Autumn, 1962. Regulus was a year and a half old; Sirius was three.
The side of the nursery belonging to Sirius had descended into utter chaos. The floor was scattered with parts of a toy broomstick, a magical top that bit people, and a box of goblin-made metal puzzles.
Regulus's corner, however, was always tidy. On a dark blue rug lay several picture books and a plush Kneazle doll that no longer moved—it used to, but Sirius had broken it while playing.
That afternoon, Kreacher was cleaning the windows with magic, but his ears were pricked up to listen to the movements of the two young masters, and he watched them out of the corner of his eye.
Sirius had just taken 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 this, Regulus!" Sirius shouted loudly 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, and took a deep breath, his small face turning red with exertion.
"Up!" he yelled, throwing his hands up in a lifting motion.
The broom twitched slightly. One end lifted about five degrees, then fell back into place.
"Up! Up!" Sirius tried two more times. This time, the broom rolled over on the ground but didn't fly.
Kreacher held his breath. He knew this broom had a Restriction Charm placed on it. It could only be activated by someone who understood the concept of weightlessness—specifically, the imagination of weight vanishing—not just brute force.
It was a tool Orion used to test a child's comprehension of magic. Sirius thought he had stolen it, but that was exactly what Orion had intended.
Sirius clearly didn't understand yet.
"Why won't it work?" He kicked the carpet angrily. "Father can make it fly!"
It was then that Regulus moved. He crawled up from the carpet, moving faster than usual, walked over to the broom, and sat down with a plop.
Sirius looked at him, curling his lip in boredom. "You want to try? You can't even talk yet."
Regulus ignored him. He simply extended his right index finger and held it above the broomstick.
Then, he pointed his fingertip down. The broom slowly rose. When it reached Regulus's eye level, it hovered in mid-air, completely motionless.
Sirius's mouth fell open. The rag Kreacher was controlling dropped to the floor.
With a gentle press of Regulus's finger, the broom slowly descended and settled back into its original spot, not a hair out of place.
Sirius stammered, "How... how did you..."
He couldn't understand the situation at all. Why could his little brother do something he couldn't?
Regulus turned his head. In a voice that was childish but clear, he spoke the first complete sentence of his life:
"Think, then do."
"Think about what?" Sirius asked subconsciously.
"Think it is light," Regulus said, pointing at the broom. "Do not think it is heavy."
"But it is heavy!"
"Think it not 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 had just spoken so clearly for the first time.
Regulus picked up a fallen leaf that had drifted in through 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.
"No," Regulus said, as if he knew exactly how Sirius was thinking. "Don't think 'it is as heavy as something else.' Forget it is light. 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 own corner, leaving Sirius to wrestle with the concept alone.
He had finished his lesson. However, such an understanding was still too advanced for three-and-a-half-year-old Sirius.
But Regulus was different. For him, age was never a limit to understanding or perception.
After dinner, Orion called Kreacher to the study.
"That teaching broom," Orion asked, sitting behind his desk with knitted brows. "Did Regulus levitate it?"
"Yes... yes, Master," Kreacher said, twisting a tea towel nervously. "Young Master Regulus made it fly. One foot off the ground. Very steady."
"Did he speak?"
"He spoke a few sentences." Kreacher repeated what Regulus had said to Sirius.
After listening, Orion remained silent for a long time. The portraits of ancestors on the study walls pretended to look elsewhere, but their ears were 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. Report to me every day before dinner."
"Yes, Master!"
December 1963. 12 Grimmauld Place was preparing for Christmas.
Sirius Black had turned four a month ago and was currently in the "I am the King of the World" phase of childhood.
He stood in the center of the drawing 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 leaned over the banister from the second floor. "Sirius, don't cause trouble. Kreacher, hang the silver orbs higher. They were too low last year; Andromeda nearly hit her head."
"Yes, Mistress." Kreacher extended his long, thin fingers, levitating the silver orbs higher.
Regulus sat on the thick rug 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 magical world, and he was Regulus Black, the tragic character from the original story who died too young.
But he did not intend to repeat that tragedy. He had greater goals, the stars, the universe, those realms the original story never touched.
As for Sirius?
Let him be, Regulus thought. He'll eventually become the champion of justice, the hero who fights Voldemort anyway.
As long as I am alive, the resources of the Black family will be my stepping stone. There is no need to compete with a four-year-old.
"Regulus! Watch this!" Sirius's voice pulled him back to reality.
Sirius took a deep breath, staring at a golden bell on the treetop. Once again, he held his breath until his small face turned red, his hands making a grabbing motion.
Magic began to surge.
"Move!" Sirius shouted.
Regulus's magical perception was unusually acute, like an extra sensory system. He could see Sirius's magic surging, and he could see it was about to lose control.
Bang!
The entire Christmas tree began to shake violently.
The star ornament fell from the top, hitting Kreacher on the head. The candy canes clashed against each other, and glass baubles chimed loudly.
A string of color-changing magical lights on the branches suddenly began to flash frantically, blinking as fast as a strobe light.
"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. Panic filled the young child's face as he waved his hands futilely, which only made the magical output more unstable.
Boom!
The three floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side of the drawing room exploded simultaneously.
Shards of glass sprayed outward, fortunately slowed and suspended by the protective wards; otherwise, the entire street outside would have suffered.
The chandelier swung wildly, its crystal pendants crashing into one another, creating a harsh, ear-piercing noise.
"Ah!"
The portraits screamed in unison. Phineas Nigellus roared the loudest: "Barbarian! The House of Black has truly fallen!"
Walburga raised her wand, and a powerful Calming Charm hit Sirius.
He stumbled back a few steps, fell onto his bottom, and stared blankly at his hands.
Walburga's expression was a sight to behold. First, there was anger, but then, it was overtaken by pride.
"The magic is abundant," she said, her tone somewhat strange. "But the direction is wrong. Next time, aim at something useless. 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 is the trouble with wizard cubs, he sighed. Magic fluctuates 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 and heading back upstairs.
Sirius sat on the carpet, looking at his hands, then at the shattered windows, and finally at Regulus.
"I did it," he whispered.
Regulus nodded. "Impressive."