Every lower-year in the Slytherin Common Room had retreated to the edges.
Even those who could claim Sacred Twenty-Eight lineage kept their distance from the empty sofas and armchairs. Something was off tonight, and everyone felt it.
They stood in clusters, trading glances, most of them wearing the same expression: confusion. Nobody had told them what was about to happen.
Eyes drifted occasionally toward the sofa where Regulus sat.
No one begrudged those four first-years their seats. Regulus Black was different from the rest of them.
The ability he'd displayed since arriving at Hogwarts placed him on another tier entirely. Cuthbert, Alex, and Hermes benefited by proximity, their right to sit there unquestioned.
Regulus ignored the stares. He leaned into the sofa cushion, hands folded in his lap, eyes trained toward the fireplace while his mind dissected the situation.
Narcissa was here, but her expression read as confused.
Which meant she hadn't been told.
That alone clarified things. Tonight's move was aimed at him.
Narcissa was a Prefect, the future Mrs. Malfoy, but she was also a Black. Her being left out of the loop said everything.
He kept thinking. The play was most likely forced alignment.
Pressure him into publicly endorsing the purge rhetoric. Corner him onto the Pure-blood extremist side.
Or straightforward suppression. Using the momentum of collective will to chip away at his influence within Slytherin.
Most likely, though, someone planned to climb on his back. Step on a Black heir's face to gain visibility with Voldemort's people.
Regulus sat still, gaze lowered, the picture of contemplation.
Behind him, Cuthbert and the others followed his lead and stayed silent.
When Regulus looked up, a senior student was rising from the armchair to the left of the fireplace.
He knew this one.
Arnold Belmont. Eldest son of the Belmont Family. Seventh year.
The Belmonts weren't on the Sacred Twenty-Eight list, but their business empire was substantial. Three shops in Knockturn Alley, selling magical materials on the surface, running a smuggling and Dark artifact brokerage operation underneath.
They were everywhere. Nearly every Pure-blood gathering featured Mr. Belmont threading through the crowd, glass in hand, shaking this person's hand, clinking that person's goblet.
Families like this were pragmatic. They knew their bloodline wasn't pure enough, so they compensated with other currency.
Money, connections and a willingness to handle the work that old families wouldn't soil their hands with.
Some ancient houses looked down on them. Called them climbers. Said they had no principles. But even those houses admitted that sometimes you needed people like the Belmonts to operate in the grey areas.
Arnold Belmont carried decent standing within Slytherin.
Upper-middle marks, solid Quidditch player, unfailingly polished in his dealings with everyone. Lower-years admired him. Mid-years thought he was a stand-up guy. The upper-years who hadn't yet been initiated into their family's real business found him capable, articulate.
But those who had started handling family affairs looked at him differently.
They knew what the Belmont shops in Knockturn Alley traded behind closed doors. They knew how much ugliness hid beneath Arnold's immaculate surface.
Regulus knew too.
Arnold Belmont tapped his wand against the silver goblet in his right hand. A crisp chime rang through the common room, and every conversation died.
Regulus felt it, a wave of malice radiating from Arnold with a clear target. Him.
But this wasn't direct aggression. Not the raw hostility of someone preparing to fight.
Regulus understood immediately. Arnold wanted to use him as a stepping stone, a bargaining chip, a rung on a ladder.
That kind of malice was worse than open hostility, because it didn't respect you as a person. It treated you as an object of value, something to be maneuvered at will.
Confirmed.
Tonight's event had Arnold as the front man, and Regulus was the target.
But the Belmont family didn't have the weight to stage something this ambitious on their own.
Someone else was backing this. Probably a Sacred Twenty-Eight member lurking in the shadows, watching, letting Arnold serve as the expendable pawn.
Regulus settled in. Let's see it.
Arnold Belmont walked to the fireplace. Flames leaped behind him, throwing his shadow long across the floor.
He wore dark purple robes tonight, the Belmont family crest pinned at his collar.
He cleared his throat. His voice came out strong and clear, reaching every corner of the room.
"Fellow students." His tone was measured, the cadence of a carefully rehearsed speech.
"We're not gathered here tonight to discuss Quidditch strategy or share potion recipes. We're here because we've all realized something. The wizarding world is changing."
His gaze swept the room. The younger students listened intently. A few mid-years nodded along.
"The direction of that change depends on every one of us," Arnold continued. "For centuries, Pure-blood families have led the wizarding world. We hold the ancient magics. We carry the accumulated wisdom of generations. We are the reason magical civilization endures. Some call that arrogance. I call it fact."
His voice built, taking on a rhythmic, rousing quality.
"But now, there are those who want to tear that order apart. They believe half-bloods deserve to stand as equals with Pure-bloods. That Muggle-borns should enjoy the same rights we have. That Muggles themselves should have a say in wizarding affairs."
