November 3, 1959.
Inside the delivery room at 12 Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and solemnity.
Walburga Black lay on the four-poster bed, her long hair soaked with sweat.
Three witches proficient in healing magic surrounded the bed. Their robes were embroidered with the crest of the Black family: twin stars and a wolf.
In the fireplace, the deep indigo flames of the family ritual burned steadily.
"Push, Madam," whispered Irma, the chief witch, her yew wand tracing a soft arc in the air.
As the midnight bell tolled for the eleventh time, the cry of a baby pierced the silence.
Orion Black stood by the bed, his expression solemn.
He wore deep green robes, and pinned to his collar was the family brooch—a Sirius star inlaid with black diamonds. At thirty, he was already the thirteenth head of the family.
Walburga smiled weakly. "Let me hold him."
The infant was placed in her arms. She looked down at the wrinkled little face, her fingers gently stroking the wisp of black fetal hair on his forehead that was destined to turn into unruly curls.
"His name?" Orion asked.
Walburga answered without hesitation, "Sirius. The brightest star in the night sky, the navigator who never loses his way. He will lead the Black family to new glory."
The portraits on the walls nodded in agreement. An ancestress wearing a high-collared Victorian dress whispered, "A good name, but remember, even the brightest star can be obscured by storms."
"Welcome to the Black family, Sirius," Orion whispered, leaning down. "May you be worthy of this name."
...
The nursery at 12 Grimmauld Place was located in the east wing of the third floor. The room was carpeted in deep green, and the walls were hung with magical tapestries depicting the great achievements of the Black ancestors.
One ancestor was taming a Peruvian Vipertooth, another was guarding Gringotts during the Goblin Rebellions.
There was also one—the figure in the painting looking down arrogantly at the room—who had served as Minister for Magic, though he was forced to resign after only four months in office.
One afternoon when Sirius was ten months old, Walburga was in the next room receiving her sister, Druella Black. Kreacher stood guard by the cradle, smoothing the silk quilt with his long, thin fingers.
Sirius held onto the railing and stood up shakily. His calves were not strong enough to support him for long, but he stood there, his gray 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, then immediately began banging his head against the nearest table leg. "Bad Kreacher! Didn't notice the Little Master's magical awakening! Bad! Bad!"
When Walburga rushed into the room, her face was full of ecstasy. "He stood up! Only ten months! Orion, did you see that?"
Orion stood at the door, a complex expression crossing his face. "It's too early. The magical awakening is also premature."
"It's talent!" Walburga picked up her son and planted 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 in front of the family tapestry. That tapestry occupied an entire wall, embroidered with gold and silver threads detailing the thousand-year genealogy of the Black family.
Some branches were scorched black; those were the traces of the disowned, like ugly scars.
"Look here," Walburga pointed to the top of the tapestry. "This is our first ancestor, Linfred Black, a twelfth-century healer. He laid the foundation for the family."
By the time Sirius was one year old, he could already speak in complete sentences. One afternoon, he pointed to a scorched name on the tapestry and asked, "There, what happened?"
Walburga's face darkened. "That is your great-aunt Cedrella. She made an unforgivable mistake and married a Muggle, so her name was burned off, 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 covered in snow, and thin ice formed at the edges of the River Thames. However, at 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 14, the contractions lasted for a full sixteen hours.
At 3:00 AM on January 15, Walburga's screams reached their peak.
Immediately following, a baby's cry rang out, lighter and shorter than Sirius's had been.
Orion stepped forward quickly and asked Walburga, "His name?"
Walburga looked at the unusually quiet child in her arms. He opened the signature gray eyes of the Black family, calmly observing everything around him.
"Regulus," she said softly. " The heart of the lion, the second brightest star in the sky. Not flashy, but indispensable. Steadfast, loyal, eternal."
Orion added a middle name for him. "Regulus Attalus Black."
Walburga placed Regulus in the cradle and fell into an exhausted sleep almost immediately.
Orion stood between the two cradles. On the left, two-year-old Sirius was sound asleep in his own cradle, one hand sticking out of the railing, clutching his favorite silver bell toy.
On the right, the newborn Regulus lay quietly, his eyes open, looking at Sirius in the opposite cradle.
As if sensing something in his sleep, Sirius rolled over and turned toward his 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 brother.
Deep in his soul, an adult spirit from another world sighed silently.
Then, using the infant's undeveloped brain, he struggled to organize 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 this clear.
The winter constellations were clearly 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 the constellation Leo twinkled quietly, slightly dimmer, but steadfast.
...
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 tableware flew automatically into arrangement, and even the fountain in the garden was temporarily changed to spray lemon juice, simply because Sirius liked sour flavors.
At the banquet, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.
He was wearing an exquisite dark green velvet onesie with a small silver brooch pinned to the collar. He didn't look at anyone, just stared into the distance.
"What is he looking at?" Walburga followed her son's gaze. It was the garden wall, covered in ancient vines, nothing special.
"Maybe looking at the glint on the vines," Druella guessed. "The sunlight on the dew, it sparkles nicely."
But in the direction Regulus was looking, there was actually a nest of Bowtruckles. Those small creatures hid deep in the vines; ordinary people couldn't see them at all, and neither could wizards usually.
But whenever the Bowtruckles moved, there would be extremely subtle disturbances in the surrounding magic.
Regulus could feel it, but judging by the conversation between Druella and Walburga, he guessed they probably hadn't sensed it.
Later, Walburga hesitated for a long time before finally asking Orion somewhat tentatively one afternoon, "Is Regulus... a bit slow?"
At that time, Regulus was one year and three months old. Sirius, at the same age, could already run all over the house and speak in complete sentences.
Regulus, however, was always unusually quiet, rarely made sounds, and reacted slowly to external stimuli.
Orion put down the Daily Prophet in his hand and walked to the nursery, with Walburga following.
Regulus was sitting on the carpet, a magical picture book spread out in front of him. It was Moving Magical Creatures for children over three years old. In the book, a Hippogriff flapped its wings, and a Diricawl would suddenly vanish and reappear.
Orion observed for ten minutes.
Then he walked over, squatted down to be at eye level with his son, and said to Walburga, "Look at his eyes, Walburga."
Walburga also squatted down and looked into Regulus's eyes, but she couldn't see anything unusual.
Orion continued, "He isn't slow. He is listening, watching, learning, and observing at the same time. He is just somewhat silent."
As if to confirm his words, Regulus raised his head and looked at his father proactively for the first time.
Gray eyes met gray eyes.
Walburga didn't fully understand, but she quietly breathed a sigh of relief. She believed her husband's judgment. Her son was not slow.