Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Tuesday afternoon. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled of old leather and dust.

Regulus sat in the third row of the Slytherin section, watching Professor Galatea Merrythought at the lectern — a self-proclaimed former adventurer — demonstrate with sweeping gestures how to identify and avoid Grindylows in a swamp.

"...And remember, children! If you see the water bubbling and hear cackling, back away immediately! Grindylows love nothing more than dragging an isolated wizard underwater!"

Merrythought flourished his wand, conjuring a blurry water-creature shape in the air. He had clearly not prepared a live specimen.

'Tom Riddle,' Regulus mused. 'Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Simply because he was passed over for the Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship, he cursed the position.'

From that point on, no professor lasted longer than a year — each meeting with misfortune, forced resignation, or outright disappearance.

Childish and cruel revenge.

And more absurdly, the curse genuinely seemed to have degraded the teaching quality.

Perhaps the professors subconsciously knew the post was cursed and went through the motions.

Or perhaps they feared that the better they taught, the harder the curse would strike. Regulus looked at the lectern. Merrythought was demonstrating how to use a Wand-Lighting Charm to disperse shadow creatures from dark corners, but the spell's glow flickered on and off, as though his own attention were elsewhere.

The first-year curriculum was pitifully shallow — identifying a handful of low-level dark creatures, learning basic defensive gestures, memorizing a few safety guidelines.

'The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection' covered all of that in its first two chapters. The remaining time should have been spent practicing actual response techniques.

But there was no practice, because Merrythought did not teach it — and the students saw nothing amiss. They were rather pleased, in fact.

'A rubbish class not worth attending. Self-study would be more productive.'

......

The library was perhaps the quietest place in Hogwarts — no shrieking young witches and wizards here.

Regulus nodded to Madam Pince at the entrance and received a solemn look in return.

He went straight for the Magical Theory and History section.

Since the start of term, his physical strengthening had continued and yielded impressive results.

But Regulus had detected a bottleneck.

The body was a vessel, containing the soul. He could make the vessel larger — but if the water inside did not increase accordingly, it was nothing more than an empty shell.

Meaningless.

A wizard's wellspring of power was magic, and according to mainstream theory, magic originated in the soul and was expressed through mental will.

If that were so — could the mind itself be trained?

He stopped before a bookshelf, scanning the spines.

Most were introductory texts on meditation, mental focus, and Occlumency — basic in content, but pointing in the right direction.

Regulus drew out a volume titled "Consciousness and Magic: A Study of Ancient Meditation Techniques."

It was thin, its parchment cover worn. He opened it and saw the first chapter heading:

"Wizards reshape reality not because of magic, but because will comes first."

He read on.

"The ancient runic wizards believed that magic was a bridge — linking the inner world to external reality.

A powerful will could use that bridge to stamp its mark upon the real world.

Weather magic altered the heavens, battle magic distorted the environment — at their core, these were a wizard's will, channeled through the medium of magic, forcibly overwriting reality."

"Therefore, the distinction between a strong wizard and a weak one lies not only in the quantity of magic, but in the intensity, clarity, and resonance of the will with reality."

Resonance?

Regulus closed the book and sank into thought.

Why could some wizards perform advanced magic with ease while others struggled with a simple Levitation Charm?

Beyond age, knowledge, wisdom, and raw magical power — what else was there?

He thought of Dumbledore — the greatest light wizard of the century. Regulus knew he was especially proficient in Transfiguration.

The original stories never explicitly stated it, but he was confident Dumbledore could alter weather and terrain — perhaps even more.

When magic reached that level, did it qualify as will overwriting reality?

And Voldemort — his magic was another kind of extreme.

Perhaps it was tearing.

The Cruciatus Curse tore apart the sensation of pain. The Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, tore apart the connection to life. Even Horcruxes — that was tearing one's own soul.

Those were questions for later, when he had the capability. Right now, he needed to find a method for strengthening the mind.

