Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

August 31, 1971. The atmosphere at the dinner table of 12 Grimmauld Place was heavy.

Tomorrow, Sirius would leave for Hogwarts. Walburga had been preparing for a week.

"Remember," she said for the tenth time, "you represent the Black family. Once on the train, sit in the Slytherin compartment. Don't associate with those—"

Sirius's voice was quiet. "I won't be going to Slytherin."

Walburga's knife and fork froze in midair. "What did you say?"

"I won't be going to Slytherin." Sirius repeated, eyes fixed on the rack of lamb on his plate. "I'll be in Gryffindor."

Dead silence fell over the table.

Even the ancestral portraits on the wall stopped their murmuring. Phineas Nigellus's eyes bulged from within his frame, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

Orion slowly set down his wine glass. "The Sorting Hat takes a student's wishes into account, but it also considers bloodline and character. The Blacks have been in Slytherin for five hundred years."

"Then it ends with me." Sirius said stubbornly. "I don't want to spend seven years stuck with a bunch of snakes." "Snakes?" Walburga's voice began to tremble. "That is the house your family has belonged to for generations! That is glory!"

"That is a cage!" Sirius's voice surged with sudden intensity. "I don't need Black glory! I just need to be myself!"

He turned to Regulus. His ten-year-old brother wore a calm expression and was in the middle of cutting a piece of steak and placing it in his mouth.

"What about you?" Sirius asked. "You'll go to Slytherin, won't you?

Be their perfect heir. Study hard, behave well, wait for the day you can take over this rotting family."

Regulus looked up. "I'll go wherever suits me."

"Suits you?" Sirius laughed. "There's only one place that suits a Black — the Slytherin dungeons, surrounded by lunatics with heads full of pure-blood glory. Enjoy it, brother."

He turned and left the dining room.

Walburga sank into her chair, face ashen. Orion's expression was a mask, but his magic roiled beneath the surface.

Regulus finished everything on his plate.

He knew what would happen. In the original story, Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor — the first Black ever to land outside Slytherin.

He also knew that starting tomorrow, many things would begin to change.

On the evening of September 1st, an owl delivered a letter from Hogwarts.

Walburga's hands shook as she tore open the envelope. She scanned the parchment, her face shifting from pale to livid, her lips quivering — and then her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

Orion caught her and took the letter at the same time.

It read: "Sirius Black has been sorted into Gryffindor House."

That night, 12 Grimmauld Place felt as though it were in mourning.

But Regulus knew — this was only the beginning.

Starting the very next day, Walburga redirected all of her attention onto him.

"You must be ten times better than he is," she said at breakfast. "No — a hundred times! You will prove that the Black bloodline has not degraded. You will prove that the true heir is right here."

Regulus simply nodded without a word.

This was exactly what he had hoped for — though the price was Sirius's departure, and eventually his permanent departure from this house. It gave him no joy.

But this was the best arrangement.

He gained new privileges: unlimited access to the library, permission to borrow select volumes from the family heritage section, and even supervised access to some of the less hazardous experimental notebooks.

After Sirius left, the mansion grew much quieter. Regulus spent four hours a day in the library, two in the attic, and the remainder attending his mother's lessons and his father's occasional assessments.

The magic-channeling exercises of the past two years had produced tangible results.

His magical capacity had been climbing — slowly but steadily, like digging one extra spoonful from a well each day. Given enough time, the well grew deep.

It was painstaking work. Every night before bed, Regulus performed his magic circulation routine.

Cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slowed, sensing the magic.

Then imagining the energy flowing from his extremities to his chest, and back again, cycling.

Gradually, the deliberate visualization became unnecessary. The magic developed a will of its own, flowing naturally along the channels he had carved.

Like a river finding its bed.

And now he could make several feathers trace multiple perfect circles in the air, with trajectory deviation of less than a millimeter.

Or make the surface of a glass of water form intricate ripple patterns that held their shape for a long time without dissipating.

This was synchronization of magic and will — a shift in control precision.

