When Regina is sorted into Slytherin, she feels her brother's stare boring into her as he sits at his own Houses' table.

What Magnus doesn't understand is that she'd rather be anywhere else than here.

The Sorting continues, ending with "Zelle, Graham" who is sorted into Ravenclaw. Headmaster Dumbledore – who seems a hundred times kinder than Headmaster Karkaroff – commences the feast to officially begin. With a wave of his hands, plates and plates of endless food show up on each of the long, winding tables.

"So," says Daphne Greengrass, the first one to speak up, "What's it like. Durmstrang?"

Regina blinks. She knows this is just a formality; her and Daphne have shared plenty of letters over the years, and the latter knows quite a bit about Durmstrang from them. This is Daphne attempting to acclimate her into Slytherin's crowd with ease. She doesn't quite know what to say, what these snakes are going to want to hear. "It's very different from Hogwarts."

The sing-song-ness of her Norwegian accent causes it to sound more like a question than an answer. It is very different from Hogwarts?

"Is it better?" Tracey Davis asks, point-blank.

"For some people," Regina says. She does not hesitate; they'll sniff it out like a wolfhound smells blood, a weakness she doesn't want to project.

This is the worst part about Slytherins. She ought to know; much of her family lineage hailed from it. Those who hadn't been either homeschooled or attended Durmstrang, at least.

She turns around in the middle of dinner, in-between bites of chicken. Magnus is staring at a plate of food that doesn't look like it's been touched. Regina's not sure who's more miserable: her or him.

Erik, on the other hand, is the opposite. Utterly jovial, honestly; she can't remember the last time she saw a genuine grin on his face that didn't come from Quidditch. He's huddled together with some other first years, excitedly chit-chattering about something that Regina can't hear from all the way across the table.

Well. At least one of the Hexbergs is happy.


If he had anything in his stomach, he'd throw up right here, in the Great Hall, in front of everyone.

It'd probably be less humiliating than being in bloody Hufflepuff.

What will Father say? Oh, Merlin, what will Mother say?

His throat feels dry. It seems as if everyone's eyes are on him, a steady gaze that he focuses on more than whatever Headmaster Dumbledore is saying.

"Are you a Death Eater, then?"

A boy with sandy blonde hair and lips too large for his face is the first to speak up. He sits right across from Magnus. There's a rather Slytherin-looking sneer on his face as he looks at him.

Magnus furrows his brow. It is well known that his father was under the Imperius Curse for the duration of the war, much like Lucius Malfoy.

It is also well known that the Hexbergs left Magical England for Magical Norway. Superficially, it was due to familial obligations. Truthfully, it was likely because Thorsten Hexberg was wary of further scrutiny for their involvement in the war.

But that was so long ago. It's all irrelevant, right? The sins of the father shouldn't be passed onto the son.

Besides, he isn't a Death Eater. They don't officially exist in any capacity, not anymore.

"I am not," he says plainly.

The boy wrinkles his nose. "I don't know if I believe you."

Before Magnus can respond properly, a girl with mousy brown hair and freckles across her face elbows the boy. "Oh, stop it, Ernie. Leave him alone!"

"I'm just saying what we're all thinking," the boy – Ernie – says indignantly.

"No, you aren't," says a round-faced redhead sitting diagonally from Magnus. "Merritt's right. You're being a right prat."

"I don't know," interjects another boy, his hair blonder than Ernie's, his jaw a bit squarer. "You went to Durmstrang, right? That Malfoy kid always talks about his very influential friend named Hexberg from Durmstrang. That's you, isn't it? Isn't Durmstrang supposed to be the best school to go to if you're to learn the Dark-"

"Stop it!" The freckled girl practically hisses through her teeth. "We're supposed to be kind in Hufflepuff."

This only further cements Magnus's belief that he shouldn't be here. Everyone in his family who ever went to Hogwarts was a Slytherin. Plus, his blood is purer than any of theirs. The only reason the Hexbergs aren't on the Sacred Twenty-Eight text is because their family is Norwegian; it's only been within the last one hundred and fifty years that living full-time in Britain has become more commonplace. Surely, Purebloods are naturally inclined to be in Slytherin, right?

