Chapter 4: Voldemort Draws Near
Spring 1965. In the garden of 12 Grimmauld Place, the beech trees had just unfurled tender green shoots.
"Regulus!"
Sirius came charging out of the house, waving a toy sword in his hand.
"Look! I can make the sword glow!" Sirius concentrated, and a faint silver gleam appeared at the tip of the blade, lasting two seconds before flickering out.
He was five, and his magical control had improved — but it was still unstable.
"Not bad." Regulus closed his book and offered an earnest bit of non-commitment.
Sirius jabbed the sword into the dirt. "Let's go explore the cellar! Kreacher says there are trunks down there that bite!"
"I'm reading." Regulus shook his head.
"What's so great about books?" Sirius leaned over and glanced at the illustrated guide. "It's all fake anyway. Real dragons are way bigger! Cousin Bellatrix says that the great figure keeps fire-breathing dragons as pets!"
Regulus looked up. "Which great figure?" "You know — that one!" Sirius dropped his voice as though sharing a secret. "Bellatrix says he's gathering followers. Going to restore the glory of pure-blood wizards. Father says he's a dangerous radical."
Regulus's heart skipped a beat. Voldemort. Tom Riddle. It had already started?
He rapidly calculated the timeline. In the original story, Voldemort's first rise occurred in the early 1970s, but the groundwork — recruitment and positioning — would have begun much earlier.
1965... He was likely already operating in secret, luring ancient families with slogans of pure-blood revival.
"What else did Bellatrix say?" Regulus asked.
"She said that the great figure possesses incredible power. That he can show people miracles." Sirius sat down on the stone bench.
"Regulus, what are you thinking?" Sirius poked his brother's shoulder when he went quiet.
"Thinking that..." Regulus looked at the book in his hands. "Knowledge is power. That great figure must have read a great many books."
"No way! He was born powerful!" Sirius shot back heatedly.
'Naive,' Regulus thought. 'All power has a source. Voldemort's magical talent, his Horcrux research, his knowledge of the Dark Arts — every bit of it was acquired from books, from experiments, from plunder.'
A sudden sense of urgency washed over him. Regulus realized that time was running short.
Once Voldemort rose in full force, every pure-blood family would be dragged in.
As one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Blacks would inevitably be forced to choose a side. In the original story, most Blacks joined the Death Eaters — all except Sirius and Andromeda.
And he himself — Regulus Black — would inevitably enter Voldemort's line of sight, especially if he displayed extraordinary talent. And there was no way he could avoid displaying it.
'I have to start preparing now.'
That afternoon, Regulus carried three children's picture books he had finished and knocked on Orion's study door.
"Come in."
Orion sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing Wizengamot documents. He looked up when he saw his younger son and seemed mildly surprised. "Regulus? What is it?"
"Father." Regulus set the picture books on the corner of the desk. "I've finished these. I want to read real books."
Orion put down his quill. "Real books?"
"Books with words, with knowledge, with magic."
Walburga happened to walk in carrying a tray of tea. She heard this and stopped in her tracks. "He's only four! Orion, don't spoil him. He should start with 'Etiquette and Decorum of Pure-Blood Families' and learn how to uphold the family's honor."
"Honor requires strength to sustain it," Regulus replied, his tone gentle but utterly resolute. "If I'm not strong enough, how can I defend the standing of the Black family?"
Walburga was taken aback. Coming from a four-year-old, the words felt slightly eerie — and slightly unsettling.
Orion nodded; he agreed with Regulus. "Starting tomorrow, you may spend one hour a day in the library. Kreacher will accompany you."
"Yes, Father." And with that, Regulus withdrew from the study.
He showed no excitement or delight. This was only natural — no parent would refuse a child who actively wanted to learn.
Walburga opened her mouth to object, but Orion raised a hand to stop her. "Walburga, our son needs a special education. The times are changing. That great figure is amassing power. The Black family needs more than an heir who merely knows proper manners."
"So you know about him too..." Walburga's expression flickered with something close to excitement at the thought of that man's growing influence.
