"I'll send an owl every week!"
"We absolutely must meet up in Diagon Alley during the summer holidays!"
King's Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, was a chaotic sea of steam and joyful noise. Young witches and wizards were enthusiastically bidding farewell to each other, dragging heavy trunks, hugging tightly, and making desperate promises to meet again before September.
Regulus finally managed to locate Sirius, who was in the midst of a highly dramatic, reluctant parting with James Potter. After dragging his older brother away from his friends, the two Blacks stepped back through the magical barrier and returned to Muggle London.
Their father, Orion Black, was already waiting for them precisely at the appointed meeting spot near the station exit.
Perhaps because the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black actually resided deep within a Muggle residential area in London, Orion's choice of 'undercover' Muggle attire was surprisingly accurate and familiar to Regulus. The patriarch wore an impeccably tailored, elegant three-piece charcoal gray suit, complete with a perfectly knotted silk tie.
With his dark hair neatly slicked back, piercing gray eyes, and sharply distinct aristocratic features, Orion cut an imposing figure. He carried himself with his chin slightly raised, his gaze constantly lowered as if looking down his nose at the world, and his back as straight as a steel rod. He was undeniably, intimidatingly stylish.
If he walked down a busy London street, the only thing that would actively distinguish him from the surrounding wealthy Muggle businessmen was his deeply aloof, intensely world-weary attitude. His sheer aura was easily three times gloomier than the notoriously miserable British weather.
Looking at him now, Regulus could instantly confirm that the family's genetic imprint on Sirius was far, far deeper than his rebellious brother would ever care to admit. The innate, effortless elegance revealed in Sirius's every casual movement and posture was a perfect, mirrored shadow of their father.
"Good day, Father," Regulus greeted smoothly, without a moment's hesitation. He had inherited this body and its memories; he was Regulus now.
"Good day, Father," Sirius muttered indifferently, keeping his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Orion ignored his eldest son's insolence. He naturally reached out and firmly grasped Regulus's shoulder. On Orion's right hand sat a massive, heavy gold signet ring, deeply engraved with the Black family crest.
"Apparate."
With a sickening, violent sensation of 'breaking the void' that felt as though he were being squeezed through a tight rubber tube, Regulus was instantly overcome with dizziness and intense nausea. A split second later, the three of them appeared seamlessly in the dark, gas-lit entrance hall of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.
What a horrific, wonderful piece of magic, Regulus thought, swallowing back the urge to empty his stomach.
They walked in silence down the long entrance hall. Their boots sank into the plush, dark carpet, illuminated only by the sickly, orange-yellow light of a massive, spiderweb-shaped crystal chandelier. They passed a polished mahogany entrance table flanked by hissing, snake-shaped silver candlesticks. They walked past the notorious umbrella stand fashioned from a severed Troll's leg. (Regulus fought back a smile. Was his future niece, Tonks, about to be born soon? She was going to absolutely hate that thing.) They moved past rows of scowling, whispering family wizard portraits, and finally, past the morbid, decorative row of shrunken, wrinkled House-elf heads mounted on the wall.
The ancestral home's interior aesthetics were undeniably, deeply bizarre. But thanks to Kreacher's fanatical, obsessive hard work, there were absolutely no signs of dust or decay anywhere; everything in the gloomy house was meticulously clean, polished, and gleaming like new.
Their mother, Walburga Black, was already waiting for them in the formal drawing-room on the second floor. She sat perfectly upright on a dark velvet sofa. A delicate porcelain tea service and a plate of intricate pastries, meticulously prepared by Kreacher, sat untouched on the low coffee table in front of her.
Within the walls of 12 Grimmauld Place, Walburga was the absolute, undisputed mistress of the house. Her sheer, overwhelming aura was significantly stronger and far more volatile than their father's. (It was a well-known, slightly uncomfortable family fact that their parents had an older sister/younger brother dynamic regarding their bloodline relation; Walburga was currently forty-eight, while Orion was forty-four).
Visually, Walburga's image leaned heavily into the classic aura of an aristocratic, villainous dark witch. She had sharply hollowed, thin cheeks, intense, deeply-set dark eyes, and her long, black hair was pulled up into a severe, elaborate style. She wore heavy, dark turquoise robes. Resting against her collarbone was a massive opal necklace that shimmered with a dangerous luster, and a blindingly large sapphire ring surrounded by a halo of crushed diamonds sat heavily on her finger.
