Chapter 20: A Different Kind of Slytherin
The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on Tuesday afternoon smelled of old leather and settled dust, the sort of scent that clung to books that had not been opened in years.
Regulus sat in the third row of the Slytherin section, watching Professor Galatea Melos on the podium. The man called himself a former adventurer, and taught like one. He used grand gestures, loud warnings, and stories that grew a little taller every time he repeated them.
"And remember, children," Melos declared, arms spread wide, "if you see bubbles on the surface and hear gurgling laughter, back away at once. Grindylows love nothing more than dragging lone wizards under!"
He flicked his wand, conjuring a hazy image of a water creature in midair. It wavered like smoke and looked more embarrassed than frightening. Clearly, there were no live teaching aids today, only theatrics.
Tom Riddle, Regulus thought, Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord. Because he was not chosen as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he cursed the post.
Since then, no one lasted more than a year. Misfortune, resignation, disappearance. A childish revenge, and cruel all the same.
The more absurd part was how the curse seemed to poison the quality of teaching with it. Perhaps the professors sensed the bad luck and taught with one foot already out the door. Perhaps they simply stopped caring. Melos was currently demonstrating how to use Lumos to "drive back shadow creatures," but the light at his wand tip flickered unevenly, as if it shared his lack of attention.
The first year curriculum was shallow to the point of insult. Identify a handful of minor dark creatures. Memorise safety rules. Learn a few gestures without truly using them.
All of it was in the first two chapters of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection. The rest of the lesson ought to have been practice.
There was no practice, because Melos did not teach it.
And the students did not seem to notice they were being cheated. In fact, they looked relieved. They were content to copy notes and escape without ever being tested.
Regulus stared at the drifting, blurry Grindylow and decided the lesson was not worth the air it consumed.
If the class would not teach, then he would.
The library was the quietest place in Hogwarts, untouched by the constant noise of young wizards discovering they could be loud. Regulus nodded to Madam Pince at the entrance and received her usual stern look in return, as if his very breathing had been an attempted act of vandalism.
He went straight to Magical Theory and History.
Since arriving at school, his physical reinforcement had progressed quickly. The gains were real. His reflexes sharpened. His endurance improved. His body became a cleaner conduit.
But he could feel a bottleneck.
The body was a vessel for the soul. He could make the vessel larger, but if the water inside did not increase, it remained an impressive container with nothing to pour.
A wizard's true power was magic. Mainstream theory insisted magic came from the soul and expressed itself through mental will.
So the question was simple.
Could the mind itself be trained?
He stopped at a shelf and scanned the spines. Most were introductory works on meditation, mental discipline, and Occlumency. The writing was simplified, but the direction was right.
Regulus pulled out a thin, worn volume.
Consciousness and Magic: A Study of Ancient Meditation Techniques.
He opened it and found the first chapter title written in bold, blunt strokes.
Wizards change reality not through magic, but through the precedence of will.
He read on.
Ancient rune scholars believed magic was a bridge between an inner world and external reality. A strong will left a mark through that bridge. Weather magic shifted skies. Battle magic warped environments. At the core, a wizard forced reality to accept an imposed decision, with magic as the medium.
Therefore, differences in strength were not only a matter of magical quantity, but also intensity, clarity, and resonance with reality.
Resonance.
Regulus closed the book and sat with the word.
Why could some wizards cast advanced magic as if breathing, while others struggled to lift a feather?
Beyond age, knowledge, control, and raw magic, what else stood between mediocrity and mastery?
He thought of Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of the century, and a master of Transfiguration. The books never bothered to list everything that man could do, but Regulus was certain the limits were far beyond what Hogwarts lessons dared to imply. Change weather. Alter landscapes. Perhaps more.
At that level, was it will rewriting reality?
And Lord Voldemort was an opposite extreme. Not rewriting, perhaps, but tearing.
Cruciatus tore at sensation until pain became the only truth. Killing tore the connection to life. Even a Horcrux was a deliberate ripping of the soul.
Those were questions for later, when he had the ability to survive the answers.
For now, he needed a method to strengthen his spirit.
He searched along the shelf, scanning until his eyes began to blur, then crouched and checked the lowest row. At the very bottom corner he found a faded pamphlet with a cover so worn the title was barely legible.