He's an outcast. Everyone at this table likely feels inferior to him. Surely, it would make everyone – including him – happier if he had been sorted into Slytherin instead.

Magnus furrows his brow. Perhaps he can be resorted. That was possible at Durmstrang, though exceedingly rare.

He makes a mental note to send an owl to Father about this. This certainly is a misunderstanding.


The twins' interest in Hogwarts, however, piques with the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament.

Not because either of them has any interest in attempting to skirt the "no under seventeens are allowed to enter" rule. But because there will be delegations from Durmstrang.

Regina hopes that Viktor Krum will be there. Not because she knows him, but because she fancies him. To some extent. (Not that she'll let anyone know.)

And Magnus? Magnus is just happy to see anyone from Durmstrang.


As Magnus follows the throngs of Hufflepuffs to the common room, two girls fall into step with him.

"Merritt Honeycutt," introduces the freckled girl who defended him earlier.

"Hannah Abbott," says a girl with long, stringy blonde hair and a long face.

Magnus ignores them.

Merritt sighs, loudly and obnoxiously. "Listen, we don't think you're a Death Eater, if that's what you're worried about."

"We understand how frustrated you must be, not being in Slytherin," says Hannah, "but Hufflepuff's a great house. You'll like it here. You'll make friends fast."

Magnus doesn't want to make new friends. He especially doesn't want to be buddy-buddy with everyone in Hufflepuff.

But he doesn't have the mental energy now to explain to them how he's not going to be in Hufflepuff for long, so he lets them walk beside him. Hannah shows him how to enter the Hufflepuff Common Room.

The barrel thing that grants Hufflepuffs access to the common room is amateurish. At Durmstrang, to enter Silen's dormitories, you had to dodge and rebound whatever hex was thrown at you by a suit of armour. If you could do that, then you were granted access to the dorms, which were behind a false bookshelf. Even then, if you hadn't been sorted into Silen, you weren't getting in. The corridor to the dorms would sense whether you were a member of Silen or not and would begin to narrow until you were stuck there, waiting for someone who was actually a member to broaden the corridor again.

But when he enters the common room…Well…It seems like the only upside about being in Hufflepuff is that their common room is identical to Silen's. There are plants everywhere; the ceiling is rather low; the windows are round.

But Magnus still feels like an utter outsider here; his robes may have automatically gained a golden trim, but that doesn't mean he's a Puffer through and through. No, from everything he's ever heard about this House, it's one meant for losers and nobodies and wizards who don't have potential.

And he has potential.

Magnus stays in one of the fluffy, plush armchairs by the roaring fire, staring into the flickering flames as if they'll give him an answer. The rest of the boys immediately go up to bed, as if they can't stand the sight of him any longer.

Good. That's fine. He suspects he won't be in Hufflepuff for very long, if Father can send an owl back in a timely manner. The first chance he gets, when he's not surrounded by people, he's going to write a very lengthy letter emphasizing how wrong it is for him to be here.

But some of the girls in his year stay downstairs, huddled together on the couch. Merritt Honeycutt, for example, and then there's Hannah Abbott. Plus, there's the redheaded girl who chattered exuberantly with Merritt for most of the feast.

"You know," says the redhead, "Hufflepuff isn't so bad."

"It's probably nothing like whatever you were in at Durmstrang," says Hannah, "but I'd reckon it's better."

"You'll like it here," Merritt says with an air of finality, as if that's the end of that.

Magnus does not respond; he continues to stare at the flames, wondering if his father will send him a Howler, or if he'll bother to contact him at all.

"Would you rather be left alone?" asks Hannah.

Silence.

Until Merritt says: "Hey, don't take this the wrong way – but, like, are you mute, or something? Can you not speak? Are we being rude trying to get you to talk?"

"Merritt!" says the redhead in astonishment.

She shrugs. "Well, Susan, some of us have to take the initiative and ask the hard questions."

"I am not a mute," Magnus says, putting as much bitterness and distaste in his voice as he can possibly muster. "I just do not want to talk to any of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Merritt, sounding wary.

