"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." — Heraclitus
Year 1961
In a sterile, unfamiliar room, a woman was giving birth with agonizing difficulty. She, who had always been the paragon of elegance, now possessed no trace of it. Her screams broke through the heavy doors, falling upon the ears of the man waiting in the corridor.
He was her husband. Usually, men whose wives are in labor pace the hallways, consumed by anxiety. But he was calm. Calm as the devil himself. He betrayed no emotion, acting as if the slightest slip of his composure might result in a disaster far worse than death.
The screams intensified, reaching a fever pitch before stopping abruptly, as if the agony had been silenced by a profound illusion spell. A second later, the cry of a baby resounded.
The man sitting outside, listening to the cry, stood up and faced the door. Moments later, a nurse clad in a crisp white uniform and hat walked out, holding a bundle wrapped in white cloth. It was his newborn baby. She revealed the infant to the man, who smiled not with genuine warmth, but with the pride of one who has secured a legacy.
"Congratulations, sir. It is a healthy boy. Your wife is resting; she is merely exhausted," the nurse said with almost unprecedented enthusiasm.
The man stared at the baby for a few seconds before lifting him gently from the nurse's arms. His hands shivered slightly. His prideful expression deepened as he leaned in and whispered into the baby's ear.
"Cor Leonis, my son."
He sat back down, cradling the child, lost in deep thought. His face eventually returned to a neutral mask. He drew his wand and waved it slightly. No spell was muttered, yet a Patronus in the form of a large dog erupted from the tip, flying away to carry an important message.
Minutes later, the door opened again. His wife walked out weakly, supported by a nurse.
Seeing her, he stood and moved to support her weight. She looked at him, her voice firm despite her physical weakness. "Did you see him, Orion? He is our boy!"
"Yes, my dear, and a healthy one at that. He is our pride. I cannot wait to show him to Father and your Brother."
At the mention of the father, Walburga's face twisted in distaste, though she regained her composure in a second. "Your father only know how to find fault in me. Now that my son is born, he will simply find fault in me through him."
"Dear, not in the hospital, and certainly not with outsiders present," Orion said, glancing at the nurse who was preparing the paperwork for their transfer. He sighed internally; the family's reputation could not be tainted in front of a common nurse.
In an attempt to soothe his wife, he lowered his voice. "Walburga, please. I will not let happen with him what happened with Sirius."
Seeing her husband's warning glance toward the nurse, she understood. She was a Black, after all. Anything could happen, but losing the family's reputation in front of a St. Mungo's staff member was unforgivable. She looked at her husband and whispered, typically begrudgingly, "Remember your words clearly now, Orion. Do not make me repeat myself in the future."
The nurse, finished with the process, led the couple and their baby toward the private resting ward. They were in no position to travel via Floo or Apparition just yet; they had been advised to rest for a few hours before returning to Grimmauld Place.
Suddenly, the double doors of the ward burst open. Two men rushed in, accompanied by a small child of two years. The men showed no regard for whether this was a hospital or their own drawing room; they barged in as if they owned the building.
The nurse winced at the noise and turned angrily to reprimand the intruders. Even if it were the Head Healer, she was prepared to scold them harshly. But upon seeing the crest on the older man's robes, her eyes went wide, and the words died in her throat. She was thankful she hadn't spoken.
The older man leading the group looked ancient and formidable. The other man was younger. The older man wore a family crest containing a chevron between three ravens, topped with a hand holding a wand and a skull. It was the emblem of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Arcturus Black burst in and demanded in a gruff, booming tone, "WHERE IS MY GRANDSON?"
The sleeping baby jerked awake at the noise, looking bewildered at the rough-looking old man before bursting into tears. It would not have been a wonder if the nurse had started crying at that tone as well. Everyone in the room looked at the patriarch as if to say, Look what you did, you insensitive brute, but no one dared voice it.
The young boy standing near the old man—Sirius—rushed into the embrace of his parents.
Arcturus ignored the tension. He lifted the wailing baby from Orion's arms, looked at it, and roared with laughter. "He is a loud little lad, isn't he? Just like his mother!"
He laughed roughly, a sound of pure arrogance. No one knew if he was laughing at his own comment or simply basking in the pride of holding his grandson's spare.
In an attempt to save the awkward silence—and to escape the glare his sister Walburga was shooting at him—the other man, Cygnus, stepped forward. "Let me see him."
The old man grunted and handed the little bundle of cloth to Cygnus. "Orion, he looks just like you. His little stubborn face is exactly as you were a baby. What have you named him?"
Orion glanced at his wife. They had clearly discussed the names long before this moment. He stood tall and spoke clearly.
"Regulus Arcturus Black."