The dormitory was located down a corridor deeper within the common room; the door was made of heavy oak and labeled with the letter "A".
Regulus pushed the door open to find a spacious room. Four four-poster beds were positioned in the four corners, draped with dark green curtains. Each student had an independent study area with a view of the Black Lake.
Two people were already there.
Avery Cuthbert sat on the bed by the window organizing his stationery. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a slightly upturned chin. He nodded when he saw Regulus.
"Black."
"Cuthbert."
Another boy sat on the innermost bed. He had black hair, a pale complexion, and shadows under his eyes.
He held a tattered copy of *Curses and Counter-Curses*. It was Hermes Mulciber. He looked up at Regulus with a gloomy gaze and nodded.
Regulus placed his trunk on an empty bed and began to organize. He arranged his textbooks on the bookshelf according to the class schedule, set out his quills and ink, and hung his robes in the wardrobe.
The door opened again, and a fourth person walked in. He had brown hair, gray eyes, a gentle expression, and wore neat but not particularly luxurious robes.
Alex Rosier, from a branch of the Rosier family. His parents held low-level positions in the Ministry of Magic. His family's status wasn't as high as the main branch, but they were still pure-bloods.
"Hello everyone," Alex said in a gentle voice. "I'm Alex Rosier."
Avery glanced at him and gave a faint nod. "Cuthbert."
Hermes didn't look up.
Regulus replied, "Regulus Black."
Alex smiled and placed his trunk on the last empty bed, which happened to be opposite Regulus.
The atmosphere in the room was a bit subtle, and Regulus silently analyzed it.
Avery represented the arrogant core circle of pure-bloods, Hermes was a gloomy Dark Arts enthusiast, and Alex was a gentle pure-blood from the periphery.
Avery looked at Regulus. "Back in the common room, you really embarrassed Travers."
Regulus didn't turn around. "He brought it on himself."
"His uncle is in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in a fairly high position."
"And?"
Avery smiled, an "I get you" look in his eyes. "So, well done. The Travers family has always thought of themselves as top-tier, but everyone knows about their family's dirty laundry."
Regulus turned to look at him.
Avery leaned against his headboard. "My father said that Slytherin needs some fresh blood this year—people with actual talent, not just useless trash who can only brag about their family trees."
He looked at Regulus. "You don't look like trash."
"What about you?" Regulus asked back.
Avery was stunned for a moment. "What?"
Regulus asked again, "Are you trash?"
Alex, who was organizing his things, looked up at those words but didn't speak.
Avery met Regulus's gaze in silence for two seconds before saying, "You'll find out."
Regulus nodded slightly. "I look forward to it."
Hermes suddenly spoke in a low voice. "That move where you blocked the flying wand… how did you do it?"
All eyes turned to Regulus.
"The Shield Charm," Regulus said, "plus a few little tricks."
"What tricks?" Hermes pressed.
"Can you use the Shield Charm?" Regulus asked instead of answering.
The Shield Charm was explicitly classified as a medium-difficulty defensive spell.
In the original story, even adult wizards couldn't necessarily use it proficiently. The Weasley twins once discovered that most Ministry of Magic employees couldn't cast a decent Shield Charm.
Hogwarts even listed it as a mandatory part of the fifth-year O.W.L. exams, meaning it was a spell that required two to three years of systematic magical foundation to master.
His roommates were all from pure-blood backgrounds, so they naturally understood what it meant to cast a Shield Charm in the first year.
In fact, Regulus must have mastered it even earlier.
Hermes stopped speaking. The look in his eyes had changed, though suspicion outweighed shock.
Alex took a sharp breath. "My father said only a minority of people in the Ministry can cast it effectively."
Avery stared at Regulus. "My father said—"
Regulus interrupted him. "Why don't you say something for yourself?"
Avery was stunned again. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
What could he say?
From childhood to now, no one had ever asked him that.
