The dormitory for the first-year boys was located down a separate corridor within the Slytherin dungeons. A heavy oak door marked "A" guarded the entrance.
Regulus pushed it open.
The room was spacious, cool, and undeniably grand. Four four-poster beds stood in the corners, draped in emerald velvet curtains with silver tassels. Each student had a personal study alcove, and the window—made of enchanted glass—looked directly out into the murky depths of the Black Lake.
Two boys were already there.
**Avery** sat on the bed nearest the window. He was blond, blue-eyed, and had the kind of chin that was perpetually raised in challenge. He was organizing his stationery with meticulous precision.
He looked up as Regulus entered.
"Black."
"Avery."
The second boy occupied the darkest corner. **Mulciber**. He had lank black hair, a pale complexion, and dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. He held a battered book on Dark Theory, his fingers tracing the spine. He glanced at Regulus with gloomy, guarded eyes and gave a jerky nod.
Regulus placed his dragon-skin trunk on the empty bed to the right. He unpacked efficiently. Textbooks were arranged by subject on the shelf. Quills and ink were set in the drawer. His robes were hung with care.
The door opened again.
The fourth boy walked in. He had soft brown hair, grey eyes, and a gentle face that seemed out of place in the dungeons. His robes were neat, but the fabric was noticeably cheaper than Avery's or Regulus's.
**Evan Rosier**. A branch family member. His parents were low-level Ministry bureaucrats—pure-blood, but without the vault gold to back it up.
"Hello," Rosier said, his voice mild. "I'm Evan Rosier."
Avery glanced at him and gave a dismissive nod. "Avery."
Mulciber didn't look up.
"Regulus Black," Regulus said.
Rosier smiled gratefully and took the last bed, directly opposite Regulus.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. It was subtle, but Regulus felt it. It was the silent calibration of hierarchy.
*Avery represents the arrogant pure-blood core,* Regulus analyzed. *Mulciber is the dark enthusiast. Rosier is the fringe element seeking acceptance.*
Avery broke the silence.
"You embarrassed Travers in the Common Room," he said. It wasn't an accusation; it was an observation.
Regulus didn't turn around. He continued arranging his books. "He asked for it."
"His uncle is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Avery noted.
"So?"
Avery smiled. It was a conspiratorial expression. "So... well done. The Travers family has always thought they were royalty, but everyone knows their blood is thinning."
Regulus turned to look at him.
Avery leaned back against his pillows, looking pleased with himself. "My father says Slytherin needs fresh blood this year. People who are actually capable, not just peacocks flaunting their family names."
He looked Regulus up and down. "You don't look like trash."
"And you?" Regulus countered smoothly.
Avery blinked. "What?"
"Are you useless?" Regulus asked. His voice was polite, but the question was a blade.
Evan Rosier stopped unpacking. He looked up, wide-eyed. Mulciber finally lowered his book.
Avery stared at Regulus for two full seconds. The air in the room grew tight.
"You'll find out," Avery said finally, his voice hardening.
Regulus nodded. "I look forward to it."
"How did you block the spell?"
The question came from the corner. Mulciber spoke in a low, raspy voice.
All eyes turned to him, then back to Regulus.
"A Shield Charm," Regulus said simply. "With modifications."
"What modifications?" Mulciber pressed. He looked hungry for the answer.
"Do you know how to cast a standard Shield Charm?" Regulus asked instead of answering.
Silence.
The Shield Charm (*Protego*) was a moderate-difficulty spell. In the Ministry, half the employees couldn't cast a decent one. At Hogwarts, it wasn't taught until the fifth year. For an eleven-year-old to use it effortlessly was unheard of.
His roommates were pure-bloods. They knew exactly what it meant.
Mulciber fell silent. His gaze shifted from suspicion to a grudging respect.
"My father says only the Aurors can cast it properly," Rosier whispered, looking awestruck.
Avery scoffed, trying to regain control. "Well, *my* father says—"
"Why don't you say something yourself?" Regulus interrupted him.
Avery froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
*What could he say?*
In the Avery household, the father's word was law. In pure-blood circles, elders were the authority. Avery had spent his entire life quoting others to sound important.
He felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. He realized Regulus saw right through him. He saw the boy hiding behind his father's robes.
Avery took a deep breath. He swallowed his pride and raised his chin.
"The Shield Charm requires precise magical regulation and clear intent," Avery said, his voice a little shaky but his own. "Most first-years can't even float a feather steadily."
He looked at Regulus directly. "So you are not the majority."
Regulus nodded. "Correct."
"Then neither are you," Regulus added.
Avery blinked.
"If you can analyze the requirements of the spell," Regulus said, "it means you have observation skills. It means you are not useless."
Avery stared at him. Then, a genuine grin broke across his face. He shrugged and leaned back. "Okay."
The tension broke.
Evan Rosier let out a breath he had been holding. He looked at Regulus with a mixture of fear and admiration. This wasn't how eleven-year-olds talked. This was how Ministry directors talked.
He decided he would write to his parents tonight. He needed to ask them about the second son of the House of Black.
The room fell into a comfortable silence.
*Phase two complete,* Regulus thought. *The hierarchy is established.*
◈ ◈ ◈
**September 2, 1972**
The first class of the year was Potions.
In the wizarding world, Potions was the litmus test. It measured patience, precision, and discipline—qualities Slytherin House claimed to value above all else.
The classroom was in the dungeons, just down the corridor from the Common Room. It was cold, damp, and smelled of pickled toad and sulfur.
When Regulus entered, most of the students were already there.
He checked the seating chart. Slughorn had arranged it strategically. Slytherins and Gryffindors were paired together, likely to encourage inter-house unity—or perhaps just to enjoy the fireworks.
Regulus found his seat in the third row.
His partner was a Gryffindor girl with blonde hair and a constellation of freckles across her nose. She was nervously flipping through *Magical Drafts and Potions*, muttering ingredients under her breath.
She looked up as he sat down. Her eyes went wide.
"You're Regulus Black?"
"I am."
"I'm Mary Macdonald," she said breathlessly. "Is it true? Did you really make James Potter's spell disappear on the train?"
*News travels fast,* Regulus thought.
He gave a slight nod.
Mary beamed. "Good! You should make him disappear next time. He and your brother... they're awful. They think they own the place."
Regulus raised an eyebrow. He was surprised James had managed to annoy his own Housemates this quickly. Sirius must have been helping.
Before Mary could ask for details, the dungeon door banged open.
Professor Horace Slughorn swept in.
He was a large man, shaped remarkably like a walrus in a velvet smoking jacket. His gold buttons strained across his stomach, and his face was flushed with good cheer.
"Ah! Welcome! Welcome!" Slughorn boomed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Welcome to Potions! The most subtle, the most dangerous, and the most rewarding of the magical arts!"
He waddled to the front of the room, resting his hands on his desk. He beamed at them all.
"I am Professor Slughorn. For the next seven years—or at least until your OWLs—I will guide you through the wonders of the brewing arts."
His eyes twinkled as he scanned the room, pausing briefly on certain faces—likely checking them against a mental list of famous surnames.
"Some of you may have heard of me. Some may have heard of my... little club." He chuckled, a rich, self-satisfied sound. "But in this room, names matter less than skill. I require focus. I require precision. And most of all... I require a love for the art."
He clapped his hands together.
"Now! Let us begin!"
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