Author and Translator's Note: more than often, doubts had worried Nimue as she wrote this piece, just like they did as I translated it. We know that some readers may feel offended by Malfoy and Black's statements, and they have a right to complain about it: that is why we are asking you to have a purely historical approach to this story, because those were times when people thought that such mean beliefs were true and even tried to demonstrate them.
The Respect
- Nimue -
The silvery blade sank in the underdone steak and the boy lazily chewed the bit.
"We are regressing," suddenly exclaimed Ares Ludwig Malfoy with his icy and severe voice, "we'll be forced to share even the air with vile creatures… beings that should polish our shoes, not aspire to steal them before the whole world."
Thomas M. Riddle didn't cared of that authoritative manifesto; every day there was a new reason to restrict the number of elects, they who were blessed with the mystical company of Ares and Lucie Malfoy.
"Do I mistake or it is a dermatologic matter?" dared Rigel Black, sneering in an interlude they called playing.
"It is a cultural story, long and much discussed, my friend," Ares Malfoy sighed sadly, "where there is no skin to come out clean."
Riddle turned his head toward the Slytherin Prefect and the Black Heir: he understood neither about whom they were talking nor where they wanted to come.
"If it doesn't bother you," Riddle began with affected and mocking politeness, "could I know about this question?"
Black merely pointed out the Ravenclaw table, reign of a polite chatter of erudite minds, far from the ignorance ruling the world –at least they thought so.
Thomas M. Riddle saw some boys talking, a blonde girl with a beaming beauty sipping from a fine goblet, without touching food, and in the end he located the culprit: Isoke Glenn, fifth year student, coming from United States of America.
The young boy breathed the humid air and shook his head: he would like to reply that refined Mr Malfoy, Slytherin Prefect with blood purer than mountain spring water, was doing the same rude and superficial remarks of a drunk Muggle miner. But he kept silent, because he himself didn't like Ms Glenn from Ravenclaw.
Isoke was the third of eight children living in New York, and from what Thomas M. Riddle had heard, she was the first Black girl to cross Hogwarts's gates.
The Wizarding press had had a ball with the news: outraged headlines against Headmaster Dipped's serene and welcomed decision to teach a Negress rained down like snowflakes at Christmas Eve.
When Isoke Glenn had been sorted, Thomas M. Riddle was still a prisoner to the charity Orphanage. But in those two years, the girl didn't benefit of her schoolmates' resignation and her stubborn pride, her absurd claim to eat at the same table with Countess Von Tessel and Duchess Winsdor created a stir.
Isoke was the human kind's dregs, a lower being because she descended from an enslaved race kept in the darkest and cruellest ignorance and for long centuries oppressed by the ancestor of who now stretched a hand to help them, but careful to not get dirty with reality's filthy aspect.
"I think she's dangerous," Thomas M. Riddle said unaware.
Rigel Black looked surprised. "Why?"
The Slytherin boy didn't reply to avoid new and tiring questions.
Isoke Glenn was or appeared arrogant and proud of her origins, because only in that way she would have been able to achieve her ends: take revenge on the race that had made her a miserable slave, who could be raped, killed or sold like a rag doll.
Isoke Glenn was beautiful, even more than the Duchess with her tinkling jewellers. Isoke stood out for her manners' inborn grace, her bold but graceful pace, as if her feet barely touched the ground and without causing the heels' symphony her schoolmates loved so much. She was tall, almost as a boy, but her figure was blooming, flourishing but fresh, naïve and naughty like her eyes that never lowered, neither at the most obscene insults.
Rigel Black was sure that a Negress couldn't be pure, or rather; her pureness wasn't comparable to the earnest girls' one. Black women were used to gave themselves by force or gold from oblivious times, and so it was useless wonder if Isoke Glenn brought or not shame to Rowena Ravenclaw's House, she couldn't do in a different way: she was born with such tendency in her own blood.
Thomas M. Riddle watched her as she chewed decorously; the cutlery held in her dark fingers ornate with thin rings. The Prefect reproached her because of her slowness, but it was clear that that was a simple excuse to humiliate her in public.
"Do you know that the Negress risks cleaning the lavatories since next century?" Goyle asked, in his daily show of style.
"It is in the world's order," Ares Malfoy said.
"No, that… woman went too far!" Lucie cut in, twitching her hands in a hysterical spasm. "She handed a copied Charms' essay… at the beginning Glenn was rewarded with a high grade, but truth came to light."
