The Boy and the Broken Family

On August 31, 1971, the atmosphere at the dinner table of 12 Grimmauld Place was grave.

Sirius was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, and Walburga had been preparing for it since a week ago.

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

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

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

"I won't go to Slytherin." Sirius repeated himself, his eyes fixed on the roast lamb chops on his plate. "I'll go to Gryffindor."

The dining table fell silent.

Even the Ancestral Portraits on the walls stopped whispering. Phineas Nigellus stared wide-eyed from his frame, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

Orion slowly set down his wineglass. "The Sorting Hat considers a student's wishes, but it also considers bloodline and traits. The Blacks have all been in Slytherin for five hundred years."

"Then I'll be the one to break it." Sirius said stubbornly. "I don't want to spend seven years with a bunch of venomous snakes."

"Venomous snakes?" Walburga's voice began to tremble. "That is where our family has belonged for generations! That is glory!"

"It's a cage!" Sirius suddenly grew agitated. "I don't need the Black family's glory! I just need to be myself!"

He turned to Regulus. His ten-year-old brother looked calm as he cut off a piece of steak and put it into his mouth.

"What about you?" Sirius asked. "You'll go to Slytherin, right?

Be their perfect heir, study hard, behave well, and wait for the day you take over this rotten family."

Regulus raised his eyes to look at him. "I'll go where I belong."

"Belong?" Sirius laughed. "There's only one place fit for Blacks: Slytherin's dungeons, together with those madmen obsessed with Pure-blood glory. Enjoy yourself, little brother."

He turned and left the dining room.

Walburga slumped into her chair, her face ugly with rage. Orion remained expressionless, but Magic Power surged around him.

Regulus continued eating the food on his plate.

He knew what would happen. In the original story, Sirius would be sorted into Gryffindor, becoming the first Black not to enter Slytherin.

He also knew that, beginning tomorrow, many things would start to change.

On the evening of September 1, an Owl brought a letter from Hogwarts.

Walburga's hands trembled as she tore open the envelope. She skimmed the Parchment, her face changing from pale to livid. Her lips quivered, 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, the atmosphere at 12 Grimmauld Place was like a funeral.

But Regulus knew this was only the beginning.

Starting the next day, Walburga shifted all her attention onto him.

"You must be ten times better than him," she said at breakfast. "No, a hundred times! You must prove that Black blood has not fallen into decline. Prove that the true heir is here."

Regulus merely nodded without speaking.

This was exactly what he had wanted, but the price was Sirius's departure—eventually, his leaving this home altogether. He did not feel particularly happy about it.

But this was the best arrangement.

He gained new privileges: unlimited access to the Library, permission to borrow some books from the Family Heritage Section, and even the right to read several less dangerous experimental notes under supervision.

After Sirius left home, the manor became much quieter. Regulus spent four hours every day in the Library, two hours in the Attic, and the rest of his time dealing with his mother's lessons and his father's occasional examinations.

The Magic Guidance Cycle had brought tangible changes over the past two years.

His Magic Capacity had been growing slowly but steadily, like digging one extra scoop from a well each day. Given enough time, the well would grow deeper.

It was Grindstone Work. Every night before bed, Regulus practiced the Magic Cycle Practice.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and sensed his Magic Power.

Then he imagined Magic Power flowing from every part of his body to his chest, then back through his limbs, beginning its cycle.

Gradually, he no longer needed to imagine it deliberately. Magic Power seemed to gain a will of its own, naturally flowing along the paths he had opened.

Like a river that had found its River Channel.

And now, he could make several Feathers trace multiple perfect circles in the air, with trajectory errors of less than one millimeter.

Or he could create intricate ripple patterns on the surface of a cup of water and keep them from dispersing for a long time.

This was the synchronization of Magic Power and will, a change in the precision of his control.

Finally, there was his recovery speed.

He used to need long periods of rest after intense training. Now, by guiding Magic Power through cycles within his body, he could accelerate its natural recovery.

Just as stretching after exercise promoted blood circulation, Magic Power had its own circulatory system.

From the autumn of 1971 to the spring of 1972, Regulus gradually came into close contact with his three cousins.

Bellatrix began visiting Grimmauld Place more often. At twenty, she had already become an early follower of Voldemort, and a burning fanaticism shone in her eyes.

"The world is sick, Regulus," she told him in the garden one afternoon. "Muggle filthy blood has polluted Magic, Half-blood wizards have diluted ancient power, and the Ministry of Magic is controlled by cowards.

We need a cleansing."

"A cleansing?" Regulus watched her slash fiercely through the air, as though wielding an invisible blade.

"Removing impurities." Bellatrix smiled, but the smile sent chills down his spine. "The Dark Lord will lead us. He has power, vision, and resolve.

Once he takes power, Pureblood families will stand at the top again. We do not need equality. We need true rule."

"Rule over whom?" Regulus looked at Bellatrix before him, knowing she would gradually go mad until she became Voldemort's image.

But he could not stop this process, nor did he intend to.

"Everyone!" Bellatrix's words were filled with excitement. "Muggles, Half-bloods, Mudbloods—they will all find their proper places."

Narcissa's attitude was different. At sixteen, she was a sixth-year at Hogwarts and a Slytherin Prefect, practical and shrewd.

"Bellatrix has her own path," Narcissa told Regulus privately at a family gathering. "But you need to walk your own. Slytherin is not all fanaticism. We have wisdom as well."

"Wisdom?"

"Balance." Narcissa lightly poked at her cake with a silver fork. "Knowing when to advance and when to retreat. Knowing who is useful and who is dangerous. Knowing what should be said and what should be hidden."

She taught him several practical tricks. "Always have three excuses ready. For example, if you are caught wandering at night, have three different reasons prepared for different people.

Tell a professor you got lost in the Library. Tell a Prefect you lost a pet. Tell your friends the truth, but make sure they are trustworthy."

"Never let anyone understand you completely. Even your closest friend should be kept from at least one secret. Secrets are bargaining chips, and they are armor too."

"In Slytherin, value matters more than friendship. What can you offer? Knowledge? Resources? Protection? Think carefully about your own value, then find those who need it."

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

Andromeda visited the least, but Regulus cared about her the most. Of his three cousins, she showed him the greatest kindness.

At seventeen, she was still a seventh-year at Hogwarts and a well-known oddity throughout the school.

She never joined the little circles of Pure-blood students. Instead, she often discussed Magical Creatures with Half-blood and Muggle-born students, and Bellatrix had scolded her many times for defiling the bloodline.

She visited Grimmauld Place less and less. Walburga did not welcome her because she believed there was something wrong with Andromeda's thinking.

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

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

"Where to?"

"Leaving the UK." Andromeda sat in the chair by the window as rain drew long streaks down the glass. "I'm marrying Ted. He's Muggle-born. You know what that means."

Regulus nodded. It meant being disowned, having her name burned from the Tapestry, and no longer being acknowledged by the family.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

"I am." Andromeda answered honestly. "Afraid of losing my family, afraid of being rejected, afraid of an uncertain future. But I'm even more afraid of staying here and slowly becoming someone I no longer recognize."

She looked at Regulus. "I know you're different from Sirius. You're smart, rational, and you understand compromise.

But don't let compromise become surrender. Don't let this family devour you. You have your own heart. Remember it."

Regulus was silent for a long time before saying, "Thank you."

"Take care." Andromeda stood, then turned back at the door. "And... if one day you need help—real help—you can find me. I'll be in France."

Another Black was about to leave.