Spring, 1965. In the garden of 12 Grimmauld Place, the beech trees were just putting forth tender green shoots.
"Regulus!"
Sirius rushed out of the house, waving a toy sword in his hand.
"Look! I can make the sword glow!" Sirius concentrated, and a faint silver light appeared at the tip of the table knife, lasting for two seconds before extinguishing.
He was five years old. His magical control had improved, but it was still unstable.
"Not bad." Regulus closed his book, offering a serious but perfunctory compliment.
Sirius thrust the sword into the soil. "Let's go explore the basement! Kreacher says there are biting chests down there!"
"I'm reading." Regulus shook his head in refusal.
"What's so good about books?" Sirius leaned in and glanced at the illustrated encyclopedia. "It's all fake. Real dragons are much bigger than this! Cousin Bella says that big shot has a fire dragon as a pet!"
Regulus looked up and asked, "Which big shot?"
"That one!" Sirius lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. "Bella says he's gathering followers to restore the glory of pure-bloods. Dad says he's a dangerous element."
Regulus's heart skipped a beat. Voldemort, Tom Riddle—had it started so soon?
He quickly calculated the timeline. In the original story, Voldemort's first rise to power was in the early 1970s, but his recruitment and planning must have started earlier.
1965... He must already be operating in secret, using the slogan of pure-blood restoration to attract the support of ancient families.
"What else did Bella say?" Regulus asked.
"She said that big shot has powerful magic and can make people see miracles." Sirius sat on a stone bench.
"Regulus, what are you thinking?" Seeing him silent, Sirius poked his brother's shoulder.
"Thinking..." Regulus looked at the book in his hands. "Knowledge is power. That big shot must have read a lot of books."
"No way! He's naturally powerful!" Sirius retorted excitedly.
Naive, Regulus thought. All power has a source. Voldemort's magical talent, Horcrux research, Dark Arts knowledge—all were obtained from books, from experiments, from plunder.
A sense of urgency suddenly struck him. Regulus realized that time was running out.
Once Voldemort rose completely, all pure-blood families would be swept up.
As one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Black family would inevitably have to take a side. In the original story, most Black family members joined the Death Eaters, except for Sirius and Andromeda.
And he himself, Regulus Black, would inevitably come into Voldemort's sight, especially if he displayed unusual talent—and it was impossible for him not to display it.
Preparations had to start now.
That afternoon, holding three finished children's picture books, Regulus knocked on the door of Orion's study.
"Come in."
Orion sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing Wizengamot documents. He looked up and saw his youngest son, somewhat surprised. "Regulus? What is it?"
"Father," Regulus placed the picture books on the corner of the desk. "I've finished these. I want to read real books."
Orion put down his quill and asked, "Real books?"
"Books with words, with knowledge, with magic."
Walburga happened to walk in with tea. Hearing this, she stopped in her tracks. "He's only four! Orion, don't spoil him. He should learn the Etiquette Guide for Pure-Blood Families first and know how to maintain the family's glory."
"Glory needs power to support it," Regulus said, his tone gentle but incredibly firm. "If I am not powerful enough, how can I maintain the status of the Black family?"
Walburga was stunned. Hearing such words from a four-year-old felt somewhat eerie and unsettling.
Orion nodded. He agreed with Regulus. "Starting tomorrow, you can spend an hour in the library every day. Kreacher will accompany you."
"Yes, Father." With that, Regulus exited the study.
He didn't show any excitement or joy. This was only right and proper; there was no reason for parents to refuse a child who actively asked to learn.
Walburga wanted to say something, but Orion raised his hand to stop her. "Walburga, our son needs a special education. The times are changing. That big shot is gathering power. The Black family needs more than just heirs who understand etiquette."
"You know about that person too..." Thinking of that man's growing influence, Walburga looked somewhat excited.
"The entire wizarding world knows," Orion's voice was deep. "He is recruiting followers, tempting believers with power, and coercing enemies with fear. The Lestrange family has already sided with him. The Malfoys are watching. The Black family will have to make a choice sooner or later."
The next morning at ten o'clock sharp, Kreacher led Regulus to the double wooden doors at the end of the third-floor corridor.
The doors were dark black oak, inlaid with silver constellation patterns. There were no handles, only two symmetrical keyholes shaped like the open beaks of ravens.
"Two keys need to be turned simultaneously, Little Master." Kreacher took out two antique keys from his apron pocket: one silver-white with a sun carved on the handle, the other jet-black with a moon carved on the handle.
Keys inserted, turned simultaneously.
Click.
The doors slid inward without a sound.
Regulus's first sensation upon stepping into the library was oppression. The magical density here was astonishingly high.
Silver motes of light visible to the naked eye floated in the air. Bookshelves extended from the floor to the ten-meter-high ceiling, requiring moving ladders to reach the upper books—magic wouldn't work.
The edges of each shelf were carved with different magical creatures: gnomes and fairies on the bottom layer, centaurs and merpeople in the middle, griffins and dragons on the top.
In the center of the room stood a huge orrery, a complex brass mechanism simulating the solar system, but with several extra celestial bodies known only to wizards.
"The open section is on the left, Little Master," Kreacher whispered, as if afraid of waking something. "The right side is the Family Heritage Section, requiring Master's permission. Straight ahead is the Restricted Section; do not approach."
Regulus walked to the open section first.
He pulled out a genealogy of pure-blood families and scanned it. He found these families—Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, Carrow... all the future mainstays of the Death Eaters.
Once these families collectively sided with Voldemort, half the power and resources of the British wizarding world would fall into his hands. And these families would inevitably side with Voldemort.
He must possess power before then.
An hour later, Regulus walked towards the Family Heritage Section.
The bookshelves here were dark red mahogany, and each book had an independent magical shield. Kreacher followed nervously at his side. "Little Master, permission is needed here..."
"I'm just looking at the titles."
Then, he looked straight ahead at the Restricted Section.
There were no bookshelves there, but a complete black iron wall set within a stone arch. In the center of the wall was a barred gate, the iron bars as thick as a baby's arm. Through the gaps, one could see the deep darkness behind.
The lock on the gate was a bronze skull with a movable jaw; the keyhole was in the skull's left eye socket.
Through the gaps in the bars, Regulus squinted into the depths of the darkness. Bookshelves were faintly visible, the gilded titles on the spines shimmering in the dark:
The Darkest Arts: Origins and Advancement of Unforgivable Curses
Blood Curse Studies: Blood Magic and Eternal Binding
Necromancy Communication: Taboo Rituals for Dialogue with the Beyond
Every title was like a heavy hammer striking Regulus's heart.
Voldemort must have read these, and probably more than these. Horcruxes, Dark Magic, soul experiments... how much had he mastered?
I must understand, at least know what methods he is using.
But he couldn't go in now. The timing wasn't right, and his clearance wasn't high enough.
He turned to Kreacher and said, "Time's up. Let's go."
Before leaving, Regulus took one last look at the Restricted Section.
...
Back in his room, Regulus walked to the window and looked at the street outside.
In the London night, Muggle cars came and went, their red and yellow lights weaving a dense fabric. At this time, serious urban light pollution already existed, obscuring the true starry sky.
But Regulus knew the stars were there.
Voldemort and the war he would wage, the power games of the wizarding world, the glory and madness of pure-blood families—all these things were as insignificant as dust on a cosmic scale.
But Regulus was now trapped in this dust.
He looked out the window, imagining the man who might currently be researching Dark Magic in an Albanian forest or some ancient ruin—Tom Riddle, the future Voldemort.
Time was running out.