He continued searching, scouring nearly every shelf until, in the farthest corner on the bottom row, he found a slim pamphlet with a faded cover. The title was barely legible:

"Astral Meditation: Training Mental Extension Through Stargazing"

The author's name was smudged, but on the title page was a handwritten note:

"Those who gaze upon the stars are not confined by the earth. The courses of the stars are the writing of the universe. Imitate them, understand them, and ultimately — resonate with them."

Resonance again?

This was the one.

"Black?"

A hushed voice came from the adjacent aisle. Regulus looked up to see Lily Evans standing between two rows of shelves.

She cradled a stack of books; the topmost was "An Analysis of Common Magical Plant Toxins."

"Miss Evans." Regulus closed the "Astral Meditation" pamphlet and slid it behind a thicker volume.

Hidden for now — he would collect it later.

"Doing research?" Lily stepped closer, green eyes alight with curiosity. "I heard... you said some very interesting things in Charms class."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "What things?"

"About memories of Hogwarts." Lily set her books on the table nearby and rotated her sore arms. "Someone said you told your classmates that thirty years from now, the people we'll miss most are the ones we copied homework with."

"The remark made its way to the Gryffindor common room. A lot of people thought it didn't sound like something a Slytherin would say."

'Is that what I said?' Regulus thought, mildly exasperated. 'I said other things too, but all you caught was "copying homework."'

"That kind of remark doesn't need a house label. And it's simply the truth.

Think back to your primary school — your Muggle primary school. What do you remember most clearly? Getting such-and-such a rank on an exam, or the rainy day a classmate shared half an umbrella with you?"

Lily blinked, then smiled. "The umbrella. In Year One, I forgot mine. Martha Cotton scooted her big floral umbrella over — we both got a wet shoulder, but we laughed all the way to the school gate."

"You see?" Regulus nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Magic doesn't change things like that. Wizards are people too — just with a bit of extra magic."

Lily studied him. Liveliness danced in her gaze. "You're not like the Slytherin I imagined."

Regulus looked at Lily but did not take up that thread. Instead he asked: "Do you know why all four houses share certain classes?"

Lily considered. "To... help us understand each other?"

"Partly. The more practical reason is that after graduation, there are no more house divisions.

When you join the Ministry, your colleague might be a Slytherin. If you go to St. Mungo's, your attending Healer might be a Ravenclaw.

When you shop, the proprietor might be a Hufflepuff. And if you become an Auror, the person you're arresting might be a Gryffindor.

Houses are labels for school years — not brands for a lifetime."

Lily was quiet for a few seconds, then said softly: "Thank you for telling me that. I've never thought about it before."

"The truth is, everyone is different," Regulus said earnestly. "Houses are rough categories — they shouldn't be followed blindly.

There are narrow-minded people in Ravenclaw. There are ambitious schemers in Hufflepuff. And in Slytherin..."

Lily finished the thought: "...there are people who know how to share an umbrella?"

The corner of Regulus's mouth curved upward. "Perhaps."

Lily Evans had been personally acknowledged by Slughorn as a Potions genius — a verdict confirmed by the original story. Her talent rivaled Severus Snape's.

Regulus's future path would inevitably require high-level Potions support. Some needs could be taken openly to Slughorn, but the more clandestine work clearly called for a more trustworthy private collaborator.

Slughorn was excellent, but he was a shrewd intelligence clearinghouse — every request would become gossip at his next club meeting.

Snape could be driven by mutual interest, motivated by an exchange of knowledge and secrets, but that kind of relationship rested on a dangerous equilibrium — one conflict of interest and it would collapse.

Snape had never been a particularly upright character.

Genuine friendship built on mutual respect — that was the most durable framework.

Moreover, Lily Evans herself was one of the key nodes in this magical world.

In the future narrative, she played a pivotal role linking events together.

She was the proof that Muggle-borns could succeed in the wizarding world, the future mother of Harry Potter — the central figure — and the emotional core around which many of the story's tragedies and turning points revolved.

Befriending her meant threading his own line into the tapestry of this world.

When the day came that he truly needed an unknown potion, a helper no one would suspect — Regulus was almost certain she would answer the call.