Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

The two stood ten feet apart and bowed slightly.

"Begin." Narcissa announced.

Hermes moved almost the instant the word left her lips, wand jabbing forward: "Rictusempra!"

A silver flash raced toward Regulus. Opening with a Tickling Charm — not vicious, but very sudden.

Regulus did not move his feet. A casual flick of his wand sent an identical silver flash from its tip; the two spells collided in midair and exploded into a shower of glittering sparks.

"Locomotor Mortis!" Hermes followed up instantly. A blue bolt skimmed barely above the floor.

Regulus merely tapped the ground. An invisible barrier rose before him and the Leg-Locker Curse struck it like a ramp, deflecting sideways before fizzling out against the wall.

"Impedimenta!" Hermes fired a third spell, angled to conceal its trajectory.

"Impedimenta." Regulus uttered the same incantation. The twin spells met in the center with a dull double thud.

But Regulus's was plainly more powerful — it shattered Hermes's spell and, still intact, hurtled onward toward him. Hermes threw himself into a roll to dodge, barely, looking somewhat ragged.

The younger students' eyes went wide, hands pressed to mouths. The upperclassmen nodded repeatedly.

Anyone could see that Regulus's spell power was staggering.

Regulus still had not launched a single offensive attack. He simply parried or deflected each of Hermes's strikes with effortless composure — a Binding Spell swatted aside, an Incendio quenched by Aguamenti.

Some spells he evaded with the subtlest of movements.

Throughout it all, Regulus had not left the small patch of floor where he first stood.

Every spell he used came from the most elementary defensive and interference charms in "The Standard Book of Spells," yet each was placed perfectly — heavy work made to look light.

His expression never once changed, as though this were not combat at all; his easy posture made it look more like a demonstration.

Hermes, meanwhile, grew faster and more cunning with each volley, displaying spell-work far beyond an ordinary first-year — clear evidence of advance tutoring at home.

But his face grew steadily uglier, his breathing rough.

He was no fool. He could tell that Regulus had not used anything close to his full strength — might not, in fact, have exerted himself at all.

That effortless handling was humiliating.

"Is dodging all you can do, Black!" Hermes snarled, fury and something vicious flashing in his eyes.

He abandoned the rapid-fire barrage. Wand raised high, he began chanting in a deeper, more guttural register. An ominous dark-red glow gathered at the tip. The very air seemed to chill.

Several upperclassmen frowned. Prefect Lucretius stepped forward as if to intervene.

Narcissa's brow furrowed; her fingers closed around her wand.

But it was already too late.

"Bone and Blood Separation!" Hermes hissed the final syllables. A beam of darkest red — almost black — radiating cold and agony, lanced toward Regulus.

Dark Magic!

It was clearly an incomplete version, its power greatly diminished, but the malicious nature was unmistakable. Gasps erupted across the common room.

Facing this venom-laced strike, Regulus's eyes — calm and still throughout — finally showed the smallest flicker of change.

As expected. Hermes specialized in Dark Arts. Regulus could tell with certainty that the boy had used this spell on a living person before.

'How very... familial.'

Regulus set aside his elementary spells.

His wand pointed forward — no gesture, no incantation. The motion was spare to the point of austerity.

A silver barrier, solid as crystal, materialized before him in an instant. Complex yet orderly ripples flowed across its surface.

The dark-red beam slammed into the silver shield.

Where they met, a teeth-aching hiss arose — the sound of metal being corroded.

The crimson glow gnawed furiously at the shield but could not penetrate.

The stalemate lasted roughly two seconds. Under Hermes's ashen face and disbelieving stare, the dark-red beam spent itself and dissolved entirely. The silver barrier stood as solid as ever.

In the very instant the crimson light vanished, Regulus took one step forward. A point of red light kindled at his wand tip.

"Expelliarmus."

A scarlet bolt — far more concentrated and swift than any spell Hermes had thrown — tore through the air like lightning and struck Hermes square in the chest.

