**March 1964**
The Black family tea party was not a leisure activity; it was a blood sport masked as a social gathering.
Walburga had invited her sisters ostensibly to welcome the spring, but everyone knew the real reason: she wanted to display her sons like prized show hippogriffs.
Bellatrix Black arrived first. At thirteen, she was already terrifying. She wore a dark green velvet dress that looked severe on her frame, her hair combed back so tightly it pulled at her scalp. Her eyes were critical scanners, hunting for flaws in the furniture, the food, and the people.
"I heard you blew up the living room," she said, cornering Sirius by the fireplace. Her voice wasn't accusing; it was hungry.
Sirius, desperate for validation, puffed out his chest. "I can control it now! I'm strong."
Druella Black swept in moments later, trailing her other daughters like satellites. Nine-year-old Andromeda offered Regulus a gentle smile, while eight-year-old Narcissa immediately began appraising the new silk curtains with the eye of a future society queen.
The adults settled into the drawing room. The conversation was a dull hum of pureblood gossip—Department of Magic reshuffles, scandalous engagements where the groom's vault was fuller than his bloodline was pure, and whispered rumors about a rising political leader.
The children were seated at a low table set with exquisite silver cutlery. Sirius was bouncing in his chair. The mundane chatter of the adults bored him; he wanted to perform.
Regulus, meanwhile, was lost in thought. He stared at his fork, contemplating the mechanics of Transfiguration. *Why does the spell require visualization?* he wondered. *Magic rearranges atoms. If I strip away the image and focus on the molecular density, surely the result would be cleaner...*
"Watch closely," Sirius hissed, snapping Regulus out of his reverie.
Sirius was staring intensely at his silver spoon. "I'm going to bend it. Just with my mind."
Magic surged. It wasn't a stream; it was a flood.
The spoon began to curl. It bent backward, creating an elegant arch.
"See?" Sirius grinned, sweat beading on his forehead. "I can do more."
He pushed harder. He wanted it to loop. He wanted to impress Bellatrix, who was watching him with hooded eyes.
But desire is not control.
Sirius glanced at his cousin, seeking approval, and in that split second of distraction, the magic slipped the leash.
*Pop.*
The magic didn't just hit the spoon; it washed over the entire table setting.
Regulus felt the magical pressure drop instantly. He looked down. The silver sheen of the cutlery vanished. The metal softened, turning a fleshy, nauseating pink. Ridges formed along the handles.
In the blink of an eye, the silver spoons, forks, and knives were gone.
In their place, twelve fat, pinkish-red earthworms writhed on the pristine white tablecloth.
The silence in the room was absolute.
Walburga's face drained of color, turning a ghostly white. Druella set her teacup down with a sharp *clink*, her expression freezing into a rictus of polite horror.
Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. She covered her mouth with a hand, letting out a theatrical, mocking gasp. "Oh, my."
Sirius stared at the worms. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. "I..."
Walburga's hand twitched toward her wand. Regulus saw the look in her eyes. It wasn't just anger; it was humiliation. The tea party was ruined. Sirius was going to be punished, and the house would be unbearable for days.
*Trouble,* Regulus thought. *If I don't fix this, we all suffer.*
He slid off his chair. He walked to the edge of the small table and looked down at the chaos.
*Interesting,* he noted, his adult mind overriding his toddler instincts. *The structural integrity is remarkably preserved. The Transfiguration rearranged the molecular lattice but didn't destroy the mass.*
His brain shifted gears. He didn't see magic as a wish; he saw it as code.
*Silver atoms are resilient. They have a shape memory. The key isn't to force them back; it's to remind them of what they were.*
He raised his small hand, palm down, hovering four inches above the wriggling mess.
He didn't shout a spell. He didn't get emotional. He simply calculated. He built a 3D model in his mind—a lattice of silver, stable and cold. He calculated the flow of energy needed to reverse the entropy.
It felt less like casting a spell and more like solving a complex equation. *Six spoons. Six forks. Mass constant. Reverse trajectory.*
A soft, silvery light began to glow from within the worms.
They stopped wriggling.
One by one, they floated up, arranging themselves into a perfect, rotating hexagon in mid-air.
Bellatrix leaned forward, her dark eyes widening. Narcissa gasped. Andromeda whispered, "Merlin..."
