Autumn, 1962. Regulus was one and a half years old; Sirius was three.
The side of the nursery belonging to Sirius had become a chaotic mess. Parts of toy brooms, a biting magical spinning top, and a box of goblin-made metal puzzles were scattered across the floor.
Regulus's corner, however, was always tidy. A few picture books were arranged on a dark blue carpet, along with a stuffed Kneazle that didn't move—it used to move, but Sirius had broken it while playing.
That afternoon, Kreacher was using magic to wipe the windows, but his ears were pricked up to listen to the two little masters, and he kept watching them out of the corner of his eye.
Sirius had just brought a miniature broomstick from Orion's study. It was a scaled-down model of a real broom, a teaching tool used to demonstrate the principles of flight charms.
"Watch closely, Regulus!" Sirius shouted to attract Regulus's attention. "This is a broom! A real wizard's broom! I can make it float!"
He placed the broom on the carpet, took two steps back, took a deep breath, and his small face turned red from exertion.
"Up!" he yelled, his hands making a lifting motion in coordination.
The broom moved slightly, one end lifting about five degrees, before falling back into place.
"Up! Up!" Sirius tried twice more. This time the broom rolled over half a turn on the spot but didn't fly.
Kreacher held his breath. He knew this broom had a restriction charm on it. Only someone who understood the Levitation Charm's requirement—imagining the weight disappearing—could activate it.
This was a tool Orion used to test the children's magical comprehension. Sirius thought he had stolen it, but that was exactly Orion's intention.
Sirius clearly hadn't understood it yet.
"Why won't it work?" He kicked the carpet angrily. "Dad can make it fly!"
Regulus moved then. He crawled up from the carpet, moving a bit faster than usual, walked over to the broom, and sat down with a plop.
Sirius looked at him and curled his lip in boredom. "You want to try too? You can't even talk yet."
Regulus ignored him. He simply extended the index finger of his right hand and hovered it over the broom.
Then, with a downward tap of his fingertip, the broom slowly rose. When it reached Regulus's eye level, it hovered in the air, motionless.
Sirius's mouth dropped open involuntarily, and Kreacher dropped the rag he was controlling onto the floor.
As Regulus pressed his finger down gently, the broom slowly descended and landed back in its original spot, in exactly the same position as before.
Sirius stammered, "You... how did you..."
He couldn't understand the situation at all. Why could his younger brother do something he couldn't?
Regulus turned his head and, in a childish but clear voice, spoke the first complete sentence of his life: "Think, then do."
"Think what?" Sirius asked subconsciously.
"Think it is light," Regulus pointed at the broom. "Don't think it is heavy."
"But it is heavy!"
"Think it isn't heavy."
"How is that possible?"
Regulus tilted his head, seemingly thinking about how to explain. Then he patted the carpet beside him and said to Sirius, "Sit."
Sirius sat down obediently, completely ignoring the fact that his brother could speak so clearly the moment he opened his mouth.
Regulus picked up a fallen leaf that had drifted in from the window, placed it in his palm, and said, "It is light."
"Right."
"Think it is heavy."
Sirius stared at the leaf, trying hard to imagine it was as heavy as a stone.
But nothing happened.
"Wrong," Regulus said, as if he knew what Sirius was thinking. "Don't think 'it is as heavy as something else.' Forget it is light, and then, it is heavy."
Sirius frowned. This was too abstract. He had never imagined things this way. He scratched his head, his face full of confusion.
Regulus stood up unsteadily and returned to his corner, leaving Sirius alone to struggle with himself.
He had finished his teaching, but understanding this was still too early for three-and-a-half-year-old Sirius.
But he was different. For him, age was never a limit to understanding and perception.
After dinner, Orion called Kreacher to the study.
"That teaching broom," Orion asked, sitting behind his desk with his eyebrows furrowed. "Regulus made it hover?"
