Chapter 47: Resolving the Dispute
Regulus reached the front rank and stood beside Narcissa. A sixth-year Nott snorted: "The Black family's little kid. No place for you here."
Regulus ignored him — but filed the face away.
His gaze landed on the far side of the corridor. Frank Longbottom's wand was already raised, its tip beginning to glow — the opening gesture of a Disarming Charm.
At almost the same instant, Lucretius Borgin lifted his hand.
It was about to begin.
Regulus moved faster. His right hand swept his wand outward, and a bolt of formless magic struck Frank Longbottom's wand.
It wasn't a spell at all — merely a pulse of disruptive energy. Frank's casting rhythm shattered; the light at his wand tip scattered and died.
The technique was nothing fancy. Any experienced adult wizard could have brushed it off. But against an inexperienced young wizard, it was precisely enough.
At the same instant, Regulus's left hand clamped around Lucretius Borgin's wrist.
Lucretius had been on the verge of casting. His wrist was suddenly pinned. He tried to wrench free, but the grip was like an iron clamp.
It wasn't brute strength alone — something stranger was at work. He felt the flow of his own magic being choked at its source; his entire arm went numb, and his wand nearly slipped from his fingers.
He stared at Regulus in shock.
Regulus, however, wasn't looking at him. His gaze had already turned to Narcissa.
His aim was to stop the inter-house brawl before it ignited. Any spell from either side could be the match, so he chose disruption and suppression.
Narcissa had been reaching for her wand. She met Regulus's eyes — and saw him shake his head, just barely.
Her wrist paused. She did not move again.
The entire sequence lasted a heartbeat. Both sides of the corridor froze.
Everyone had seen Regulus act — and then both prefects seize up. For a long moment, no one understood what had happened.
Utterly baffling.
On the Gryffindor side, Frank Longbottom looked at his own wand, then at Regulus, disbelief written across his face.
On the Slytherin side, Lucretius was still trying to free himself, but the hand didn't budge.
James Potter, too far back to read the situation, was still yelling: "Dirty tactics! Snakes!"
Sirius chimed in beside him, practically bouncing: "No honor!"
"Quiet." Frank Longbottom cut them off. He fixed his gaze on Regulus. "Who are you?"
"Regulus Black." Regulus released Lucretius's wrist. Posture understated, presence anything but. "First year."
"First year?" Frank frowned, glancing past Regulus to Lucretius and Narcissa.
Two seventh-year prefects had let a first-year step to the front?
He knew who Regulus was, of course. But what had this Black just done?
Lucretius flexed his wrist, expression dark. He said nothing.
Narcissa moved half a step forward to stand at Regulus's flank — equal parts endorsement and protection.
Regulus turned to Frank. "Prefect Longbottom, Madam Hooch's ruling has already taken effect. If Gryffindor disputes a referee decision, the proper course is a formal appeal — not a scene like this."
He turned to make eye contact with the Slytherin side, though his words were addressed to both: "As for fouls during the match — the referee issued warnings.
Competing to win within the rules is part of sport. If you feel the rules are unfair, push to change them — or adapt to them.
Post-match retaliation is beneath any of us."
James tried to interject, but Frank raised his hand, blocking him. The seventh-year prefect studied Regulus for a few seconds, then said: "You're right. This should go to the professors."
He lowered his wand. Behind him, the Gryffindor students followed suit, though their eyes remained hostile.
Just then, Professors McGonagall and Slughorn arrived.
The two professors pushed through the crowd, saw the standoff had already dissolved, and both exhaled in relief.
McGonagall swept a stern look over both sides. "Everyone — back to your common rooms immediately. Prefects, manage your houses."
Slughorn walked up to Regulus, a smile of approval on his plump face. "Very well handled, Mister Black. Neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor should have let a match escalate to this."
Regulus inclined his head. "I simply didn't want things to spiral, Professor."
"A wise course of action." Slughorn patted his shoulder, then looked to Lucretius and Narcissa. "Take Slytherin back."
As the crowd began to disperse, Regulus felt a gaze on him as he turned.
