Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The dormitory lay deeper down the corridor, behind a heavy oak door marked "A."

Regulus pushed it open. The room was spacious — four four-poster beds stood in each corner, hung with dark green curtains. Every student had a private study area, with a view of the Black Lake.

Two people were already inside.

Avery Cuthbert sat on the bed by the window, organizing his stationery. He was blond and blue-eyed, chin slightly raised. Seeing Regulus, he gave a brief nod.

"Black."

"Cuthbert."

Another boy occupied the bed farthest in — black-haired, pallid, shadows under his eyes as though permanently etched there.

He held a battered copy of "Curses and Counter-Curses." Hermes Mulciber. He looked up at Regulus once, eyes sullen, and nodded.

Regulus set his suitcase on an empty bed and began unpacking — textbooks arranged on the shelf in timetable order, quills and ink set in place, robes hung in the wardrobe.

The door opened again. A fourth boy entered — brown hair, grey eyes, mild features, wearing a robe that was neat but not lavish. Alex Rosier. A branch of the Rosier family. Both parents held low-level positions at the Ministry of Magic — the family lacked the standing of the main line, but they were still pure-blood.

"Hello." Alex's voice was gentle. "I'm Alex Rosier."

Avery glanced at him and nodded faintly. "Cuthbert."

Hermes did not look up.

"Regulus Black," said Regulus.

Alex smiled and placed his suitcase on the last empty bed, directly across from Regulus.

The atmosphere in the room was faintly charged. Regulus assessed them silently.

Avery represented the haughty inner circle of pure-blood society. Hermes was the brooding Dark Arts enthusiast. Alex was the mild-mannered pure-blood from the margins.

Avery addressed Regulus. "Just now in the common room — you humiliated Travers."

Regulus did not turn around. "He brought it on himself."

"His uncle is fairly senior in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"And?"

Avery allowed himself a small smile — one that said "I appreciate you." "And you did a fine job. The Travers family has always fancied itself upper crust, but everyone knows their dirty laundry."

Regulus turned to face him.

Avery leaned against the headboard. "My father says Slytherin needs fresh blood this year. Real talent — not dead weight who can only flaunt a family tree."

He studied Regulus. "You don't look like dead weight."

"And you?" Regulus countered.

Avery blinked. "What?"

Regulus asked again: "Are you dead weight?"

Alex, in the middle of unpacking, looked up but said nothing.

Avery held Regulus's gaze for two silent seconds. "You'll find out," he said.

Regulus inclined his head. "I look forward to it."

Hermes spoke suddenly, his voice low: "That move — knocking his wand away — how did you do it?"

All eyes turned to Regulus.

"Shield Charm," Regulus said, "plus a few small techniques."

"What techniques?" Hermes pressed.

"Can you cast a Shield Charm?" Regulus answered the question with a question.

The Shield Charm was classified as a defense spell of moderate difficulty.

In the original stories, even adult wizards did not necessarily master it reliably. The Weasley twins had once discovered that most Ministry employees could not produce a decent Shield Charm.

Hogwarts placed it on the fifth-year O.W.L. examination — meaning it was a spell expected to require two to three years of foundational study before it could be properly learned.

The roommates were all pure-blood; they understood exactly what it meant for a first-year to cast a Shield Charm.

And Regulus had obviously mastered it long before arriving.

Hermes asked nothing further. The look in his eyes had changed, though suspicion outweighed surprise.

Alex inhaled sharply. "My father says only a handful of people at the Ministry can cast one effectively."

Avery stared at Regulus. "My father says—"

Regulus cut him off. "Why don't you say something of your own?"

Avery stiffened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

What could he say?

All his life, no one had ever asked him that.

In the Cuthbert household, Father's word was gospel. At the pure-blood gatherings, the elders' judgments were the benchmark. Even in Slytherin, the upperclassmen's experience was the guide.

He had grown accustomed to quoting, relaying, borrowing someone else's authority to prop up his own views.

Avery felt something unfamiliar and scalding crawl up his spine. It was shame.

He realized he had been wearing his father's authority like armor — and the person in front of him had seen through it at a glance.

He took a deep breath, suppressed the nervousness, and lifted his chin a fraction higher.

"The Shield Charm demands precise magical control and clarity of intent." Avery's voice was not entirely steady. "The former requires prolonged practice; the latter, a resolute will.

Most first-years can't even make a feather hover steadily."

He looked at Regulus. "So you're not like most."

Regulus nodded — accepting the answer.

"Then neither are you," he said.

Avery blinked.

"If you can see all that," Regulus continued, "it means you have observational ability and judgment. Not dead weight."

"All right," Avery said after a beat of silence, and then he laughed. He shrugged and leaned back against the headboard.

Alex Rosier had been holding his breath the entire time. He looked at Regulus, then at Avery, eyes full of bewilderment and unease.

In his household — that mild, polite, perpetually rule-abiding branch of the Rosiers — no one spoke like this. So direct. So sharp.

He admired Regulus's composure, yet there was something behind it that unsettled him.

'He doesn't seem eleven,' Alex thought. 'He's more like... like those departmental directors who strode through the Ministry corridors — every syllable a calculation.'

He decided he would write to his parents tonight and ask what exactly was known about the Black family's younger son.

The room fell into silence.

......

The very first class at Hogwarts, for the Slytherin first-years, was Potions.

In the wizarding world's hierarchy of disciplines, Potions was the measure of whether a witch or wizard was rigorous, precise, and patient.

And Slytherin — at least in name — was supposed to be the house that embodied those qualities best.

The Potions classroom lay one level below ground, slightly higher than the Slytherin common room but just as cold.

Most students had already arrived when Regulus walked in. The long tables were arranged neatly, each equipped with two cauldron stands, a basic toolkit, and a pile of ingredients.

He checked the seating chart. Slughorn had clearly put thought into it.

Slytherin and Gryffindor shared the class, but the seats were interspersed — ostensibly to encourage inter-house exchange, or more likely for the entertainment value.

Regulus's seat was in the third row. His desk partner was a Gryffindor girl — blonde, freckled — nervously leafing through "Magical Drafts and Potions" and muttering under her breath.

Seeing him sit down, she looked up and her eyes brightened. "You're Regulus Black?"

"I am."

"I'm Mary Macdonald." Her words came quickly. "I heard that yesterday on the train, you made James Potter's spell disappear?"

News traveled fast. Regulus nodded without elaborating.

Mary, heartened by the confirmation, pressed on with enthusiasm: "You should've made James Potter disappear along with it. I've heard they're awful."

Regulus was mildly surprised — James had already made a name for himself, and Sirius had undoubtedly contributed.

Mary had refrained from saying more only because he was present.

A bad reputation — Gryffindor was already fed up.

Mary seemed about to ask something else, but the classroom door opened abruptly.

Professor Horace Slughorn walked in.

He was rotund and ruddy-cheeked, wearing a dark green robe lavishly embroidered with gold, the buttons across his belly straining valiantly.

"Ah! Welcome, welcome!" Slughorn's voice boomed, dripping with performative enthusiasm. "Welcome to the world of Potions — the most exquisite, most perilous, and most rewarding of all the magical arts!"

He swept to the front of the room, palms flat on the desk, and surveyed the class.

"I am Horace Slughorn, your Potions professor. For the next seven years — or at least until you've sat your O.W.L.s — I shall guide you through the marvels that lie within the cauldron."

His eyes traveled across every face. "Some of you may already have heard of me. Some may have heard of my... little club.

But I assure you — in my classroom, what matters is your ability, your focus, and above all, your passion for this art."