August 31, 1971. The dinner table at 12 Grimmauld Place was wrapped in a heavy silence.
Tomorrow, Sirius would leave for Hogwarts. Walburga had been preparing for it for a week.
"Remember," she said for the tenth time, "you represent the House of Black. Once you board the train, sit in the Slytherin carriage. Don't mingle with those—"
"I'm not going to Slytherin."
Sirius didn't raise his voice.
Walburga froze, her knife and fork suspended midair. "What did you say?"
"I'm not going to Slytherin," Sirius repeated, eyes fixed on his roasted lamb. "I'm going to Gryffindor."
The table went dead silent.
Even the ancestral portraits on the walls stopped whispering. Phineas Nigellus stared out of his frame, eyes wide, mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for water.
Orion slowly set down his wineglass. "The Sorting Hat considers a student's wishes, but it also weighs bloodline and traits. For five hundred years, the Blacks have been sorted into Slytherin."
"Then I'll be the one to break it," Sirius said stubbornly. "I don't want to spend seven years with a pit full of snakes."
"Snakes?" Walburga's voice began to shake. "That is where your family has belonged for generations. That is glory!"
"It's a cage!" Sirius's voice flared. "I don't need Black glory. I just need to be myself!"
He turned to Regulus.
His ten-year-old brother looked calm, slicing a piece of steak and lifting it to his mouth.
"And you?" Sirius demanded. "You'll go to Slytherin, won't you?
Be their perfect heir, study hard and perform well. Wait patiently until you inherit this rotten family."
Regulus looked up. "I'll go where I belong."
"Where you belong?" Sirius laughed. "There's only one place a Black belongs. The Slytherin dungeons, with a bunch of lunatics obsessed with pure-blood glory. Enjoy it, little brother."
He turned and walked out of the dining room.
Walburga slumped back in her chair, her face drained of color. Orion's expression didn't change, but his magic stirred restlessly.
Regulus finished the food on his plate.
He knew how this would end. In the original story, Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, the first Black in history not to enter Slytherin.
He also knew that starting tomorrow, many things would change.
On the evening of September 1, an owl arrived with a letter from Hogwarts.
Walburga's hands shook as she tore open the envelope. She skimmed the parchment, her face turning from pale to iron gray. Her lips trembled. Then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.
Orion caught her and took the letter.
It read: "Sirius Black has been sorted into Gryffindor House."
That night, 12 Grimmauld Place felt like a house in mourning.
But Regulus knew this was only the beginning.
From the next day on, Walburga poured all her attention onto him.
"You must be ten times better than him," she said over breakfast. "No. A hundred times better. You must prove the Black bloodline hasn't fallen. Prove that the true heir is here."
Regulus nodded.
He said nothing.
This was exactly what he wanted. The price was Sirius's departure, and eventually, his complete break from the family. There was no joy in that, but it was the best arrangement.
He was granted new privileges.
Unlimited access to the library. Permission to consult parts of the family inheritance section. Even supervised access to some lower-risk experimental notes.
With Sirius gone, the house grew quieter.
Every day, Regulus spent four hours in the library, two hours in the attic, and the rest enduring his mother's lessons and his father's occasional examinations.
The practice of Magic Circulation had brought real change over the past two years.
His magical capacity increased slowly but steadily, like digging a well one scoop at a time. Given enough days, the well grew deeper.
It was patient work.
Every night before sleep, Regulus practiced.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slowed, awareness turned inward.
He guided magic from his limbs toward his chest, then back out again, setting it into a cycle.
Over time, he no longer needed to imagine it. Magic began to flow on its own, following the paths he'd carved.
Like a river finding its channel.
He could now make several feathers trace perfect circles in the air, each path deviating by less than a millimeter.
Or cause the surface of a cup of water to form intricate wave patterns that held for long minutes without breaking.
This was synchronization between magic and will. A shift in precision.
And finally, recovery.
Where intense practice once demanded long rest, circulating magic through his body now sped up natural recovery.
Like stretching after exercise to encourage blood flow, magic had its own circulatory system.
---
From autumn 1971 to spring 1972, his three cousins each began interacting with him more deeply.
Bellatrix visited 12 Grimmauld Place more often. At twenty, she was already a devoted early follower of Voldemort, a burning fervor in her eyes.
"The world is sick, Regulus," she told him one afternoon in the garden. "Muggle filth pollutes magic. Half-bloods dilute ancient power. The Ministry of Magic is run by cowards.
We need a cleansing."
"A cleansing?" Regulus watched her slash the air with her hand, as if wielding invisible blades.
"To remove impurities." Bellatrix smiled, and the smile sent a chill down his spine. "The Dark Lord will lead us. He has power, vision, resolve.
When he takes control, pure-blood families will stand at the top again. We don't need equality. We need true rule."
"Rule over whom?" Regulus asked, looking at his cousin, knowing she would descend further into madness until she became a mirror of Voldemort himself.
He couldn't stop it. He didn't intend to.
"Everyone!" Bellatrix's voice rang with exhilaration. "Muggles, Half-bloods and Mudbloods. They'll all find their place."
Narcissa was different.
At sixteen, she was a sixth-year at Hogwarts and a Slytherin.
"Bella has her path," Narcissa told Regulus privately at a family gathering. "You need your own. Slytherin isn't just fanaticism. We value intelligence too."
"Intelligence?"
"Judgment." Narcissa tapped her cake lightly with a silver fork. "Knowing when to advance and when to retreat. Knowing who's useful and who's dangerous. Knowing what to say and what to hide."
She offered practical advice.
"Always have three excuses ready. If you're caught out after curfew, have three reasons, tailored to different people.
Tell a professor you got lost in the library. Tell them you lost a pet. Tell the truth to friends, but only if they're trustworthy."
"Never let anyone fully understand you. Not even your closest friend. Keep at least one secret. Secrets are leverage. Secrets are armor."
"In Slytherin, value matters more than friendship. What can you offer? Knowledge? Resources? Protection? Figure out your worth, then find people who need it."
Regulus listened carefully. Narcissa's words were cold, but they were real. And useful.
Andromeda visited the least, but she mattered most to him.
Of the three cousins, she was the kindest.
At seventeen, she was in her seventh year at Hogwarts, famous across the school for being different.
She never joined pure-blood cliques. Instead, she debated magical creatures with half-blood and Muggle-born students, earning repeated scoldings from Bellatrix for tainting the bloodline.
She came to Grimmauld Place less and less. Walburga didn't welcome her. Her thinking was problematic.
---
On a rainy day in March 1972, Andromeda found Regulus in his room.
"I'm leaving," she said without preamble.
"Where to?"
"Leaving Britain." She sat by the window as rain traced long lines down the glass. "I'm marrying Ted. He's Muggle-born. You know what that means."
Regulus nodded. Her name burned from the tapestry. The family would no longer acknowledge her.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"I am," Andromeda said honestly. "Afraid of losing my family. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of the uncertainty ahead.
But I'm more afraid of staying here and slowly becoming someone I don't recognize."
She looked at Regulus. "I know you're not like Sirius. You're smart. Rational. You know how to compromise.
Just don't let compromise turn into surrender. Don't let this family swallow you. You have your own heart. Remember it."
Regulus was silent for a long time.
"Thank you," he said at last.
"Take care." Andromeda stood and paused at the door. "And… if one day you need help real help. You can find me. I'll be in France."
Another Black was leaving.