(September 4, 1971)
Regulus Black knew his brother’s sorting long before his parents opened the crimson velvet envelope. His gaze remained fixed on the owl delivering the letter, small fists clenched on the polished table. He envisioned the torrent of familial scorn Sirius would endure. A part of him had secretly hoped Sirius would uphold tradition, yet his mother’s shriek confirmed his prediction. Sirius had defied expectation, landing in a house antithetical to their lineage.
“There must be a mistake,” Walburga declared, her voice laced with fury. “Sirius could *not* be sorted into that… filth.” Regulus lowered his eyes to avoid her wrath. As he did, he noticed another envelope lying beside his feet.
The parchment bore his name in a familiar script. It was a handwriting he knew better than any other.
Before his parents noticed, the youngest Black retrieved his letter. They likely dropped it without realizing. He opened it in the solitude of his room. Inside was a photograph of Sirius, framed against the Gryffindor common room’s tapestry. A small note accompanied the image.
“Roar roar, now you have a lion to take care of.”