulus asked quietly.
"Everyone," Bella replied immediately. "Muggles, half-bloods, mudbloods—they will all find their proper place."
Regulus watched her silently.
He knew her future.
She would slowly descend further into madness until she became the most fanatical servant of Voldemort.
But Regulus had neither the power nor the intention to stop that fate.
Narcissa Malfoy's attitude was very different.
At sixteen, she was already a sixth-year student at Hogwarts and a Slytherin prefect. Compared to Bellatrix, she was far more pragmatic and calculating.
"Bella has chosen her path," Narcissa told Regulus quietly during a family gathering. "But you must choose your own."
"Slytherin isn't only about fanaticism," she continued calmly. "We also value wisdom."
"Wisdom?" Regulus asked.
"Weighing options," Narcissa replied.
She gently poked a piece of cake with her silver fork.
"Knowing when to advance and when to retreat. Knowing who is useful and who is dangerous. Knowing which words should be spoken and which should remain hidden."
She then shared several practical lessons.
"Always prepare three excuses. If you're caught wandering at night, for example, you should have different explanations ready for different people."
"Tell a professor that you got lost while searching for the library."
"Tell a prefect that you were looking for a lost pet."
"And if it's a trusted friend… then maybe you can tell the truth."
She leaned slightly closer.
"But only if you're absolutely certain they are trustworthy."
Another piece of advice followed.
"Never allow anyone to understand you completely. Even with your closest friend, keep at least one secret."
"Secrets are bargaining chips."
"And armor."
"In Slytherin," she added softly, "value matters more than friendship."
"What can you offer? Knowledge? Resources? Protection?"
"Understand your own value clearly, then find people who need that value."
Regulus listened carefully.
Although Narcissa's words were cold, they were practical—and extremely useful.
Andromeda visited the least frequently.
Yet among the three cousins, Regulus cared about her the most.
Because she was the only one who consistently treated him with genuine kindness.
At seventeen, Andromeda was already in her seventh year at Hogwarts.
However, she had become something of an outlier within the school.
She rarely participated in the social circles of pure-blood families. Instead, she often spent time discussing magical creatures with half-blood and Muggle-born students.
For this, Bellatrix frequently scolded her for "tainting the bloodline."
As a result, Andromeda's visits to Grimmauld Place became fewer and fewer.
Walburga did not welcome her anymore.
Her thinking, in Walburga's opinion, was dangerously misguided.
One rainy afternoon in March of 1972, Andromeda came to Regulus's room.
Rain slid down the window like thin silver threads.
"I'm leaving," she said directly.
"Leaving where?" Regulus asked.
"Leaving Britain."
She sat beside the window, staring at the rain outside.
"I'm marrying Ted. He's Muggle-born."
Regulus nodded slowly.
He understood exactly what that meant.
Her name would be burned off the Black family tapestry.
She would be disowned.
The family would never acknowledge her again.
"Are you afraid?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Andromeda answered honestly.
"I'm afraid of losing my family. I'm afraid of being rejected by everyone I know. And I'm afraid of the uncertainty of the future."
She paused.
"But I'm even more afraid of staying here… and slowly becoming someone I don't recognize."
She looked directly at Regulus.
"I know you're not like Sirius. You're smart. Rational. You know how to compromise."
"But don't let compromise become surrender."
"Don't let this family consume you."
"You have your own heart."
"Don't forget it."
Regulus remained silent for a long moment.
Then he said softly,
"Thank you."
Andromeda stood up and walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned back one last time.
"Take care."
"And if one day you need real help… you can find me."
"I'll be in France."
Then she left.
Another member of the House of Black had walked away.
And Regulus, standing alone in the quiet room, knew that the family he was born into was slowly breaking apart—piece by piece.
I