He shook his head, his expression pained. "That is decay. If we don't stand up and defend what's pure, magic will dilute. Traditions will die. Everything our ancestors built with blood and brilliance will dissolve within a few generations of compromise."
Regulus listened, mentally stripping the rhetoric to its skeleton. Pure-blood supremacy. Exclusion of half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Laying the ideological groundwork for a purge.
"Fortunately," Arnold pivoted, "a great wizard has risen. He sees the crisis. He's willing to lead us in rebuilding the proper order. He believes in Pure-blood glory, believes wizards should rule the world, believes we must, and shall, purge the impurities contaminating our bloodlines and our civilization."
He didn't name names. He didn't need to.
"This isn't philosophy alone." Arnold's voice surged with conviction. "It's a call to action, and that action starts here at Hogwarts. We will make it known that Slytherin is the fortress of Pure-blood tradition. We will not compromise. We will not yield. We will not allow any filth that taints our blood to breathe the same air as us within these walls!"
His right fist punched upward.
Applause and cheering erupted through the common room.
Not from everyone.
Most of the upper-years kept their faces blank. Some stared at their own hands. Others gazed out the window at the green glow filtering in from the Black Lake.
A handful who looked less than sharp clapped hard, faces flushed with fervor.
The mid and lower-years reacted more eagerly. Some rose to their feet. Arms waved. Voices echoed the refrain: Pure-blood glory.
Arnold accepted the adulation with a smile, his eyes scanning the crowd before settling on Regulus.
Regulus wasn't looking at him.
He caught Narcissa's worried glance and gave her the faintest nod, barely perceptible.
She saw it. The worry didn't leave her eyes, but her shoulders loosened by a fraction.
Lucretius hadn't glanced their way once. He cradled his cup, staring into the fire.
Behind Regulus, Cuthbert was losing patience. He leaned forward, mouth opening, and a single look from Regulus shut him down.
Cuthbert clenched his teeth and dropped against the sofa. His fingers drummed faster on his knees.
Alex squirmed. He didn't dare move much, only curled and uncurled his toes inside his boots.
Hermes had his eyes locked on Arnold, watching him the way a predator sizes up prey.
Regulus also noticed Snape.
He stood in the shadows by the window, his expression strange. When Arnold hit his most passionate notes, Snape had nodded along, something fervent in his eyes.
But when the talk turned to purging impurities, a frown creased his face. The contradiction was written across his features for anyone to read.
Regulus found it mildly amusing. Snape was thinking about Lily Evans.
On one side, the seductive pull of Pure-blood ideology. On the other, a Muggle-born friend. Caught between the two, twisting.
The cheering faded.
Arnold Belmont turned and walked toward Regulus.
Each step looked measured, precise, his robe trailing behind him in a gentle sway.
He stopped three paces from the sofa and tilted his head slightly down, looking at Regulus in his seat.
The calculated malice thickened.
Regulus lifted his gaze. His face showed nothing.
Arnold smiled. It was a textbook expression: corners of the mouth at the correct angle, eight teeth showing, eyes crinkling to suggest warmth.
But something lurked behind those eyes.
"Regulus Black." Arnold's voice softened. "Everyone here knows the Black family. Ancient and Pure. A name inscribed across countless chapters of wizarding history. From the age of King Arthur to the present day, the Blacks have stood at the vanguard of the Pure-blood cause, defending the sanctity and glory of our bloodlines through action."
The setup.
"I remember, as a boy, my father bringing me to a banquet at the Black residence." Arnold turned to address the room, as though sharing a cherished memory. "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. That stately manor. Those ancient portraits. Rules of the house passed down through centuries. I thought to myself, this is what a Pure-blood family should look like. Rigorous, Noble and Unblemished."
He turned back to Regulus.
"And the Blacks continue to lead us. Mr. Orion Black's addresses before the Wizengamot. Mrs. Walburga Black's dedication to Pure-blood education. And..." He leaned into the words. "Miss Bellatrix Black's choice. She follows the great one, proving the Black family's loyalty to the Pure-blood cause through action."
A cold smile flickered inside Regulus's chest.
Dragging Bellatrix into it. Trying to chain the Black family to Voldemort.
"And you, Regulus," Arnold pressed on. "As the Black heir, Slytherin's first-year Chief, your talent and ability are plain for all of us to see. The great one has taken an interest in you as well. He believes that when the new era dawns, you'll stand on the right side, just as Miss Bellatrix has, contributing your strength to the Pure-blood cause."
The meaning was transparent now.
Arnold leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a pitch that still carried to every ear nearby.
"So I imagine that everything we've discussed tonight, about preserving the purity of blood, about eliminating sources of contamination, about preparing for the new era, you agree. Don't you? As the Black heir, you must want to keep the bloodline pure. You must want the wizarding world back on the right track. Yes?"
He paused. His eyes held Regulus's, wide with practiced sincerity.
The subtext was plain. I've said all this. I've built the stage. This room full of people supports me, agrees with me. I represent the prevailing tide, the collective will. You, Regulus Black, heir of House Black, must declare your support. You must stand with me. Endorse my vision. Do as I say.
