Chapter 15: Getting Along with My Roommates
Dormitory A lay down a corridor tucked deeper behind the Slytherin common room. Its door was heavy oak, and a simple metal letter A had been fixed to the centre.
Regulus pushed it open and stepped into a room far larger than he had expected.
Four four poster beds stood in the corners, each with dark green curtains drawn back neatly. Each student had a private study space, complete with a desk, shelves, and a clear view out into the Black Lake through thick glass that carried a faint, cold shimmer of enchantment.
Two boys were already inside.
Avery Cuthbert sat on the bed nearest the window, laying out quills, ink, and parchment with deliberate care. He had pale blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a chin that tipped upward by habit rather than need. When he noticed Regulus, he gave a short nod.
"Black."
"Cuthbert," Regulus replied.
The other boy sat on the innermost bed, half in shadow. His hair was black, his skin was pale, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes that made him look tired even while sitting still. He held a battered copy of Curses and Counter Curses, its spine bent and its pages soft from overuse.
Hermes Mulciber.
He looked up, met Regulus's eyes with a gloomy, measuring stare, and nodded once.
Regulus chose the empty bed, set his dragonhide trunk at its foot, and began unpacking.
He arranged his textbooks on the shelf according to the timetable he already knew by heart. Quills and ink went to the right side of the desk, parchment to the left. Robes hung in the wardrobe, folded and spaced as if a house elf might inspect them. Each movement was neat, economical, and unhurried.
The door opened again.
A fourth boy stepped in, carrying his trunk with both hands. He had brown hair, grey eyes, and a gentle expression. His robes were clean and properly fitted, but not especially expensive.
Alex Rosier. A branch line, not the main one. Ministry parents with modest positions. Still pure blood, still a name that mattered, but not the sort that made people stand when you entered a room.
"Hello," Alex said, voice soft. "I'm Alex Rosier."
Avery glanced at him and gave a faint nod.
"Cuthbert."
Hermes did not look up from his book.
Regulus paused only long enough to answer politely.
"Regulus Black."
Alex smiled, a little relieved to receive anything resembling normal conversation, and set his trunk on the last empty bed. It happened to be the one opposite Regulus.
For a moment the room fell into a careful kind of quiet, the sort that was not peaceful so much as observant. Regulus assessed it without moving his face.
Avery carried himself like someone who expected deference and enjoyed testing whether he would get it. Hermes looked like a boy who had already decided the world was disappointing and had chosen the Dark Arts as compensation. Alex looked like he had been raised on manners and rulebooks and was now realising Hogwarts did not always respect either.
Avery broke the silence first.
"Back in the common room," he said, leaning back against his headboard, "you embarrassed Travers."
Regulus did not bother turning fully around.
"He embarrassed himself."
"His uncle is in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Avery added, tone casual. "Fairly high up."
"And?" Regulus asked.
Avery's mouth curved, and something like approval flickered in his eyes.
"So, well done. The Travers family have always acted like they sit at the top of everything, but everyone knows their dirty laundry."
Regulus turned then, slow and deliberate, giving Avery his full attention.
Avery seemed to take that as permission to continue.
"My father said Slytherin needs fresh blood this year," he said. "People with real talent, not useless rubbish who can only recite their family trees."
His gaze stayed on Regulus.
"You don't look like rubbish."
Regulus studied him for a beat.
"What about you?" he asked.
Avery blinked, thrown off balance.
"What?"
Regulus repeated the question, voice level.
"Are you rubbish?"
Alex, midway through stacking his things, froze and looked up, but said nothing.
Avery held Regulus's eyes for two silent seconds, then answered, a little too smoothly.
"You'll find out."
Regulus nodded once.
"I look forward to it."
Hermes spoke without lifting his head, voice low and rough as if he did not use it often.
"That thing you did. Blocking the wand in midair. How?"
All three sets of eyes turned towards Regulus.
"The Shield Charm," Regulus said, "and a few small adjustments."
"What adjustments?" Hermes pressed at once.
Regulus did not answer directly.
"Can you cast the Shield Charm?" he asked instead.
That question hit the room harder than the earlier one.
A Shield Charm was not a toy spell. It demanded control, clarity, and the kind of practice most students did not manage until years into school. Pure blood children might grow up hearing adults speak of it, might even see it used at dinners and gatherings, but that was very different from doing it themselves.
Hermes fell silent. Suspicion remained in his eyes, but shock had joined it, and the combination made him look almost wary.
Alex sucked in a breath.
"My father said only a minority in the Ministry can cast it properly," he blurted, as if he could not stop himself.
Avery stared at Regulus, then began, "My father said"
Regulus cut across him, calm but sharp.
"Why not say something for yourself?"
Avery stopped as though someone had seized his throat.