Finally, there was recovery speed.

High-intensity practice sessions once demanded lengthy rest periods. Now, by guiding magic through internal circulation, he could accelerate natural recovery.

Like stretching after exercise to promote blood flow — magic had its own circulatory system.

From autumn 1971 through spring 1972, his three cousins each came into deeper contact with Regulus.

Bellatrix's visits to Grimmauld Place grew more frequent. At twenty, she had fully committed as one of Voldemort's earliest followers, a burning fanaticism smoldering in her eyes.

"The world is sick, Regulus." One afternoon in the garden, she told him: "Muggle filth has polluted magic. Half-bloods have diluted the ancient power. The Ministry is run by cowards.

What we need is a cleansing."

"Cleansing?" Regulus watched her slash a hand through the air like an invisible blade.

"Purging the impurities." Bellatrix smiled, but it was the kind of smile that sent a chill down one's spine. "The great gentleman will lead us. He has the power, the vision, the resolve.

Once he takes command, pure-blood families will stand at the summit once more. We don't want equality — we want true dominion."

"Dominion over whom?" Regulus watched his cousin, knowing she would gradually descend into madness until she became a mirror image of Voldemort himself.

But he could not halt that process, nor did he intend to.

"Everyone!" Bellatrix's voice surged with exhilaration. "Muggles, half-bloods, Mudbloods — they'll all find their proper place."

Narcissa's stance was different. At sixteen, she was a sixth-year at Hogwarts and a Slytherin Prefect — pragmatic and sharp.

"Bellatrix has her path," Narcissa told Regulus privately during a family gathering. "But you need to walk your own. Slytherin isn't only about fanaticism — we also have wisdom."

"Wisdom?"

"Calculation." Narcissa lightly prodded her cake with a silver fork. "Knowing when to advance and when to retreat. Knowing which people are useful and which are dangerous. Knowing what to say and what to conceal."

She offered a few practical tips: "Always have three excuses ready. Say you're caught out after hours — you need three different reasons for three different people.

To the professor: 'I got lost coming back from the library.' To the Prefect: 'I lost a pet.' To your friends, tell the truth — but make sure those friends are trustworthy."

"Never let anyone know you completely. Even your best friend should be kept from at least one secret. Secrets are leverage — and armor."

"In Slytherin, value matters more than friendship. What can you offer? Knowledge? Resources? Protection? Figure out your own value, then seek out people who need it."

Regulus listened carefully. Narcissa's words were cold, but they were honest — and useful.

Andromeda visited the least, yet Regulus paid her the most attention. Of the three cousins, she showed him the most genuine goodwill.

At seventeen, she was still a seventh-year at Hogwarts — famous across the school as an outsider.

She never joined the pure-blood cliques, preferring instead to discuss magical creatures with half-blood and Muggle-born students. Bellatrix had reprimanded her for staining the bloodline more than once.

Her visits to Grimmauld Place had become increasingly rare. Walburga did not welcome her — her thinking was "problematic."

On a rainy day in March 1972, Andromeda found Regulus in his room.

"I'm leaving," she said without preamble.

"Where?"

"Leaving Britain." Andromeda sat in the chair by the window. Rain traced long, thin lines down the glass. "I'm going to marry Ted. He's Muggle-born. You know what that means."

Regulus nodded. It meant disownment — her name scorched off the tapestry, the family refusing to acknowledge her existence.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"Yes." Andromeda was honest. "Afraid of losing my family. Afraid of being cast out. Afraid of the uncertainty ahead. But even more afraid of staying here and slowly turning into someone I don't recognize."

She looked at Regulus. "I know you're not like Sirius. You're clever, rational, you know how to compromise.

But don't let compromise become surrender. Don't let this family consume you. You have your own heart — remember that."

Regulus was quiet for a long time. Then he said: "Thank you."

"Take care." Andromeda stood, paused at the doorway, and looked back. "And... if someday you need help — real help — come find me. I'll be in France."

Another Black was leaving.