For some inexplicable reason, Regulus thought, she reminds me of one of those dramatic Muggle divas who insists on wearing full diamond jewelry even when taking a bath alone at home.
Honestly, if her face wasn't constantly twisted into an expression of bitter dissatisfaction with the entire world, she would have been considered quite strikingly beautiful. Furthermore, if you ignored their slightly old-fashioned, highly formal clothing, both of his parents possessed a terrifyingly ageless quality, easily looking only about thirty years old.
Regulus, the 'good son,' historically had a very close relationship with his mother. But from the objective perspective of a modern stranger looking in, both Walburga and Orion gave off the overwhelming impression of being deeply distant, incredibly strict, and naturally cold-hearted people.
"Good day, Mother!"
"Good afternoon, Mother."
Two greetings, delivered with two completely, vastly different attitudes, echoed across the drawing-room.
"Regulus. Welcome home, my darling," Walburga's thin, painted lips curved into a rare, genuine smile, though it faded quickly as her eyes shifted. "You as well, Sirius."
"Mum!" Regulus said, injecting his voice with a bright, entirely fabricated boyish warmth. He walked over naturally, pulling a small, velvet-wrapped box from his robes. He looked positively radiant as he offered it to her. "This is a special gift. Sirius and I worked on it together at Hogwarts to prepare it for you—"
Standing by the door, Sirius pursed his lips unnaturally and turned his head sharply away, staring out the dark window. He was a boy fiercely loyal to his own stubborn morals, and he deeply, fundamentally disapproved of the manipulative theatrical performance Regulus was currently putting on.
Walburga was visibly surprised by the sudden, highly affectionate change in Regulus's typically reserved demeanor. This year at Hogwarts truly seems to have made him mature so beautifully, she thought fondly. She reached out with pale fingers and popped open the velvet box.
Resting against the dark silk inside was a delicate silver necklace. The chain itself was relatively unremarkable, but the pendant was breathtaking. It was uniquely set with two large, slightly irregular diamonds. The upper stone was a brilliant, icy blue, while the lower stone was a near-flawless, transparent white diamond. The gems practically threw sparks of light around the gloomy room, a clear side-effect of highly compressed magic.
This was the direct result of a highly illegal project Regulus had specifically dragged Sirius and his Gryffindor friends into just before the holidays.
"I have a theoretical experiment," Regulus had pitched to the Marauders in the library. "Listen closely and tell me if you're interested in attempting some highly advanced, highly lucrative magic."
One of the independent Transfiguration projects Regulus had been obsessively researching in the Room of Requirement was the structural alteration of standard graphite into pure diamonds. Perhaps because they were technically the exact same base element (carbon), or perhaps because of the massive 'subjective idealism' bonus brought on by Regulus's advanced scientific knowledge from his previous modern life—the Transfiguration was actually nowhere near as magically difficult as traditional wizards believed it to be.
(Regulus's internal monologue: Thank God the author of this reality is openly giving me a massive Transfiguration cheat code.)
And when you combined that modern scientific theory with the raw, terrifying magical talent of Sirius, James, and Remus—the very boys capable of eventually creating the phenomenally complex Marauder's Map—the results were staggering. Regulus highly suspected that by the end of this summer, the mothers of several prominent pureblood families would be unknowingly receiving priceless, magically forged diamond jewelry from their troublemaking sons.
"This...?" Walburga breathed, completely taken aback. She was utterly shocked that her sons—especially Sirius—had actually spent their own time and allowance to buy her high-end jewelry.
"The blue and white stones perfectly symbolize the binary star system of Sirius in the Canis Major constellation. That portion was entirely Sirius's Transfiguration work," Regulus lied smoothly, weaving a highly sentimental narrative. "The white diamond set below it symbolizes the star Regulus in the Leo constellation. I transfigured that one."
Regulus smiled modestly. "I'm not entirely sure how long a Transfiguration product of this complexity can maintain its form. But we specifically used a heavily compressed carbon base material, so theoretically... it might last for a very, very long time."
Like, forever, he added mentally. Because it's literally just carbon.
