Tuesday afternoon. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom slled of old leather and dust.
Regulus sat in the third row of the Slytherin section, watching Professor Galatea rrythought at the lectern — a self-proclaid forr adventurer — demonstrate with sweeping gestures how to identify and avoid Grindylows in a swamp.
"...And rember, children! If you see the water bubbling and hear cackling, back away imdiately! Grindylows love nothing more than dragging an isolated wizard underwater!"
rrythought flourished his wand, conjuring a blurry water-creature shape in the air. He had clearly not prepared a live specin.
'Tom Riddle,' Regulus mused. 'Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Simply because he was passed over for the Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship, he cursed the position.'
From that point on, no professor lasted longer than a year — each eting with misfortune, forced resignation, or outright disappearance.
Childish and cruel revenge.
And more absurdly, the curse genuinely seed to have degraded the teaching quality.
Perhaps the professors subconsciously knew the post was cursed and went through the motions.
Or perhaps they feared that the better they taught, the harder the curse would strike.
Regulus looked at the lectern. rrythought was demonstrating how to use a Wand-Lighting Charm to disperse shadow creatures from dark corners, but the spell's glow flickered on and off, as though his own attention were elsewhere.
The first-year curriculum was pitifully shallow — identifying a handful of low-level dark creatures, learning basic defensive gestures, morizing a few safety guidelines.
'The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection' covered all of that in its first two chapters. The remaining ti should have been spent practicing actual response techniques.
But there was no practice, because rrythought did not teach it — and the students saw nothing amiss. They were rather pleased, in fact.
'A rubbish class not worth attending. Self-study would be more productive.'
......
The library was perhaps the quietest place in Hogwarts — no shrieking young witches and wizards here.
Regulus nodded to Madam Pince at the entrance and received a solemn look in return.
He went straight for the Magical Theory and History section.
Since the start of term, his physical strengthening had continued and yielded impressive results.
But Regulus had detected a bottleneck.
The body was a vessel, containing the soul. He could make the vessel larger — but if the water inside did not increase accordingly, it was nothing more than an empty shell.
aningless.
A wizard's wellspring of power was magic, and according to mainstream theory, magic originated in the soul and was expressed through ntal will.
If that were so — could the mind itself be trained?
He stopped before a bookshelf, scanning the spines.
Most were introductory texts on ditation, ntal focus, and Occluncy — basic in content, but pointing in the right direction.
Regulus drew out a volu titled "Consciousness and Magic: A Study of Ancient ditation Techniques."
It was thin, its parchnt cover worn. He opened it and saw the first chapter heading:
"Wizards reshape reality not because of magic, but because will cos first."
He read on.
"The ancient runic wizards believed that magic was a bridge — linking the inner world to external reality.
A powerful will could use that bridge to stamp its mark upon the real world.
Weather magic altered the heavens, battle magic distorted the environnt — at their core, these were a wizard's will, channeled through the dium of magic, forcibly overwriting reality."
"Therefore, the distinction between a strong wizard and a weak one lies not only in the quantity of magic, but in the intensity, clarity, and resonance of the will with reality."
Resonance?
Regulus closed the book and sank into thought.
Why could so wizards perform advanced magic with ease while others struggled with a simple Levitation Charm?
Beyond age, knowledge, wisdom, and raw magical power — what else was there?
He thought of Dumbledore — the greatest light wizard of the century. Regulus knew he was especially proficient in Transfiguration.
The original stories never explicitly stated it, but he was confident Dumbledore could alter weather and terrain — perhaps even more.
When magic reached that level, did it qualify as will overwriting reality?
And Voldemort — his magic was another kind of extre.
Perhaps it was tearing.
The Cruciatus Curse tore apart the sensation of pain. The Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, tore apart the connection to life. Even Horcruxes — that was tearing one's own soul.
Those were questions for later, when he had the capability. Right now, he needed to find a thod for strengthening the mind.
