Chapter 14: Slytherin Traditional Program
Even a desert has its oases. For all the rumours, the Hogwarts feast was genuinely satisfying.
Regulus had only just finished eating when Lucretius Boke, the seventh year Slytherin prefect, stood and tapped a goblet with a silver spoon.
"Slytherin first years, follow me."
Regulus rose with the other eleven new Slytherins and followed Boke out through a side door of the Great Hall. They went down a tight spiral of stone steps that seemed to coil into the castle's belly.
The lower they descended, the cooler the air became. The walls shifted from rough stone to smooth black marble. Torches burned with an eerie green flame that cast sharp shadows and made every face look slightly wrong.
At last they stopped before a bare stretch of stone. The only decoration was a crudely carved serpent fixed to the wall, its body stiff and its mouth half open as if caught mid hiss.
Boke turned to face them.
"I am Lucretius Boke, seventh year prefect," he said. His gaze travelled over the first years one by one, lingering a fraction longer on Regulus than on the rest.
"Welcome to Slytherin. Before we enter, a few things must be made clear."
He lifted one finger.
"First, Slytherin values bloodline, ambition, and wisdom. All three are expected."
A second finger.
"Second, loyalty matters here. Loyalty to our own. Your roommates and your housemates will be your most dependable allies, or your most dangerous enemies."
A third.
"Third, Slytherin does not welcome weakness. Crying, complaining, and running to staff will not win you sympathy. It will win you a reputation."
His eyes found Regulus again.
"Finally, remember this. The Black family's accident last year embarrassed Slytherin. I hope that this year someone will redeem that reputation."
It was not subtle. Several first years stole quick glances at Regulus, then looked away as if caught doing something rude.
Regulus met the prefect's words with silence. His expression stayed calm, almost detached. He had expected this. A traditional programme, as his mother might have called it with pride.
Boke turned back to the wall and spoke clearly.
"Honour."
The serpent's eyes flared red.
Stone slid aside without a sound.
They stepped through into the Slytherin common room.
It was long and rectangular, dressed in green and silver hangings that drifted slightly as if stirred by an unseen current. One wall was entirely a sheet of enchanted glass looking straight into the depths of the Black Lake. Water pressed against it like a living thing. A giant squid drifted past at a lazy angle, and pale jellyfish floated like ghosts, their glow soft and cold.
The fireplace burned green, the flames soundless and unnerving. Dark wooden sofas and chairs sat in neat clusters, trimmed with silver and upholstered in deep green velvet. Portraits of notable Slytherins watched from the walls, their expressions stern, curious, or faintly displeased, as if the very act of being young was suspicious.
Plenty of older students were already there. When the first years entered, conversation slowed. Heads turned. Eyes assessed.
Boke moved towards the fireplace.
"You may move about," he said. "The first year dormitory assignments are posted on that wall."
The first years immediately crowded towards the parchment, shoulders bumping, feet shuffling.
Regulus did not hurry. He stayed where he was and took in the room with the same careful attention he had given the Great Hall. The lake glass, the portraits, the clusters of older students, the way certain people looked at him and then looked away.
Then he heard his name.
Not called. Discussed.
The voice came from the right, from a seating area where several fifth years lounged as if the common room belonged to them by ancient right. The speaker was a black haired boy with a hooked nose and a smile sharpened for cutting.
"Another Black," the boy said. "Why did you not go to the lions' den with the other one?"
A few boys around him laughed. None of it was kind.
The room fell quiet in a single breath. Conversations died. Portraits leaned forward. First years froze where they stood. No one intervened, not even Boke. Everyone waited to see what the new Black would do.
Regulus turned slowly towards the sound.
"Are you speaking to me?" His tone did not rise. It did not need to.
The hooked nosed boy lifted his brows. "If you are Regulus Black, yes. I am speaking to you."
"I am." Regulus took a step forward, unhurried. "So do you have a problem?"
The older boy stood. He was a full head taller, built like someone who had started growing early and had enjoyed it. His sleeves carried fine silver embroidery, and the crest on his chest marked him unmistakably.
Travers.
"I am curious," Travers said, strolling closer as though he had all the time in the world. "Is your generation of Blacks always so opinionated? Your brother chose Gryffindor and you…"
He smiled wider, inviting the room to share the joke.
"How long do you plan to stay in Slytherin? A term? Or until you find more interesting friends?"
His circle of admirers laughed again, and they began to drift closer, the shape of an easy ambush.
Regulus watched Travers without any visible emotion.