Crack!

The wand soared, spinning in a high arc, and was caught neatly in Regulus's free hand.

The fight was over.

This was the courtesy Regulus afforded his roommate. A Jelly-Legs Curse would have dropped Hermes to his knees just as easily.

From the moment Hermes cast the Dark spell to Regulus dissolving the attack and completing the disarm — fewer than five seconds. So fast that many had not yet recovered from the shock of seeing Dark Magic.

The common room was deathly silent. Every eye fixed on the center of the floor.

Hermes stood rooted, right hand still frozen in a gripping posture.

His body trembled faintly. His face was chalk-white, eyes hollow — as though he could not accept that his most secret, most relied-upon weapon had been so casually dismantled.

Regulus walked forward and held the wand out to him. His voice was level — no victor's smugness, no scorn for Dark Magic. Only cool composure:

"A good attempt. But the spell structure was unstable and your magical supply was intermittent. Next time, commit to killing me — don't waver."

The words dropped into silence like stones into still water.

"Kill." The word, spoken so calmly by an eleven-year-old, sent a chill down every spine.

The upperclassmen reacted most overtly. Lucretius Borgin's eyebrows climbed; undisguised admiration — even delight — shone in his eyes.

Beside him, several core fifth- and sixth-year pure-bloods exchanged looks and began whispering: "Did you hear that? 'Commit to killing me!'

Merlin! Those words coming from a first-year..."

"Elegant. Powerful. And..." A seventh-year girl — a Carrow — moistened her lips, eyes burning.

"No pearl-clutching hysteria about Dark Magic. He knows exactly what it is. That is what a Slytherin should look like."

"The Black family may actually produce someone formidable this time," a Nott boy concluded, his tone careful.

In their eyes, Regulus regarded Dark Magic objectively, appraising the practitioner's skill while disregarding the spell's inherent evil.

That attitude, in a sense, aligned more closely with certain ancient pure-blood values than Hermes's half-baked Dark spell itself.

Alex Rosier's lips moved. He glanced at Hermes — face drained, looking as though his soul had been siphoned out — then back at the serene Regulus.

He wanted to say something. Perhaps "This is just a match — talk of killing is too much..." or "Hermes used Dark Magic — that's wrong..."

But the words died on his tongue.

When Regulus's calm gaze swept past him, every naive thought froze solid. He could only look away in a fluster, staring at the tips of his shoes.

Avery Cuthbert was in a different frame of mind entirely.

During the Flying lesson confrontation, he had told himself the gap between him and Regulus might not be so vast — just a matter of technique and tactics to chase down.

Now he understood. The gap was visible to the naked eye. He clenched his fists, then slowly released them. In the end, he merely watched the two figures on the floor with a complicated expression and did nothing.

As for Hermes Mulciber himself — his empty gaze snapped into sudden focus, boring into Regulus. Within it churned humiliation, shock, fear, and a thread of dishevelment.

He had indeed hesitated. He had not dared — could not — unleash the spell's full power in front of so many witnesses.

He snatched back his wand, fingers white-knuckled around the grip, ducked his head, and retreated swiftly into the shadows at the crowd's edge, locking every emotion back behind that gloomy mask.

"Ahem." Narcissa cleared her throat lightly, breaking the uncanny stillness.

She and Lucretius exchanged a glance. Both understood that tonight's welcome had achieved its purpose — and then some.

Continuing further was unnecessary; there would be no more suspense.

Lucretius stepped forward, surveying the remaining first-years. His voice was as steady as ever: "Well then — does anyone wish to challenge Black, or Mulciber?"

His gaze traced a slow arc. Alex stared at the floor. The other newcomers shook their heads in rapid succession, avoiding his eyes.

Even Avery, who might have entertained the thought moments ago, stood silent and still.

"In that case, the title of Head of First-Years goes to Regulus Black. I hope each of you will take this as your standard and strive to improve."