He continued searching, scouring nearly every shelf until, in the farthest corner on the bottom row, he found a slim pamphlet with a faded cover. The title was barely legible:
"Astral ditation: Training ntal Extension Through Stargazing"
The author's na was smudged, but on the title page was a handwritten note:
"Those who gaze upon the stars are not confined by the earth. The courses of the stars are the writing of the universe. Imitate them, understand them, and ultimately — resonate with them."
Resonance again?
This was the one.
"Black?"
A hushed voice ca from the adjacent aisle. Regulus looked up to see Lily Evans standing between two rows of shelves.
She cradled a stack of books; the topmost was "An Analysis of Common Magical Plant Toxins."
"Miss Evans." Regulus closed the "Astral ditation" pamphlet and slid it behind a thicker volu.
Hidden for now — he would collect it later.
"Doing research?" Lily stepped closer, green eyes alight with curiosity. "I heard... you said so very interesting things in Charms class."
Regulus raised an eyebrow. "What things?"
"About mories of Hogwarts." Lily set her books on the table nearby and rotated her sore arms. "Soone said you told your classmates that thirty years from now, the people we'll miss most are the ones we copied howork with."
"The remark made its way to the Gryffindor common room. A lot of people thought it didn't sound like sothing a Slytherin would say."
'Is that what I said?' Regulus thought, mildly exasperated. 'I said other things too, but all you caught was "copying howork."'
"That kind of remark doesn't need a house label. And it's simply the truth.
Think back to your primary school — your Muggle primary school. What do you rember most clearly? Getting such-and-such a rank on an exam, or the rainy day a classmate shared half an umbrella with you?"
Lily blinked, then smiled. "The umbrella. In Year One, I forgot mine. Martha Cotton scooted her big floral umbrella over — we both got a wet shoulder, but we laughed all the way to the school gate."
"You see?" Regulus nodded, a hint of amusent in his eyes. "Magic doesn't change things like that. Wizards are people too — just with a bit of extra magic."
Lily studied him. Liveliness danced in her gaze. "You're not like the Slytherin I imagined."
Regulus looked at Lily but did not take up that thread. Instead he asked: "Do you know why all four houses share certain classes?"
Lily considered. "To... help us understand each other?"
"Partly. The more practical reason is that after graduation, there are no more house divisions.
When you join the Ministry, your colleague might be a Slytherin. If you go to St. Mungo's, your attending Healer might be a Ravenclaw.
When you shop, the proprietor might be a Hufflepuff. And if you beco an Auror, the person you're arresting might be a Gryffindor.
Houses are labels for school years — not brands for a lifeti."
Lily was quiet for a few seconds, then said softly: "Thank you for telling that. I've never thought about it before."
"The truth is, everyone is different," Regulus said earnestly. "Houses are rough categories — they shouldn't be followed blindly.
There are narrow-minded people in Ravenclaw. There are ambitious schers in Hufflepuff. And in Slytherin..."
Lily finished the thought: "...there are people who know how to share an umbrella?"
The corner of Regulus's mouth curved upward. "Perhaps."
Lily Evans had been personally acknowledged by Slughorn as a Potions genius — a verdict confird by the original story. Her talent rivaled Severus Snape's.
Regulus's future path would inevitably require high-level Potions support. So needs could be taken openly to Slughorn, but the more clandestine work clearly called for a more trustworthy private collaborator.
Slughorn was excellent, but he was a shrewd intelligence clearinghouse — every request would beco gossip at his next club eting.
Snape could be driven by mutual interest, motivated by an exchange of knowledge and secrets, but that kind of relationship rested on a dangerous equilibrium — one conflict of interest and it would collapse.
Snape had never been a particularly upright character.
Genuine friendship built on mutual respect — that was the most durable frawork.
Moreover, Lily Evans herself was one of the key nodes in this magical world.
In the future narrative, she played a pivotal role linking events together.
She was the proof that Muggle-borns could succeed in the wizarding world, the future mother of Harry Potter — the central figure — and the emotional core around which many of the story's tragedies and turning points revolved.
Befriending her ant threading his own line into the tapestry of this world.
When the day ca that he truly needed an unknown potion, a helper no one would suspect — Regulus was almost certain she would answer the call.
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