In the Cuthbert family, his father's words were truth. In pure-blood social circles, the elders' evaluations were the standard. Even in Slytherin, the experiences of the upperclassmen were the guide.
He was used to quoting, paraphrasing, and borrowing the authority of others to support his own views.
Avery felt something unfamiliar and hot crawling up his spine—it was shame.
He realized he was using his father's authority as armor, and the person in front of him had seen right through it.
He took a deep breath to suppress his inner nervousness and raised his chin a bit higher.
"The Shield Charm requires precise magic control and clear intent," Avery's voice was not quite steady. "The former requires long-term practice, and the latter requires a firm will."
"Most first-year students can't even make a feather float steadily."
He looked at Regulus. "So, you are not like most."
Regulus nodded, accepting this answer.
"Then neither are you," he said.
Avery blinked.
"If you can see all that," Regulus continued, "it shows you have powers of observation and judgment. You're not trash."
"Alright," Avery suddenly laughed after a moment of silence. He shrugged and leaned back against his headboard.
Alex Rosier had been holding his breath the entire time. He looked at Regulus, then at Avery, his eyes full of confusion and unease.
In his home—that gentle, polite, rule-abiding Rosier branch—no one ever spoke like this: blunt and sharp.
He admired Regulus's composure, yet he was afraid of something behind that calm.
*He doesn't seem like an eleven-year-old,* Alex thought. *He's like… like those department heads who walk briskly through the Ministry corridors, every word calculated.*
He decided he would write to his parents tonight and ask what exactly was going on with this second son of the Black family.
The room fell into silence…
The first class at Hogwarts for the Slytherin first-years was Potions.
In the hierarchy of the wizarding world, Potions were a yardstick to measure whether a wizard was rigorous, precise, and patient.
And Slytherin, at least in name, should be the house that possessed these qualities most.
The Potions classroom was located on the first basement level of the castle, slightly higher than the Slytherin common room but equally cold.
When Regulus entered the classroom, most students had already arrived. The long tables were neatly arranged, each equipped with two cauldron stands, a set of basic tools, and a pile of ingredients.
He glanced at the seating chart; Slughorn had clearly arranged it with care.
Slytherin and Gryffindor had classes together, but the seats were interspersed, likely to promote inter-house exchange—or more likely, just to watch the drama.
Regulus's seat was in the third row. His seatmate was a Gryffindor girl with blond hair and freckles on her face. She was nervously flipping through *Magical Drafts and Potions*, muttering to herself.
Seeing him sit down, she looked up, her eyes lighting up. "Are you Regulus Black?"
"I am."
"I'm Mary Macdonald." Her voice was a bit fast. "I heard that yesterday on the train, you made James Potter's spell disappear?"
News traveled fast. Regulus nodded without saying much.
Mary, getting a response, was in high spirits. "You should have made James Potter disappear along with it. I heard they're really out of line."
Regulus was slightly surprised that James already had such a reputation, and Sirius surely deserved some credit for that.
Out of consideration for his presence, Mary hadn't said more.
A bad reputation—even the Gryffindors were already dissatisfied.
Mary seemed to want to ask something else when the classroom door was suddenly thrown open.
Professor Horace Slughorn walked in.
He was stout and ruddy-faced, wearing a dark green robe covered in gold embroidery, with the buttons over his belly strained tight.
"Ah! Welcome, welcome!" Slughorn's voice was booming, filled with a performative enthusiasm. "Welcome to the world of Potions, the most subtle, dangerous, and beneficial of arts!"
He walked to the front of the podium, placed his hands on the desk, and scanned the classroom.
"I am Horace Slughorn, your Potions professor. Over the next seven years—or at least until you pass your O.W.L.s—I will lead you to explore the wonders within the cauldron."
His gaze swept over every face. "Some of you may have already heard of me; some may have heard of my… little club."
"But I assure you, in my classroom, what is required is your ability and focus, and most importantly, a love for this art."
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