Spring, 1965. In the garden behind 12 Grimmauld Place, the beech tree was just beginning to wake, tender green buds pushing through the bark.
"Regulus!"
Sirius came tearing out of the house, a toy sword flailing wildly in his hand.
"Look! I can make it glow!" He screwed his eyes shut in fierce concentration. A faint silver light flickered at the tip of the blade, held for two whole seconds, then fizzled out.
He was five now. Better control than last year. Still wildly unstable.
"Not bad." Regulus closed his book and offered a serious, dutiful nod.
Sirius plunged the sword into the dirt like he'd conquered foreign territory. "Let's go explore the basement. Kreacher says there's a box down there that bites!"
"I'm reading." Regulus shook his head.
"What's so great about books?" Sirius leaned in and peeked at the illustration guide. "They're all fake. Real dragons are way bigger than this. Bella said that important guy keeps a fire dragon as a pet!"
Regulus looked up. "Which important guy?"
"That one," Sirius whispered, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. "Bella says he's gathering followers, trying to bring back pure-blood glory. Dad says he's dangerous."
Regulus's heart skipped.
Voldemort.
Tom Riddle.
Already?
He ran through the timeline in his head. In the original history, Voldemort's first rise peaked in the early 1970s, but recruitment and groundwork would have started long before that.
He must already be moving in the shadows, waving the banner of pure-blood revival to lure old families to his side.
"What else did Bella say?" Regulus asked.
"She said he's really powerful. That he can make miracles happen." Sirius plopped down on a stone bench.
"Regulus, what are you thinking about?" Sirius poked his shoulder when he didn't respond.
"I'm thinking…" Regulus glanced at the book in his hands. "Knowledge is power. That important guy must have read a lot of books."
"That's not it at all!" Sirius shot back. "He's just born powerful!"
Naive, Regulus thought.
Power always has a source.
Voldemort's talent, his Horcrux research, his mastery of dark magic. None of it came from nowhere. It was taken from books, from experiments, from plunder.
A sudden sense of urgency washed over him.
There wasn't much time.
Once Voldemort rose in earnest, every pure-blood family would be dragged into it.
The Blacks, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, would have to choose a side. In the original timeline, most of the family joined the Death Eaters, except for Sirius and Andromeda.
And he, Regulus Black, would inevitably catch Voldemort's attention, especially if he showed unusual talent. And he couldn't not show it.
Preparation had to start now.
That afternoon, Regulus hugged three finished children's picture books to his chest and knocked on the door of Orion's study.
"Come in."
Orion sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing Wizengamot documents. He looked up, 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 set down his quill. "Real books?"
"Books with words. With knowledge. With magic."
Walburga stepped in just then with tea. She froze mid-step. "He's only four! Orion, don't indulge him. He should start with The Code of Pure-blood Family Etiquette. He needs to learn how to uphold the family's honor."
"Honor needs power behind it." Regulus's voice was soft, but unyielding. "If I'm not strong enough, how can I protect the Black family's standing?"
Walburga stared at him. Hearing that from a four-year-old was unsettling, almost eerie.
Orion nodded. He agreed. "Starting tomorrow, you can spend one hour a day in the library. Kreacher will accompany you."
"Yes, Father." Regulus turned and left the study.
He didn't show excitement or joy. This was only proper. There was no reason a child eager to learn should be refused.
Walburga opened her mouth to object, but Orion lifted a hand. "Walburga, our son needs a different education. The times are changing. That man is gathering power. The Black family needs more than an heir who only understands etiquette."
"You mean that man…"
"The entire wizarding world knows," Orion said heavily. "He recruits with power, tempts followers, crushes enemies with fear. The Lestranges have already aligned with him. The Malfoys are watching. The Blacks will have to choose sooner or later."
The next morning at exactly ten, Kreacher led Regulus to a set of double wooden doors at the far end of the third floor.
The doors were black oak inlaid with silver constellations. There were no handles, only two symmetrical keyholes shaped like open raven beaks.
"Two keys must be turned at the same time, young master," Kreacher said, producing them from his apron. One was silver-white, its handle carved with a sun. The other was pitch-black, carved with a moon.
They turned together.
Click.
The doors slid inward without a sound.
The first thing Regulus felt upon entering the library was pressure. The density of magic was overwhelming.
Silver motes of light hung visibly in the air. Bookshelves stretched from floor to a ceiling ten meters high. Even magic wouldn't reach the top. You needed a moving ladder.
Each shelf was carved with different magical creatures. Goblins and fairies at the bottom. Centaurs and merfolk in the middle. Griffins and fire dragons at the top.
At the center of the room stood a massive orrery, a complex brass mechanism modeling the solar system, with several additional celestial bodies only wizards knew existed.
"The open collection is on the left, young master," Kreacher whispered, as if afraid of waking something. "The family inheritance section is on the right and requires permission. Straight ahead is the Restricted Section. Please do not approach it."
Regulus went left.
He pulled out a volume on pure-blood family lineages and scanned it. Malfoy, Lestrange, Nott, Carrow. The future backbone of the Death Eaters.
Once those families threw their full weight behind Voldemort, half of Britain's magical power and resources would fall into his hands. And they would throw their weight behind him.
He needed power before that happened.
An hour later, Regulus drifted toward the family inheritance shelves.
The bookcases here were deep red mahogany, each volume sealed in its own magical barrier. Kreacher hovered nervously. "Young master, this area requires permission…"
"I'm just looking at the titles."
Then Regulus lifted his gaze.
Straight ahead lay the Restricted Section.
There were no shelves. Just a solid wall of black iron set into a stone archway. At its center stood a barred gate, the iron rods as thick as an infant's arm. Beyond it stretched deep darkness.
The lock was a bronze skull. Its jaw could move. The keyhole sat in the skull's left eye socket.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, peering through the bars. In the depths, shadowy shelves were barely visible. Gilt titles glimmered faintly in the dark:
Darkest Arts: The Origins and Advanced Study of the Unforgivable Curses
Blood Curse Research: Bloodline Magic and Eternal Binding
Necromantic Communion: Forbidden Rituals of Speaking with the Beyond
Each title struck him like a hammer.
Voldemort had read these. More than these. Horcruxes. Dark magic. Soul experiments. How much had he already mastered?
I have to know.
At least enough to understand what he's using.
But not now. The timing was wrong. The authority wasn't his yet.
Regulus turned to Kreacher. "Time's up. Let's go."
Before leaving, he cast one last look at the Restricted Section.
---
Back in his room, Regulus went to the window and stared out at the street below.
London at night was a moving ribbon of Muggle cars, headlights and taillights weaving red and yellow through the dark. The city's glow stained the sky so thoroughly the real stars couldn't be seen.
But he knew they were there anyway.
Voldemort's war. The power games of the magical world. Pure-blood pride and madness, families clawing for glory like it meant something permanent.
On a cosmic scale, it was all dust.
And right now, Regulus was trapped in it.
He watched the street and pictured a man somewhere out there, maybe in an Albanian forest, maybe in the ruins of something ancient, bent over Dark magic with a scholar's patience and a monster's appetite.
Tom Riddle.
The future Voldemort.
Time was running out.