Astral Meditation: Training Mental Extension Through Stargazing.
The author's signature had been smeared into meaninglessness, but someone had written a note on the title page in firm handwriting.
Those who look up at the starry sky do not keep their vision trapped on the earth. The trajectories of the stars are the writing of the universe. Imitate it, understand it, and finally, resonate with it.
Resonance again.
This was the one.
"Black?"
A lowered voice came from the aisle between shelves.
Regulus looked up.
Lily Evans stood there with a stack of books in her arms, the top one titled Analysis of the Toxicity of Common Magical Plants. Her expression was curious, cautious, and far too intelligent to be casual.
"Miss Evans," Regulus said.
He closed the pamphlet and slid it behind a thicker book in his hands, then held both as if the larger volume had been his goal all along.
Hide it for now. Retrieve it later.
"Are you looking for something?" Lily stepped closer. "I heard you said some interesting things in Charms."
Regulus raised his eyebrows slightly. "What things?"
Lily set her stack down on a nearby table and flexed her fingers, as if they ached from carrying knowledge around like bricks.
"About remembering Hogwarts," she said. "Someone said you told your classmates that in thirty years, what we miss most are the people we copied homework with."
"It reached the Gryffindor common room. Quite a few people think it does not sound like something a Slytherin would say."
Regulus felt a brief, quiet disbelief.
Of everything he had said, that was what travelled.
"That sentiment does not belong to a house," he said. "And it is true."
He paused, then added, "When you think back to primary school, Muggle primary school, what do you remember most clearly? Your exam rank, or a classmate sharing half an umbrella with you on a rainy day?"
Lily blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then she smiled, genuine and bright.
"The umbrella," she said. "First year. I forgot mine. Martha Cotton shifted her big floral umbrella over. We both got soaked, but we laughed the whole way to the school gate."
"You see," Regulus said, and a faint smile touched his eyes as well. "Magic does not replace that. Wizards are still people. They simply have magic in addition."
Lily studied him for a moment, as if trying to reconcile what she saw with the stories she expected.
"You are not like the Slytherins I imagined," she said quietly.
Regulus did not answer that directly. Instead, he asked, "Do you know why the four houses have lessons together?"
Lily frowned in thought. "So we can get to know each other?"
"Partially." Regulus inclined his head. "A more practical reason is that after Hogwarts, the house boundaries vanish."
"If you work at the Ministry one day, your colleague may be a Slytherin. If you work at St Mungo's, your healer may be a Ravenclaw. If you shop in Diagon Alley, the shopkeeper may be a Hufflepuff."
"And if you become an Auror," he added evenly, "the person you arrest might be a Gryffindor."
Lily's lips parted, then closed again, as if she had not considered how childish the labels became once school ended.
"Houses are student categories," Regulus said. "Not life brands."
Lily was silent for a few seconds, then nodded slowly.
"Thank you," she said. "I have never thought about it that way."
"In truth, everyone is different," Regulus said, more serious now. "Houses are broad categories. They are not instructions to obey."
"There are narrow minded people in Ravenclaw. There are ambitious people in Hufflepuff." He glanced at her. "And in Slytherin…"
Lily's eyes flicked with humour. "There are people who know how to share an umbrella?"
"Perhaps," Regulus said, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.
Lily Evans was a Potions prodigy, personally recognised by Slughorn. That fact was fixed, as certain as gravity.
Regulus's future path would require high level Potion support. Some requests could be made openly through Slughorn, but anything sensitive would demand a private partner who did not treat secrets as currency.
Slughorn was useful, but he was also a web. Any favour became a story, and every story became leverage for someone else.
Severus Snape could be bargained with, knowledge exchanged for knowledge. But that sort of relationship lived on a knife edge. The moment interests diverged, the balance would collapse. Snape was not, and would never be, a safe person to rely on.
Friendship built on mutual respect was sturdier than negotiation.
And Lily Evans was more than talent. She was a node, a thread tied into the fabric of the world. A successful Muggle born in wizarding society. The future mother of Harry Potter. The emotional centre of tragedies that shaped the next decade.
To build a friendship with her was to place his own thread in the tapestry early, before the weaving tightened.
One day, when he needed a Potion no one could know about, or a helper who would not sell him for a better offer, Regulus was almost certain Lily Evans would help.
He simply had to earn it.