Even in a culinary desert, there are oases; the Welcome Feast at Hogwarts was satisfying.
Once the last crumb of treacle tart had vanished, Lucretius Boke, the seventh-year Slytherin Prefect, stood up. He tapped his wine glass with a silver spoon. *Ting. Ting.*
"Slytherin first-years. With me."
Regulus and the eleven other new snakes left the table. They followed Boke out a side door of the Great Hall and down a series of long, spiral stone steps.
The deeper they went, the cooler the air became. The torchlight shifted from warm orange to an eerie, subterranean emerald. The walls turned into smooth, damp black marble.
Finally, they stopped before a stretch of bare stone wall in the dungeons. There was no portrait, only a roughly carved relief of a snake.
Boke turned to face them.
"I am Lucretius Boke, your Prefect." His gaze swept over the nervous faces, lingering for a second longer on Regulus.
"Welcome to Slytherin. Before you enter, note this well."
"First: Slytherin values ambition, cunning, and blood. You must possess all three."
"Second: Loyalty is paramount. The people standing next to you are your only true allies in this castle. Outside these walls, we are united. Inside, we compete, but we never betray our own to the other Houses."
"Third: We do not tolerate weakness. Tears and complaints will only make you prey."
He looked at Regulus again.
"Finally, remember that the... incident with the Black family last year brought shame to this House. I expect someone this year to redeem that reputation."
It wasn't subtle. The other first-years glanced at Regulus.
Regulus remained impassive. He knew the script. Tonight was a test.
Boke turned to the wall. " *Glory.* "
The stone snake's eyes flashed red. The wall slid open silently.
The Slytherin Common Room.
It was a masterpiece of subterranean elegance. It was a long, low room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps hung on chains. One wall was entirely made of enchanted glass, looking directly out into the depths of the Black Lake.
A giant squid drifted past, a silent leviathan in the gloom. Glowing jellyfish floated like ghosts. The fire in the grate crackled with green flames.
The furniture was dark wood and silver, upholstered in deep green velvet. Portraits of famous Slytherins lined the walls, looking down with critical eyes.
The room was already full of upper-year students. As the first-years entered, conversation died. Dozens of eyes turned to inspect fresh meat—curiosity, indifference, mockery.
"Free time," Boke announced, walking to the fireplace. "Dormitory assignments are pinned on the notice board."
The first-years rushed toward the board.
Regulus didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, looking around calmly.
Then he heard his name. Not a greeting, but a sneer.
"Another Black. Why didn't you run off to the Lion's Den with your brother?"
The voice came from a group of fifth-year boys lounging on the sofas to the right. The speaker was a boy with a hooked nose and a cruel smile.
His friends laughed. It wasn't a friendly sound.
The Common Room went silent. The older students stopped talking. The first-years froze. No one intervened. This was the "traditional repertoire"—the hazing of the new blood.
Regulus turned slowly.
"Are you addressing me?" he asked. His voice was low, polite, and dangerously calm.
The hooked-nosed boy raised an eyebrow. "If you are Regulus Black, then yes."
"I am. And what do you require?"
Regulus knew someone would step forward. He had been counting on it.
The boy stood up. He was a head taller than Regulus, his robes embroidered with silver stitching on the cuffs—the crest of the Travers family.
"I'm just curious," Travers said, sauntering closer. "Does every Black in this generation have a defect? Your brother chose Gryffindor. How long do you plan to stay? A term? Until you find better friends?"
His henchmen circled, cutting off Regulus's path.
Regulus looked up at him. His grey eyes were unblinking.
"Mr. Travers," Regulus said, using the surname like a weapon. "If I recall correctly, the Travers family intermarried with Muggle textile merchants in the late eighteenth century to save their vault from bankruptcy."
Travers froze.
"It is detailed in Chapter 7, Section 3 of *The Secret History of the Sacred Twenty-Eight*," Regulus continued smoothly. "Do you require me to recite the specific paragraph regarding the... dilution of your assets?"
Travers's face flushed a deep, ugly red.
Whispers broke out across the room. Older students exchanged amused glances.
"Shut your mouth!" Travers shouted, his voice cracking. "What nonsense is this?"
" *The Secret History* by Broderick Bode, citing Gringotts business contracts and marriage registries," Regulus cited. "Facts are not nonsense, Mr. Travers."
Travers opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His hands clenched into fists.
"But that is the past," Regulus said, stepping closer. "What matters is the present. You mentioned defects. You mentioned choices."
Regulus scanned the room. His gaze was heavy, carrying an authority that didn't belong to an eleven-year-old.
"My brother chose his path. I chose mine. That is what it means to have a mind. And you..."
Regulus looked back at Travers.
"...You chose to validate your existence by bullying a first-year on his first night. Is that the extent of your ambition?"
The eyes of the room shifted from Regulus to Travers. The predator had become the joke.
Travers's face went from red to white. His hand darted into his robes.
" *Why you little—* "
He drew his wand.
But Regulus was faster.
His wand slid into his hand with a fluid grace. He didn't shout a spell. He simply tapped the air.
*Ting.*
The air in front of Travers shimmered. An invisible barrier manifested instantly. Travers's wand hit the barrier with the sound of striking glass. It flew out of his hand, spinning high into the air toward the ceiling.
It froze at the apex of its arc.
Precise interception.
Regulus flicked his wrist downward.
Travers's wand floated down slowly, controlled by an invisible hand. It landed gently at Travers's feet, standing upright on the carpet, tip down, handle up.
The entire exchange had taken three seconds. It was silent, elegant, and humiliating.
"If you wish to duel," Regulus said, tucking his wand away, "I suggest you learn to hold onto your weapon first."
A first-year girl gasped.
"Now," Regulus said into the silence. "Pick it up."
His voice wasn't loud, but it echoed off the stone walls.
Travers looked at the Prefect, Boke. Boke was leaning against the mantelpiece, watching with a faint smile. He made no move to help.
Travers was trembling with rage and humiliation. His face burned. He looked like he wanted to murder Regulus right there.
But he didn't.
Because everyone in the room understood what had just happened. A first-year had disarmed a fifth-year without uttering a syllable.
*Powerful. Dangerous.*
The perception of Regulus Black shifted instantly from "traitor's brother" to "predator."
Travers's chest heaved. Finally, he bent down. He snatched his wand from the carpet, turned on his heel, and shoved his way through the crowd toward the boys' dormitories.
His henchmen evaporated into the shadows.
Regulus didn't watch him go. He turned and walked calmly toward the notice board. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea.
This wasn't a fight. It was discipline.
Regulus found it boring. Travers was weak and stupid. But the demonstration was necessary.
As he reached the wall, the silence broke. Whispers erupted, frantic and shocked.
"Did you see that?"
"Silent casting? A first-year?"
A seventh-year girl with the Rosier crest whispered to her friend, "He's interesting."
A Nott boy nodded slowly, his eyes calculating.
Regulus ignored them all. He found his name on the list.
**First-Year Dormitory A:**
*Regulus Black*
*Evan Rosier*
*Mulciber*
*Avery*
*Good,* Regulus thought. *The core circle.*