The transformation was silent and fluid. The pink flesh hardened, turning metallic. The ridges smoothed out. The worms elongated, snapping back into the rigid geometry of silverware.
Ten seconds later, the cutlery was restored. It hung suspended in the air, gleaming under the chandelier.
Regulus flicked his index finger.
The items separated, flying back to their original places on the table. They landed without a sound—perfectly aligned, perfectly spaced.
Only one item remained imperfect: Sirius's original spoon. It lay there, silver again, but still bent, showing deep creases of metal fatigue.
Regulus extended his finger and touched the crease.
*Recrystallization temperature,* he thought. *Localize the heat. Resonate the atoms.*
The metal shimmered. The crease smoothed itself out as if an invisible iron were passing over it. Five seconds later, the spoon was pristine.
Regulus withdrew his hand. He sat back down, picked up a half-eaten biscuit, and took a bite. He kept his face blank, hiding the smug satisfaction blooming in his chest.
*Nailed it.*
"Merlin's beard!" Druella blurted out, losing her composure entirely.
Bellatrix stood up. She walked to the table, snatched up a spoon, and examined it. She tapped it against her fingernail—*ting*—and held it up to the light. It was real silver.
She turned to look at Regulus, her expression unreadable. "How... how did you do that?"
Regulus chewed his biscuit. "They wanted to go back."
"What?"
"The worms," Regulus said, offering the most childish explanation he could muster. "They wanted to be spoons again. I just helped."
It was a ridiculous lie, but coming from a three-year-old, it was the only explanation that made sense to them.
Narcissa leaned toward Andromeda. "He looks so... bored."
Andromeda nodded, her brow furrowed. "It's unnatural."
Walburga's face went through a complex gymnastics routine: shock, confusion, and finally, blinding ecstasy. She composed herself quickly, remembering her audience. She took a sip of tea, her hand trembling slightly.
"Regulus has a... unique intuition for Transfiguration," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed pride.
Druella laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "Intuition? Walburga, that was a miracle. He is three! When Orion was three, he was still eating dirt."
The attention of the room shifted entirely to the small boy eating a biscuit.
Sirius sat frozen in his chair. His face was burning. He looked at the perfect spoon, then at his brother. Regulus glanced at him and saw the damage. The pride was gone, replaced by a deep, stinging hurt.
The tea party ended shortly after. As soon as the guests left, Walburga scooped Regulus up into her arms.
"My genius!" she cried, spinning him around. "I knew it! You are the future of this House!"
Over her shoulder, Regulus saw Sirius.
The four-year-old was standing in the doorway, clutching the frame. His eyes were wet. He looked at his mother fawning over Regulus, and a shadow passed over his face—jealousy mixed with a terrible sense of inadequacy.
*Double trouble,* Regulus thought. *I saved the silverware, but I might have broken my brother.*
Sirius turned and ran, his footsteps thudding heavily up the stairs.
"He's throwing a tantrum again," Walburga scoffed, putting Regulus down. "Ignore him. You did the right thing."
*He's four,* Regulus thought sadly. *And he just realized he's not the only star in the sky.*
◈ ◈ ◈
That night, Orion knocked on the nursery door. He still smelled of the Ministry—parchment ink and the cold stone of the courtrooms.
"I heard about today," Orion said, sitting in the chair opposite Regulus's bed. "Exquisite skill."
Regulus sat up, hugging his knees.
"How did you do it?" Orion asked. His voice wasn't demanding; it was curious.
Regulus hesitated. He couldn't say *'I used molecular theory.'*
"I don't know," Regulus said. "I just... saw what to do."
"Saw?"
"I saw what the worms used to be. I saw the spoons inside them. So I just... pulled the spoons out."
Orion stared at him for a long moment. It was a plausible explanation for a child prodigy. Sirius had power—raw, explosive, emotional. Regulus had control—precise, analytical, quiet.
"Interesting," Orion murmured. "But listen to me, Regulus. Do not show too much. Genius inspires envy. And fear."
Regulus looked up. "Cousin Bella seemed... happy."
Orion's expression darkened. "Bellatrix is obsessed with power. And there are powerful people rising in our world who collect talent like her. Be careful."
Regulus nodded. He knew exactly who Orion meant. Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort.
*I know,* Regulus thought. *I know exactly how dangerous it is to be useful.*