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Regulus watched him without impatience.
Avery had spent his whole life wrapped in other people's authority. In the Cuthbert household, his father's judgement was law. In pure blood circles, the older generation's opinions were a measuring stick. In Slytherin, upper years were treated like maps through a dangerous country.
It was easier to quote. Safer to borrow someone else's certainty.
Now, with one quiet sentence, Regulus had peeled that armour away.
Heat crawled up Avery's spine. Not anger. Shame.
He realised, suddenly and painfully, that he had been speaking through his father's mouth, and the boy across from him had noticed immediately.
Avery drew in a slow breath, forcing his nerves down. His chin lifted, not in arrogance this time, but in a stubborn effort to meet the moment.
"The Shield Charm requires precise magical control and a clear intent," Avery said. His voice was not fully steady, but it held. "Control comes from long practice. Intent comes from will."
He glanced at Alex, then at Hermes, then back to Regulus, as if establishing his own ground.
"Most first years cannot even keep a feather floating straight."
His eyes sharpened.
"So you are not like most."
Regulus nodded, accepting it as a fair assessment.
"Then neither are you," he said.
Avery blinked.
"If you can see that," Regulus continued, "you have observation and judgement. That is not rubbish."
For a moment Avery looked caught between pride and relief. Then he laughed, sudden and genuine, and dropped back against his headboard as if he had decided to stop performing.
"Alright," he said, shrugging. "Fair."
Alex had been holding his breath through most of the exchange. He looked from Regulus to Avery, unsettled.
In his corner of the Rosier family, people spoke softly. They implied. They avoided cutting words, even when they meant them.
Regulus had not raised his voice once, yet everything he said landed like a verdict.
He is not like an eleven year old, Alex thought. He is like the department heads you see in the Ministry, walking fast, speaking carefully, making every word count.
He decided he would write home tonight. Not to complain, exactly, but to ask what, precisely, was going on with the Black family's second son.
The room settled into a quieter rhythm after that. Trunks opened. Books were stacked. Curtains were drawn. The lake glass hummed faintly with its old magic.
Soon enough, sleep came, and then morning.
The first class for the Slytherin first years was Potions.
In the hierarchy of the wizarding world, Potions was a yardstick. It measured whether a witch or wizard could be rigorous, precise, and patient. Slytherin liked to claim those virtues as its own, at least in theory.
The Potions classroom sat in the first basement level of the castle, slightly higher than the Slytherin common room, but just as cold. The air smelled of metal, damp stone, and old ingredients, sharp and medicinal.
When Regulus entered, most students had already arrived. Long tables were set neatly, each with two cauldron stands, a set of basic tools, and a measured pile of ingredients placed as if someone had used a ruler.
Regulus glanced at the seating chart.
It had been arranged with care.
Slytherin and Gryffindor were sharing the lesson, and the seats were mixed rather than divided. If the goal was inter house exchange, it was optimistic. If the goal was to keep an eye on trouble, it was sensible.
Regulus's seat was in the third row. His partner was a Gryffindor girl with blond hair and freckles, flipping nervously through Magical Drafts and Potions while murmuring under her breath.
When he sat, she looked up and her eyes brightened.
"Are you Regulus Black?"
"I am."
"I'm Mary Macdonald," she said quickly. "I heard that yesterday on the train, you made James Potter's spell vanish."
News moved fast at Hogwarts. Regulus gave a small nod and did not add anything.
Mary took the nod as encouragement.
"You should have made James Potter vanish with it," she said, tone blunt. "I hear they're out of line."
Regulus was mildly surprised to hear James already had a reputation that reached beyond his own house. Sirius had likely done his share of the damage, whether intentionally or not.
Mary seemed ready to continue, but then the classroom door flew open.
Professor Horace Slughorn entered like a well dressed boulder.
He was stout and ruddy faced, his dark green robe embroidered with gold so heavily it looked expensive from any angle. The buttons across his stomach were pulled tight, as if his clothes were constantly negotiating with him.
"Ah, welcome, welcome," Slughorn boomed, beaming as though he had been waiting all summer for this moment. "Welcome to the world of Potions, the most subtle, the most dangerous, and the most beneficial of arts."
He reached the front and placed both hands on the desk, surveying the room with bright, assessing eyes.
"I am Horace Slughorn, your Potions professor. Over the next seven years, or at least until you sit your O.W.L.s, I shall guide you through the wonders that live within a cauldron."
His gaze swept over every student, lingering here and there with a faintly pleased look, as though certain faces matched a list only he could see.
"Some of you may have heard of me," he continued, smile widening. "Some of you may have heard of my little club."
A few students straightened without realising it.
"But I assure you," Slughorn said, voice warm and grand, "in my classroom what matters is your ability, your focus, and most importantly, a love for this art."