"Yes... yes, Master," Kreacher twisted the tea towel nervously. "Little Master Regulus made it fly. One foot high, very steady."
"Did he speak?"
"He said a few sentences." Kreacher repeated what Regulus had said to Sirius.
After listening, Orion fell silent for a long time. The portraits of ancestors on the study walls pretended to look elsewhere, but their ears were all pricked up.
"From now on," Orion finally said, "whatever Regulus wants to do, as long as it isn't dangerous, let him do it. But watch him, record it, and report to me before dinner every day."
"Yes, Master!"
...
December 1963. 12 Grimmauld Place was preparing for Christmas.
Sirius Black had turned four just a month ago and was currently in the "I am the coolest in the world" phase.
He stood in the center of the living room, hands on his hips, declaring to a half-decorated Christmas tree, "I'm going to make the bells on the tree ring by themselves!"
Walburga poked her head out from the second floor. "Sirius, don't cause trouble. Kreacher, hang the silver balls a bit higher. You hung them too low last year, and Andromeda almost hit her head."
"Yes, Mistress." Kreacher extended his long, thin fingers, controlling the silver balls to rise higher.
Regulus sat on the thick carpet by the fireplace. At this moment, he was as quiet as a potted fern in the corner.
The soul from another world had been in this body for three years. He had long since accepted reality: this was the wizarding world, and he was Regulus Black, the tragic character from the original story who died young.
But he did not intend to repeat that tragedy. He had greater goals—the starry sky, the universe, those realms never touched upon in the original story.
As for Sirius?
Let him be, Regulus thought. In the end, he would become a champion of justice, a hero fighting against Voldemort.
As long as I am alive, the resources of the Black family will be my springboard. There is no need to compete with a four-year-old child.
"Regulus! Watch this!" Sirius's voice pulled him back to reality.
Sirius took a deep breath and stared at a golden bell on the treetop. He held his breath until his small face turned red again, his hands making a grabbing motion.
Magic began to surge.
"Move!" Sirius shouted.
Regulus's magical perception was unusually acute, like having an extra sensory system. He could see Sirius's magic surging, and it was about to go out of control.
Bang!
The entire Christmas tree began to shake violently.
The star decoration at the top of the tree fell off and hit Kreacher on the head. The hanging candy canes smashed into each other, and the glass baubles clattered loudly.
A string of magical lights on the branches that changed color on their own suddenly began to flash frantically, blinking as fast as an epileptic seizure.
"Stop! Stop!" Walburga rushed down the stairs.
But it was too late.
Sirius was frightened by his own magic. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. The young child's face was full of panic, waving his hands futilely, which only made the magical output more unstable.
Boom!
Three floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side of the living room shattered simultaneously.
Shards of glass sprayed outward, fortunately slowed and frozen in place by protective charms; otherwise, the entire street outside would have suffered.
The chandelier swung wildly, the crystal pendants crashing against each other, creating a piercing noise.
"Ah!"
The portraits screamed collectively. Phineas Nigellus roared the loudest, "Barbarian! The Blacks have truly fallen!"
Walburga raised her wand, and a powerful Calming Charm hit Sirius.
He stumbled backward a few steps, fell to the floor, and looked at his hands blankly.
Walburga's expression was fascinating. First, there was anger, but then came an even greater pride.
"The magic is very abundant," her tone was somewhat strange. "But the direction is wrong. Next time, aim at useless things, like those ugly vases your father collects."
Sirius blinked. He didn't understand; he thought he was going to be scolded.
Regulus closed his book.
This was the trouble with wizard cubs, he sighed. Magic fluctuated with emotions, like a pressure cooker without a safety valve, ready to explode at any moment.
Kreacher began to clean up the mess. Walburga gave Sirius a complicated look before turning to go back upstairs.
Sirius sat on the carpet, looked at his hands, then at the broken windows, and finally at Regulus.
"I did it," he whispered.
Regulus nodded. "Amazing."