"The entire wizarding world knows," Orion said, his voice heavy. "He is recruiting devotees — seducing followers with power, coercing enemies with fear. The Lestranges have already sworn allegiance. The Malfoys are watching from the sidelines. Sooner or later, the Blacks will have to make a choice."
The next morning at ten o'clock sharp, Kreacher led Regulus to the double wooden doors at the end of the third floor.
The doors were dark oak, inlaid with silver constellation patterns, and bore no handles — only two symmetrical keyholes shaped like the open beaks of ravens.
"Two keys must be turned at the same time, Young Master." Kreacher fished two antique keys from his apron pocket — one silvery-white with a sun carved into the handle, the other jet-black with a moon.
The keys slid in. Both turned simultaneously.
Click.
The doors glided inward without the faintest sound.
Regulus's first impression upon stepping into the library was one of pressure — the density of magic here was staggering.
Visible motes of silver dust hung suspended in the air. Bookshelves stretched from the floor to a ceiling ten meters overhead, requiring movable ladders to reach the upper volumes — magic alone would not do.
Different magical creatures were carved along the edge of each shelf tier: pixies and fairies on the lower levels, centaurs and merpeople in the middle, griffins and dragons near the top.
In the center of the room stood a massive orrery — an intricate mechanism of brass gears simulating the solar system's motion, though it included several celestial bodies known only to wizards.
"The open section is on the left, Young Master," Kreacher whispered, as though afraid of waking something. "The right side is the family heritage section — that requires the master's permission. Straight ahead is the Restricted Section. Do not approach it."
Regulus headed for the open section first.
He pulled out a tome on pure-blood family genealogies and scanned through it, noting that these families — Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, Carrow — were all future mainstays of the Death Eaters.
Once these families collectively threw in their lot with Voldemort, half the power and resources of the British wizarding world would fall into his hands. And they would fall — inevitably.
'I must acquire power before that happens.'
An hour later, Regulus gravitated toward the family heritage section.
Here the shelves were deep-red mahogany, and each book was enclosed in its own individual protective enchantment. Kreacher hovered nervously at his side. "Young Master, this area requires permission..."
"I'm only reading the titles."
Then he looked straight ahead — at the Restricted Section.
There were no bookshelves there. Instead, a solid wall of black iron was set within a stone archway. At its center hung a gate of iron bars as thick as an infant's arm. Through the gaps, one could glimpse profound darkness beyond.
The lock on the gate was a bronze skull whose lower jaw could move; the keyhole sat inside its left eye socket.
Through the slits between the bars, Regulus squinted into the darkness. Bookshelves materialized dimly, and the gilt titles on the spines glimmered faintly in the gloom:
"The Darkest Arts: Origins and Advanced Studies of the Unforgivable Curses"
"Blood Curse Research: Bloodline Magic and Eternal Bindings"
"Necromantic Communication: Forbidden Rituals for Conversing with the Beyond"
Each title struck his mind like a sledgehammer.
'Voldemort has certainly read these — and more. Horcruxes, Dark Arts, soul experiments... How much has he mastered?'
'I have to understand. At the very least, I need to know what tools he's working with.'
But he could not go in now. The timing was wrong, and he lacked the clearance.
He turned to Kreacher. "Time's up. Let's go."
Before leaving, Regulus cast one last glance at the Restricted Section.
......
Back in his room, Regulus walked to the window and looked out at the street below.
London at night — Muggle automobiles flowing past in a dense weave of red and amber headlights. The city's light pollution was already severe; the true stars were invisible.
But Regulus knew the stars were still there.
Voldemort and the war he would ignite, the power games of the wizarding world, the glory and madness of the pure-blood families — on a cosmic scale, all of it was as insignificant as dust.
Yet Regulus was trapped inside that dust.
He gazed out the window and imagined the man who, at this very moment, might be deep in an Albanian forest or some ancient ruin, studying the Dark Arts — Tom Riddle, the future Voldemort.
Time was running out.