It was coercion dressed in silk.
Atmosphere, crowd, the great one's attention, all wielded to force a nod.
Every pair of eyes in the room converged on Regulus.
The sharper minds had already seen through it completely.
Narcissa's face had gone pale, her fingers tightening.
Lucretius finally turned his head, glanced once at Regulus, then looked away.
Several upper-years exchanged glances. One smirked. Another shook their head.
Even if Regulus was young, even if he got swept up and agreed in the heat of the moment, what happened once word reached his family? Did Arnold Belmont expect to come out of that unscathed?
The House of Black was not some minor family you could push around.
But others found the spectacle entertaining.
A sixth-year boy leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting to see how Regulus would respond.
A seventh-year girl raised her cup and sipped, her eyes never leaving Regulus's face.
And one gaze burned hot enough to scald: Alecto Carrow.
Regulus didn't respond immediately. He didn't stand. His expression didn't change.
His attention had already moved past Arnold. From the moment the speech began, he'd been scanning the entire common room with his magical awareness, searching for the deeper, more genuine malice hiding in the crowd.
He found it.
In the shadows to the right of the fireplace, Thorfinn Rowle stood motionless.
The Rowle family was Sacred Twenty-Eight. Core Death Eaters, notorious for brutality.
In the future, they would participate in attacks on the Hogwarts Express, in massacres of Muggle communities, wearing the purge as a badge of pride. One of the sharpest blades in Voldemort's arsenal.
Thorfinn Rowle was a sixth-year.
He kept a low profile in Slytherin, rarely spoke publicly, but everyone knew what the Rowle family was.
He stood in the shadows, hands buried in his robe pockets, watching Arnold and Regulus, a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of his mouth.
That was the real malice. Carrying the scent of blood.
Regulus didn't know what history lay between the Rowle and Black families, or what role Thorfinn Rowle was playing tonight.
But he'd unearthed the puppet master, and that meant this farce could be brought to a close. Dolphin was clever enough not to take the stage himself, sending Arnold in as cannon fodder.
Leave him for now.
Regulus shifted his attention back to Arnold Belmont.
The older boy was still waiting for a response. His smile had begun to set, the muscles straining from holding that expression of earnest warmth too long.
The common room was silent. Even the crack and pop of logs in the fireplace sounded harsh.
Regulus spoke at last. His voice was quiet, his tempo unhurried, yet impossible to ignore.
"Arnold Belmont. You've said a great deal just now. About the Black family's history. About Pure-blood tradition. About the great one's expectations."
His eyes rested on Arnold. There was no emotion in them, yet they weren't empty.
"I have a question."
Arnold's brow twitched, a micro-frown, suppressed instantly beneath the smile. "Of course. Ask."
Regulus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together.
The posture suggested earnest inquiry. But whatever lived in his eyes sent a chill down Arnold's spine.
"Has the Black family, in your estimation, declined so far that it requires you, a Belmont, to instruct us on how to conduct ourselves?"
Arnold's smile froze solid.
Regulus continued. Same pace.
Even and factual.
"You stood here and used phrases like 'the great one has taken an interest in you' to tell me, a Black, what I should believe, what I should support, which side I should stand on. In front of everyone in this room, in a tone that bordered on command, you demanded I declare my position. Demanded I speak your words."
He lifted his head. His gaze swept the room, then returned to Arnold, addressing him directly but speaking for every ear present.
"Since when does the Belmont family hold that kind of authority? The authority to lecture the House of Black on how to manage its affairs? To dictate what the Black heir should say? To take a posture of condescension and issue orders to the Blacks?"
Dead silence swallowed the common room.
Some hadn't caught up yet. Others' faces had changed entirely. Narcissa's eyes widened, and then, slowly, the faintest curve shaped her lips.
She understood.
Regulus had torn away the velvet wrapping of Arnold's coercion and exposed what lay beneath.
Insult.
Who was a Belmont to address the Black heir in that tone? Who was a Belmont to presume he could dictate what a Black should support? Who was a Belmont to wield the great one's interest as leverage, cornering a Black into a public declaration?
This wasn't an attack on Regulus alone. It was disrespect to the entire House of Black.
Arnold Belmont's face drained white. His mouth opened, but Regulus gave him nothing.
"Perhaps you've misunderstood." Regulus stood.
He was a full head shorter than Arnold, but when he drew himself straight, something in his presence forced the older boy half a step backward.
"Perhaps Mr. Belmont believes the Belmont family has already risen above the House of Black. That you can direct Black family members at will. That you can address the Black heir in the manner you just demonstrated."
He stepped forward. Arnold retreated again.
"If that's the case," Regulus's voice dropped cold, "then let me ask you one more question. What price is the Belmont family prepared to pay?"
The words struck Arnold's chest like a hammer. The last trace of color drained from his face.