He looked up toward the staff platform. Dumbledore still sat there, watching from afar, the expression behind the half-moon spectacles unreadable.
Regulus didn't linger. He pulled his eyes away and walked back.
The Slytherin crowd parted ahead of him — not just the lower-years this time. The upper-years stepped aside as well.
Some looked displeased but held their tongues. Some frowned in thought. Others were simply enjoying the spectacle.
Avery, Hermes, and Alex fell in behind him. Avery's voice dropped: "Regulus, back there, you—"
"Back at the dorm." Regulus cut him off.
Only after the crowd had fully dispersed did Slughorn and McGonagall exchange a meaningful glance.
Slughorn beamed, gazing after the long-vanished figure. "That was impressive, wouldn't you say, Minerva?"
"Mister Black's handling was highly efficient, but..." McGonagall's tone carried a trace of concern. "...he's only a first-year. It's too early."
She recalled Dumbledore's assessment that Regulus had no desire for power. Yet for a wizard, immense strength and broad influence amounted to power all the same.
And Regulus was acquiring both — rapidly.
In another house, this might not signify much. But Slytherin was different.
"Minerva, some people are simply destined to be extraordinary." Slughorn chuckled genially.
McGonagall, preoccupied, resolved to speak with Dumbledore again about the Black matter.
"Perhaps."
That evening. Slytherin common room.
The fire roared, green flames casting restless shadows across the stonework. Most students were murmuring about the day's match.
They'd won — but the win didn't feel clean. Many resented Regulus for robbing them of a proper fight with Gryffindor.
Yet given the reputation and raw force Regulus had demonstrated, nobody had come forward to confront him.
Regulus occupied a sofa to himself, a book without a title resting on his knees.
He was practicing the Permanent Shield Charm, which had now progressed past the beginner stage and offered respectable defensive capability.
Around nine o'clock, Lucretius came over. He sank into the sofa across from Regulus and sat silent for a few seconds before speaking.
"What happened during the day." Lucretius's tone was subdued, shorn of its earlier patrician sheen. "When you grabbed my wrist... how did you do that?"
Regulus leaned back into the cushions, eyes lifting. "Just a little trick."
"A little trick?" Lucretius raised his right hand and rotated his wrist.
"It still feels slightly numb. My magic isn't flowing as smoothly as it should.
I thought about it all afternoon — even asked Professor Slughorn. He said it was a very advanced technique: direct magical interference through physical contact.
But you're a first-year. How?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, meant for two ears only. When he finished, his stare fixed on Regulus, utterly serious.
Regulus met the stare. Expression flat, unreadable.
Lucretius Borgin. Eldest son of the Borgin family, heir-apparent to Borgin and Burkes — that grey-market antique shop straddling both sides of the law.
In canon, the Borgins maintained an ambiguous posture during Voldemort's first rise and, remarkably, emerged unscathed.
Borgin himself was a shrewd and powerful wizard; even Voldemort had once worked in his shop — and the man had lived to tell the tale.
Such people warranted the highest consideration.
But Lucretius was still raw.
"Everyone has their forte." Regulus offered a somewhat sincere deflection. "My magical control tends toward the precise."
"Precise enough to sever someone's magical flow?" Lucretius's stare didn't waver, disbelief plain. "Even my father can't do that."
"Perhaps your father simply hasn't shown you."
Lucretius went quiet. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed — a touch self-mocking. "Fine. You don't want to say, and I won't ask.
But Black... I owe you one. If you hadn't stopped me today and I'd actually gone at Longbottom, McGonagall would've docked Slytherin at least fifty points."
"Prefect-led brawling. Probably more than fifty."
Regulus played along. He didn't believe for a second that Lucretius actually cared about house points.
At this age, for a pure-blood Slytherin prefect, house points were nothing more than a tool for maintaining standing — nothing beyond that.
"So — one I owe you." Lucretius stood. At the door, he glanced back.
Regulus shrugged — indifferent. Pressing someone into a sense of debt was, after all, an effective social technique.
He watched Lucretius's retreating back and calculated. The shift in tone was unmistakable — from condescension to something approaching equals. A good sign.
Display strength. Reap the returns.