"If she was sharp she would have changed some adverbs and adjectives and she would be safe: stupidity have to be punished," replied Thomas M. Riddle.
Lucie went on, boosted by general curiosity. "The Negress tried to ward off suspects, but the teacher isn't a stupid: when Countess Von Tessel accused her before the whole class to have stolen her notes, in order to strut with her own people, her trick was as clear as the sun!"
Ares nodded omnisciently. "Slytherin won't exult, because the teacher didn't take off points to Ravenclaw, but I do agree: the Negress belongs to her people, I hope she'll go back among them.
"She has ruined enough both school and magic with her rituals of primitive shaman," he added.
"She should have accepted the Headmaster's offer of a lighter plan of studies." Rigel said. "We are unable to understand the trouble that negroes face reading a common schoolbook, learning how write properly, submitting to basic rule, which we are used to. That is why the Negress is so tense."
"She isn't chained to her bed, there are schools for them!" Lucie snapped. "If her mind isn't suitable to school subjects, why does she have to resort to such low means?"
"My dear," Black explained patiently, "recent studies of Mediwizards and Healers have demonstrated how the population at issue is used to fraud and games of chances, and to moral decadence.
"I'll say it again: we can't judge them, we have to understand them, without expecting them to adapt to our civilization."
The Malfoys agreed generously.
Isoke Glenn ended her meal and went away; no one talked to her and they pretended to not notice her inconvenient presence, but they spied her and Isoke didn't care of them.
Thomas M. Riddle sat at a desk in the Common Room: the third year was very demanding, often the afternoon faded into evening and the sun had jet set when he finished his homework.
"Riddle, you can take my star chart," Fides said quietly, "I can't draw, but Ally told me the planets' names, so they are right.
In the meanwhile I'll read your Transfiguration essay."
Thomas M. Riddle didn't opposed but it seemed weird, bizarre, almost shameful that Countess Von Tessel had accused Isoke Glenn o a very common habit: everybody used to take somebody else's notes. It was as spontaneous as going to sleep at night, like hiding biscuits to not let others eat them. It was an unwritten rule.
Isoke Glenn was a lone and discreet girl, he had never saw her with a classmate, at the most the Prefects brought her back in their Common Room with harsh words.
She was accused to stink, despite she washed herself every day, and she was forced to hide her frizzy hair in a bun, because it was considered vulgar and anaesthetic.
Wizards had the same dull opinions of Muggles, of nuns talking about pagans, of they who banished whom weren't born from what they knew and appreciated.
Muggles appreciated themselves, Christian worshipped their modesty, wizards like the Malfoys their family and Isoke Glenn was the breeze of a new Era, of pagan rituals, of the knowledge that beyond sense, beyond magic, every one was worth to show his soul, which was a face of Universe. Isoke Glenn wasn't a stupid and lower Negress: she was a girl different from Countess Von Tessel.
Thomas M. Riddle wasn't able to explain why he felt affinities between the Negress's condition and his own, an orphan Slytherin.
The boy lost himself in other thoughts, the approaching Transfiguration test distressed him: he stayed up late into the night with Black's company, who wanted to write to his father. He got up early, wanting to finish his homework and he didn't remember Isoke Glenn until he saw her.
She walked with her head held high toward Charms' classroom, holding her book to her chest, her shirt's cuffs were perfectly ironed, and her robes brushed against the wall.
"Here she is, the Negress," Goyle said disgusted.
Thomas M. Riddle turned, embarrassed as if he had just been pointed by those gossipy and haughty wizards.
Isoke Glenn didn't look at them, severe and proud, knowing that she had nothing to be ashamed of, even, she knew to have the truth in her hands, among the books she studied and her own conscience ordered her to not lower at Countess Von Tessel's level. Thomas M. Riddle knew it.
A roll of parchment slipped on the marble floor with a soft thud, followed by a brief rolling.
Thomas M. Riddle knelt down; he grabbed the thin parchment and stood up.
"Excuse me, Miss, but you have lost this," he called her politely.
Isoke frowned puzzled, she was almost afraid that the Slytherin wanted to humiliate her, but the boy was just handing her the roll.
"Thank you," she whispered taking the object.
"You are welcome. Have a nice day, Miss," Thomas M. Riddle said with a nod.