𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

The Transformation of Regulus Black

"The Transformation of Regulus Black"

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and faint lavender, a scent Walburga Black insisted on having during her labor. She lay exhausted, her normally pristine hair damp with sweat as she gazed at the tiny bundle the healer carefully handed over. Orion Black, her husband, stood at her side, looking down at the child with a mix of pride and trepidation.

“Heir Black,” the healer began, a soft, practiced smile on her face, “this is your—”

“My daughter, Regula,” Orion interjected sharply, his voice leaving no room for debate. His hands gently brushed the soft blanket as he leaned down to inspect the child. “You don’t need to tell me.” His tone carried the weight of a man who knew his place in the world and demanded others respect it.

The healer hesitated, then nodded, stepping back silently. Walburga looked to Orion with a weak smile. “Regula,” she whispered. The name settled in the room like dust after a storm. Neither parent noticed the faint flicker of something deeper in the child’s hazel eyes.

---

Three years later, laughter filled the elegant parlor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Orion Black, uncharacteristically joyous, lifted a giggling child high into the air. The toddler's black curls shone under the chandelier, and the sound of their innocent mirth echoed against the cold walls, filling the somber house with warmth it rarely knew.

“My Regula!” Orion proclaimed, his voice booming. He spun the child in a circle, drawing delighted squeals from the small figure in his arms. The house elves, peeking around corners, exchanged surprised glances. Their master, so often cold and stern, was radiating warmth.

Regula giggled, tiny hands reaching for Orion’s face. “Papa!” came the gleeful cry, the first word spoken that evening. Orion’s heart swelled, and he held the child close. If he noticed the spark of willfulness in those young eyes, he didn’t say a word.

---

Seven years later, the grandeur of Grimmauld Place was on full display. The Blacks hosted their annual gala, a gathering of pureblood families to demonstrate their continued dominance and unity. The room glittered with the light of enchanted chandeliers reflecting off ornate silver and green décor.

Orion Black stood at the top of the grand staircase, commanding attention with his mere presence. At his side was Regula, no longer the giggling toddler but a poised and composed ten-year-old dressed in impeccably tailored robes.

The room quieted as Orion raised a hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice steady, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. “Tonight, I have the pleasure of formally introducing you to my son.”

There was a collective pause, the faintest ripple of confusion flashing across a few faces in the crowd. Orion’s hand settled firmly on the child’s shoulder. “Regulus Arcturus Black.”

Regulus inclined his head, his expression unreadable yet deliberate. The weight of the name filled the room, and murmurs broke out as the child descended the stairs, walking with a quiet confidence that defied his age.

As Regulus mingled, he felt the pressure of the room’s eyes on him. Whispers of “heir” and “pureblood legacy” reached his ears. Inside, he clung to the identity Orion had bestowed upon him. “Regulus,” he whispered to himself, feeling the strength in the name.

---

Years later, Regulus Black would look back on these moments with a complex blend of gratitude and resentment. Gratitude for his father’s unwavering pride in him, and resentment for the path it forced him onto. Regulus Black, the son of Orion and Walburga, was destined for greatness—or perhaps destruction. He would become a figure of legacy, not because of who he was born as, but because of who he chose to become.