Walburga stared down at the glittering chain in her hands. For the first time in years, her dark eyes actually looked slightly moist. Her hands moved almost faster than her brain could process the emotion; she hastily unclasped her massively expensive, goblin-wrought opal necklace and tossed it onto the table. With trembling fingers, she fastened the simple, transfigured necklace her sons had made for her around her throat.
The eternally bitter, tight expression on her face completely vanished, replaced by a soft, deeply satisfied, and overwhelmingly proud smile.
"Thank you, Regulus. Thank you, Sirius," she said, her voice unusually thick. "It is incredibly beautiful. I love it very much."
As the Muggle saying goes: 'A designer bag cures all ailments, but the medicinal, psychological effect of high-end jewelry is easily three times stronger.' And when that jewelry is personally, magically crafted and given by her estranged sons? The emotional value was simply incalculable.
Standing behind them, Father Orion quietly received a matching, magically forged star lapel pin. He pinned it to his suit without a word, but the proud glint in his gray eyes was unmistakable.
A short while later, the seemingly united family walked down the creaking stairs to the basement kitchen for dinner.
Kreacher, wearing a relatively clean, snow-white towel draped like a toga, stood at attention by the massive wooden table, which was already laden with heavy silver tableware. The ancient elf's large, bat-like ears twitched rapidly, and his massive, protruding, bloodshot eyes looked at Regulus with absolute, unrestrained joy and deep affection.
"Kreacher. It is very good to see you again," Regulus smiled warmly at the old elf. Looking at the fiercely loyal, tragically broken creature, Regulus felt a sudden, genuine surge of affection. He made a mental note to give Kreacher the special gift he had brought back from Hogsmeade later tonight.
"Please wash your hands, Master Regulus. And Master Sirius," Kreacher croaked, bowing so low his snout nearly brushed the stone floor.
Even though Sirius was technically the eldest son and the primary heir to the family, for some highly biased reason, Kreacher always, without fail, addressed Regulus first.
After the family of four was seated in stiff, formal silence, the House-elf hurried to the table carrying a massive, steaming silver tureen. He carefully ladled the rich soup into small, ornate silver bowls one by one.
The French onion soup was absolutely exquisite. It was truly a culinary masterpiece. In short, it was infinitely better than the heavy, bland, horribly overcooked British food Regulus had been forcing down at Hogwarts for the past nine months. Not to mention, he had practically lived on dry sandwiches for the last few weeks of term while grinding his skills; his abused taste buds were practically singing in joy.
"Thank you, Kreacher," Regulus said genuinely after taking a sip. "It is absolutely delicious."
"Kreacher has also prepared Master Regulus's absolute favorite treacle tart for dessert," the elf practically purred, shooting a nasty, sideways glare at Sirius.
Sirius sat across the table, silently eating his soup, looking completely lost. Who am I? Where am I? What has happened to my family?
"Regulus," Orion spoke up, holding a delicate crystal glass of sparkling apple cider. He was clearly in an exceptionally good mood. "We received your final marks via owl this morning. We heard that you achieved an 'Outstanding' in every single one of your final exams." He took a sip of cider. "Tell me. What kind of reward do you desire for such a flawless academic performance?"
"Whatever you wish for, darling, your mother will ensure you receive it," Walburga added generously, touching the diamond pendant at her throat.
Regulus set his silver spoon down and looked his parents dead in the eye.
"I want an eagle," Regulus said flatly. "A real, live hunting eagle. Not an owl."
Walburga blinked, then let out a rare, sharp bark of laughter. "Well, of course an owl isn't an eagle, silly boy. What a strange request."
"Don't you think," Regulus said smoothly, a perfectly innocent smile playing on his lips as he spread his hands, "that an owl essentially just looks like a majestic eagle... but with a fat cat's head glued onto it?"
"Heh." Hearing the exact same absurd dialogue from the Great Hall repeated at the dinner table, Sirius couldn't help himself. He snorted into his soup, a genuine, barking laugh escaping him.
Orion looked between his two sons, having absolutely no idea what the inside joke was, but seeing them both smiling, he actually let out a low, rumbling chuckle of his own.
For one brief, incredibly fragile moment in time, sitting in the gloomy kitchen of Grimmauld Place... they were actually a happy family.