Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

November 3, 1959.

Inside the birthing room at 12 Grimmauld Place, the air was thick with tension and gravity.

Walburga Black lay upon the four-poster bed, sweat soaking through her long hair.

Three witches skilled in healing magic surrounded the bedside, their robes embroidered with the Black family crest — twin stars and Sirius.

Deep indigo ceremonial flames burned in the fireplace.

"Push, Madam," the lead witch, Elma, murmured, her yew wand tracing a gentle arc through the air.

As the clock struck its eleventh chime at midnight, an infant's cry pierced the silence.

Orion Black stood at the bedside, his expression solemn.

He wore deep green robes with the family brooch pinned at his collar — a star rendered in black diamond. 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 gazed down at the wrinkled little face, her fingers gently brushing the tuft of black hair on his forehead — hair destined to become untamable 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 wall nodded in approval. An ancestress wearing a high Victorian collar spoke softly: "A fine name, but remember — even the brightest star can be veiled by storms."

"Welcome to the Black family, Sirius." Orion leaned down and whispered, "May you prove worthy of that name."

......

The nursery at 12 Grimmauld Place occupied the east wing on the third floor. Deep green carpet covered the floor, and enchanted tapestries hung on the walls, depicting the great deeds of Black ancestors.

One ancestor had tamed a Peruvian Vipertooth. Another had defended Gringotts during the Goblin Rebellions.

And yet another — this particular ancestor gazing haughtily down at the room from his portrait — had once 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 adjoining room entertaining her sister Druella Black. Kreacher stood watch beside the cradle, smoothing the silk bedding with his long, spindly fingers.

Sirius gripped the railing and pulled himself shakily to his feet. His small legs could not support him for long, yet there he stood, grey eyes fixed on a silver bell toy lying on the carpet about a meter away.

He reached out his hand, and the bell rolled half an inch toward him.

Kreacher gasped, then immediately began slamming his head against the nearest table leg. "Bad Kreacher! Failed to notice the young master's magical awakening! Bad! Bad!"

When Walburga burst into the room, her face was alight with rapture. "He stood up! Only ten months old! Orion, did you see that?"

Orion stood in the doorway, a complicated expression flickering across his face. "Too early. The magical awakening came too soon as well."

"It's a gift!" Walburga scooped up her son and pressed a flurry of kisses onto his cheeks. "My little Sirius, you were born to do great things."

From that day forward, the pure-blood education began.

Every afternoon, Walburga would hold Sirius and sit before the family tapestry. The massive weaving occupied an entire wall, its lineage of the Black family spanning a thousand years rendered in threads of gold and silver.

Some branches had been scorched away — the scars of those who had been disowned, ugly as old wounds.

"Look here," Walburga pointed to the top of the tapestry. "This is our first ancestor, Linfred Black, a healer from the twelfth century. He laid the foundation for our family."

By the age of one, Sirius could already form complete sentences. One afternoon, he pointed at a charred name on the tapestry and asked, "There — what happened?"

Walburga's expression darkened. "That was your great-aunt Cedrella. She made an unforgivable mistake — married a Muggle. So her name was burned away, erased from the family forever. Never make a mistake like that, Sirius."

......

January 15, 1961.

The winter of 1961 was exceptionally cold. London's streets lay buried under snow, and thin ice had formed along the edges of the Thames. But inside 12 Grimmauld Place, protective enchantments kept the rooms warm as spring.

Walburga's second labor was more difficult than the first.

Beginning at midnight on January 14th, the contractions lasted a full sixteen hours.

At three in the morning on January 15th, Walburga's screams reached their peak.

Then came the cry of a newborn — softer than Sirius's had been, and briefer.

Orion strode forward and addressed Walburga: "His name?"

Walburga gazed at the unusually quiet child in her arms. He had the signature grey eyes of the Black family and was calmly observing everything around him.

"Regulus," she said softly. "The heart of Leo, the second brightest star in the sky. Unassuming, yet indispensable. Steadfast, loyal, eternal."

Orion added a middle name: "Regulus Arcturus Black."

Walburga placed Regulus in his cradle and almost immediately fell into an exhausted sleep.

Orion stood between the two cradles. On the left, two-year-old Sirius slept soundly in his own cradle, one hand dangling over the railing, clutching his favorite silver bell toy.

On the right, the newborn Regulus lay quietly, yet his eyes were open — watching Sirius in the cradle opposite him.

And in his sleep, Sirius seemed to sense something, turning over to face his brother's direction.

Regulus shifted his gaze. There lay a two-year-old boy — Sirius. The man who, in the original story, had betrayed his family for his beliefs and ultimately died behind the Veil. His brother.

Deep within his soul, an adult consciousness from another world sighed silently.

Then, mustering the full capacity of an infant brain not yet fully developed, he formed his first clear thought:

'I will not repeat Regulus's tragedy. I will walk a different path.'

Outside the window, London's night sky was unusually clear.

The winter constellations shone with vivid clarity — Orion hung high in the southern sky, Taurus gleamed to the east, and between them blazed the brightest fixed star in the heavens: Sirius.

Not far from it, Regulus — the heart of Leo — flickered steadily. Dimmer, but unwavering.

......

On the day Sirius turned two, Walburga held a small celebration in the garden.

Though only close relatives of the Black family were invited, the occasion was still lavish. The house-elves used magic to coax roses into bloom in the dead of winter, silver cutlery flew into formation on its own, and even the garden fountain had been temporarily enchanted to spout lemon juice — all because Sirius had a fondness for sour flavors.

At the banquet, Regulus sat on Walburga's lap.

He wore an exquisite baby outfit of dark green velvet with a small silver brooch pinned at the collar. He was not looking at anyone — just staring into the distance.

"What is he looking at?" Walburga followed her son's line of sight. It led to the garden wall, covered in old vines. Nothing special.

"Probably the glinting on the ivy," Druella guessed. "Sunlight catching the dewdrops — sparkly things are quite captivating."

But where Regulus was actually looking, hidden deep within the vines, was a nest of Bowtruckles. The tiny creatures were concealed so well that ordinary people could not see them — and neither could most witches and wizards.

Yet whenever the Bowtruckles moved, the ambient magic around them rippled ever so faintly.

Regulus could feel it. From the conversation between Druella and Walburga, however, he gathered that they could not.

Some time later, after much hesitation, Walburga finally approached Orion one afternoon and asked with some reluctance: "Is Regulus perhaps... a bit slow?"

Regulus was one year and three months old at the time. At the same age, Sirius had already been running all over the house and speaking in full sentences.

But Regulus was always unusually quiet, rarely making a sound, and responding slowly to external stimuli.

Orion set down his copy of the Daily Prophet and walked to the nursery. Walburga followed.

Regulus was sitting on the carpet with a magical picture book spread open before him — "Moving Magical Creatures," intended for children aged three and above. Inside, a Hippogriff flapped its wings, and an Augurey vanished and reappeared at random.

Orion observed him for ten minutes.

Then he walked over, crouched down to his son's eye level, and said to Walburga: "Look at his eyes, Walburga."

Walburga crouched down as well and studied Regulus's eyes, but she could not see anything unusual.

Orion continued: "He is not slow. He is listening, watching, learning — and observing, all at once. He is simply quiet."

As if to prove his father's words, Regulus raised his head and looked directly at Orion for the first time.

Grey eyes met grey eyes.

Walburga did not fully understand, but quietly breathed a sigh of relief. She trusted her husband's judgment. Her son was not slow.