"Mr Travers," he said, using the surname like a blade kept politely sheathed, "if I remember correctly, the Travers family married into a Muggle merchant line in the eighteenth century to save a collapsing business. It is recorded in Chapter Seven, Section Three of The Secret History of Pure Blood Families."
The smile on Travers's face faltered.
Regulus continued, voice even.
"Broderick Bode cites the relevant commercial contracts and the marriage registration records. Would you like me to remind you of the exact passage?"
Travers's face flushed a furious red.
A ripple moved through the common room. Several older students exchanged glances. A few portraits looked delighted, which was its own sort of threat.
"What rubbish are you talking about?" Travers snapped, his voice rising too quickly, too loudly.
Regulus did not react to the volume.
"Do you want me to recite it," he asked, "or would you prefer to borrow the book and verify it yourself?"
Travers opened his mouth and produced nothing. His hands clenched at his sides until his knuckles turned pale.
Regulus held his gaze and went on, as though finishing a lesson.
"Of course, that was long ago. The present is what matters. You called me opinionated. I do not consider that an insult. Blind obedience is far more pathetic."
His eyes swept the room. The boys who had been laughing a moment ago suddenly found the floor fascinating.
"Slytherin claims to value wisdom," Regulus said. "Wisdom means independent thought. It means knowing what is worth pursuing and what is not worth mentioning."
He looked back at Travers.
"My brother chose his path. I chose mine. That is having a mind of one's own. But you…"
Regulus let the silence tighten, then continued in the same calm tone, which somehow made it worse.
"You chose to prove you exist by provoking an eleven year old on his first night. Is that your idea of independent thought?"
All attention shifted, as if pulled by a hook, from Regulus to Travers.
Travers's face went from red to a sickly pale shade, then to something nearer green. Humiliation sat on him like a cloak. His hand jerked towards the inside of his robe.
He was reaching for his wand.
Regulus moved first.
His wand was in his hand instantly. He made a small, precise tap in the air.
The space in front of Travers warped.
An invisible barrier formed in the time it took for a heartbeat to happen.
Travers's fingers closed around his wand, yanked it free, and the wand struck the unseen barrier as if it had hit glass. A sharp ringing sound cut through the room.
The wand flew from his hand, spinning upward.
And then it stopped.
It hung in mid air, perfectly still, as though pinned to the world itself.
A precise interception.
Regulus flicked his wrist again, almost lazily.
The wand began to descend, slow and controlled, as if an invisible hand guided it. It came down tip first and settled on the carpet at Travers's feet, upright, balanced lightly with the tip touching down, the handle angled towards him like an accusation.
Regulus put his own wand away.
He had not raised his voice. He had not shown anger. That, more than the spellwork, made the room feel colder.
"If you truly want to compete," Regulus said, "I suggest you learn how to hold on to your wand first."
A few first years looked as though they might make a sound, then remembered where they were and swallowed it.
Regulus stepped forward.
The boys who had been edging around him moved aside without a word, making space as if it had been there all along.
Someone glanced at Lucretius Boke, but the prefect did not move.
An older girl started to speak, perhaps to smooth things over. Another girl caught her sleeve and shook her head, a warning in the smallest gesture.
Regulus's voice carried cleanly across the common room.
"Now," he said, "pick it up."
Travers stood rigid, shaking. His face looked ready to split with rage. His eyes burned with the desire to hurt someone and the knowledge that he could not.
Everyone understood what had happened.
A first year had prevented a fifth year from even drawing his wand.
Power like that did not come from luck. It did not come from a clever trick.
It meant skill. Control. Something frighteningly trained.
And it meant the usual games had rules now.
Regulus could have done it without a wand. He knew it. The room probably suspected it. But he had promised his father not to appear abnormal at school.
So he used a wand.
Travers's chest rose and fell like he had been running. For a moment it looked as if pride might force him to do something stupid.
Then he bent sharply, snatched up his wand, kept his head down, and shoved his way through the watching crowd. He vanished around the corner leading towards the dormitories.
His followers went with him, quick and silent, without a single parting insult.
Only once they were gone did the common room breathe again.
Regulus turned away and walked towards the dormitory assignment parchment. First years and older students alike shifted to make a path. Whispers broke out behind him, but they were lower now, edged with shock and reluctant respect.
To Regulus it had barely been a confrontation. It had been a child attempting to bully a smaller child and discovering there were consequences.
He found the list and scanned it.
First Year Dormitory A:
Regulus Black
Avery Cuthbert
Hermes Mulciber
Alex Rosier