November 3, 1959.
Inside the delivery room at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and solemnity.
Walburga Black lay on a four-poster bed, sweat soaking her long hair.
Three skilled healing witches surrounded the bed, their robes embroidered with the House of Black crest: the twin stars and the dog star.
In the fireplace, deep indigo flames from a family ritual burned steadily.
"Push, Madam," the lead witch, Elma, whispered, her yew wand tracing a soft arc through the air.
As the midnight bell tolled for the eleventh time, an infant's cry shattered the silence.
Orion Black stood by the bedside, his expression solemn.
He wore deep green robes, his collar pinned with the family brooch—a Sirius star set with black diamonds. At thirty, he was already the thirteenth-generation Head of the House of Black.
Walburga smiled weakly. "Let me hold him."
The baby was placed in her arms. She gazed down at the wrinkled little face, her fingers stroking the tuft of black hair on his forehead—destined to become defiant curls.
"His name?" Orion asked.
Walburga answered without hesitation: "Sirius. The brightest star in the night sky, the navigator who never gets lost. He will lead the House of Black to new glory."
The portraits on the walls nodded one after another. A female ancestor in a Victorian high collar whispered softly, "A good name, but remember—even the brightest star can be obscured by a storm."
"Welcome to the House of Black, Sirius," Orion leaned down and whispered. "May you be worthy of this name."
...
The nursery at Number 12, Grimmauld Place was in the east wing on the third floor. The room was covered in deep green carpet, and the walls hung with moving magical tapestries depicting the great achievements of Black ancestors.
One had tamed a Peruvian Vipertooth; another had guarded Gringotts during a goblin rebellion.
And there was one looking down arrogantly from his portrait—the ancestor who had served as Minister for Magic, though he was forced to resign after only four months.
One afternoon, when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was receiving her sister, Druella Rosier (née Black), in the next room. Kreacher stood by the cradle, his long, thin fingers tidying the silk bedding.
Sirius pulled himself up by the bars and stood unsteadily. His little legs weren't quite strong enough to hold him for long, but he stood anyway, his grey eyes fixed on a silver bell toy on the carpet three feet away.
He reached out his hand, and the silver bell rolled half an inch toward him.
Kreacher gasped and immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg. "Bad Kreacher! Didn't notice the young master's magic awakening! Bad! Bad!"
When Walburga rushed into the room, her face lit with ecstasy. "He stood up! At only ten months! Orion, did you see?"
Orion stood at the door, a flicker of a complex expression crossing his face. "Too early. The magic awakening is too early."
"It's a gift!" Walburga picked up her son, planting a series of kisses on his cheek. "My Sirius, you were born to do great things."
From that day on, the pure-blood education began.
Every afternoon, Walburga would hold Sirius and sit 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.
"Look here," Walburga pointed to the top of the tapestry. "This is our first-generation ancestor, Linfred Black, a twelfth-century healer. He laid the foundation of the family."
By the time Sirius was a year old, he could already speak in full sentences. One afternoon, he pointed to a scorched name and asked, "There—what happened?"
Walburga's face darkened. "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 exceptionally cold. The streets of London were blanketed in snow, and thin ice formed at the edges of the Thames. But at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, protective magic kept the interior as warm as spring.
Walburga's second labor was more difficult than the first.
Starting from midnight on January 14th, the pains lasted a full sixteen hours.
At three o'clock in the morning on January 15th, Walburga's screams reached their peak.
Immediately after, the cry of an infant rang out—lighter and shorter than Sirius's had been.
Orion stepped forward quickly. "His name?"
Walburga looked at the unusually quiet child in her arms. He had his eyes open—the signature grey eyes of the Black family—and was calmly surveying everything around him.
"Regulus," she said softly. "The heart of the Leo constellation. The twenty-first brightest star in the sky. Not flashy, but indispensable. Steadfast, loyal, eternal."
Orion added a middle name: "Regulus Arcturus Black."
Walburga placed Regulus into the cradle and almost immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.
Orion stood between the two cradles. On the left, two-year-old Sirius slept soundly in his own cradle, one hand reaching through the bars to clutch his favorite silver bell toy.
On the right, the newborn Regulus lay quietly, eyes open. He was looking at Sirius in the opposite cradle.
And Sirius, in his sleep, seemed to sense it; he rolled over and turned toward his younger brother.
Regulus moved his eyes. Lying there was a two-year-old boy—that was Sirius, the man from the original story who betrayed his family for his beliefs and eventually died behind the veil. His older brother.
Deep within his soul, the adult spirit from another world sighed silently.
Then, using his infant brain that had not yet fully developed, he struggled to form his first clear thought:
"I will not repeat Regulus's tragedy. I will walk a different path."
Outside the window, the London night sky was rarely clear.
The winter constellations were visible: Orion hung high in the south, Taurus shone in the east, and between them was the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius.
Not far from it, the star Regulus in Leo flickered quietly—slightly dimmer, but steady.
...
On the day Sirius turned two, Walburga held a small celebration in the garden.
Although only close relatives of the Black family were invited, the occasion was still grand. House-elves used magic to make roses bloom in winter, silver cutlery flew to arrange itself automatically, and even the garden fountain was temporarily enchanted to spray lemon juice—just because Sirius liked the sour taste.
At the party, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.
He wore an exquisite dark green velvet baby outfit with a small silver brooch pinned to the collar. He didn't look at anyone; he just stared into the distance.
"What is he looking at?" Walburga followed her son's gaze toward the garden wall, covered in ancient vines. There was nothing special about it.
"Maybe he's looking at the glint on the vines," Druella guessed. "The sunlight hitting the dew is quite pretty when it sparkles."
But the direction Regulus was looking held a nest of Bowtruckles. Those little creatures were hidden deep within the vines; ordinary people couldn't see them at all, nor could most wizards.
But whenever a Bowtruckle moved, there was a very subtle disturbance in the surrounding magic.
Regulus could feel it, but from the conversation between Druella and Walburga, he guessed they probably didn't.
Later, Walburga hesitated for a long time before finally asking Orion one afternoon, with some uncertainty, "Is Regulus... a bit slow to react?"
At that time, Regulus was one year and three months old. Sirius, at the same age, had already been running all over the house and speaking in full sentences.
But Regulus was always unusually quiet, rarely made a sound, and responded slowly to external stimuli.
Orion put down his copy of *The Daily Prophet* and walked to the nursery, Walburga following.
Regulus was sitting on the carpet with a magical picture book spread out in front of him: *Moving Fantastic Beasts*, intended for children over three. The Hippogriff in the book flapped its wings, and the Diricawl suddenly disappeared and reappeared.
Orion observed for ten minutes.
Then he walked over, knelt down, and looked his son in the eye. To Walburga he said, "Look at his eyes."
Walburga knelt too and looked, but she saw nothing unusual.
Orion continued, "He isn't slow to react. He is listening, looking, and learning. He is observing—just being somewhat silent."
As if to confirm his words, Regulus looked up and, for the first time, took the initiative to meet his father's gaze.
Grey eyes met grey eyes.
Walburga didn't quite understand, but she quietly breathed a sigh of relief. She trusted her husband's judgment; her son was not slow.