"It means exactly what it is supposed to mean." He folds his arms across his chest.

No matter how she attempts to prod and poke and pester him, Magnus doesn't elaborate. He doesn't speak at all. He's not in the mood. The trio of girls chitchat lightly about people whose names he isn't familiar with, perhaps hoping he'll join in at any moment, but he never does.

It's Susan who leaves first, sighing and shaking her head and saying "'Night Han, 'night Merr."

Merritt is next, though she doesn't speak when she leaves. She vanishes like a ghost out of the corner of Magnus's eye.

So, it's just him and Hannah, for a very long time. The clock near the bulletin board chimes, loud and deep and booming, letting them know it's midnight, they're the only ones in the common room, and they both need to go to sleep.

That's what Hannah says, at least. She gets up from the couch, stretching and yawning.

"And you, especially, really ought to get some rest," she says. "I'd hate to see how you are when you're sleep-deprived."

Then she goes upstairs.

He goes to the boy's dormitories almost immediately after. He doesn't want to admit she is correct.

He falls into a quick sleep, grateful that none of the other boys are awake.


The Slytherin Common Room is cold and uninviting. It looks perfectly dry, but Regina thinks the walls ought to feel slimy. That's how the entire place feels.

It makes more sense than ever that her father would have grown up in the den of snakes.

She'd have more to say about it if Draco Malfoy would shut the hell up.

He's been by her side since they exited the Great Hall. She didn't ask him to be, but as soon as she got up from her seat, Draco moved to do the same. His lackeys were behind them. At school, they seem to be known as Crabbe and Goyle; growing up, though, when all the pureblood families would get together, Regina remembers them as Vince and Greg.

It's weird, what growing up can do to you.

"Bloody Hufflepuff! Can you believe it? I'm sure this is a mistake. Our fathers will get this fixed right quick." Draco huffs and puffs and folds his arms across his chest as he sinks into the leather couch, sitting right beside Regina. He may be fourteen, but he's acting more like a first year.

She isn't sure if this is something that can be fixed. If it's even supposed to be fixed.

But that's not a conversation she wants to get into when her eyes are struggling to stay open. "They will," she says with a calm and collected voice, which makes Draco nod eagerly in agreement.

"Of course they will," he replies. "I can't think of any Hexberg in Hufflepuff. It's like a Malfoy being in Gryffindor. It's…unnatural." The word is bitter and acidic off his tongue.

She wonders if Draco would be acting the same if she or Erik had been sorted anywhere else. A part of her was hoping to be sorted into Gryffindor; she'd love to be even more of a dark stain on the Hexberg lineage.

Instead, this makes her almost…normal. Father will certainly be pleased and Mother will, too. They will act as if Regina is finally uncovering her natural inclination towards the Dark Arts, as if having green trim on her robes is any indication that she's even got any sort of inclination in the first place.

Draco seems to not have noticed how quiet Regina is. "I'll send an owl first thing in the morning. You can borrow mine if you haven't got one."

Regina does not have an owl. She has a black cat named Stark who she loves with all her heart, even if he makes her father sneeze wildly.

No, especially because he makes her father sneeze wildly.

"Thanks, Draco," she says.

He nods. "Of course. You're a Slytherin now."

You're a Slytherin now. That makes her stomach drop to her knees.

"I'm going to bed," she announces to no one in particular.

The girl's dormitory is just as cold and distant as the main portion of the common room. The windows are tinged a murky green; Regina figures she'll never get an ounce of sunlight down here.

She chooses to ignore the way Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bullstrode stop their hushed conversation to stare at her. As she flicks her wand and snaps her bedcurtains shut, she decides that that's something she'll simply have to put off for another day.


Outside the boundaries of Hogwarts, two men sit across from one another at a grand dining table.

"I am eternally grateful for you ensuring the transfer was easy," says Thorsten, long fingers wrapped around the stem of his wine glass. Dark red, the way he prefers it.

Lucius nods. "Anything for you, my dear friend."

They are not friends. Allies would be a better term. Maybe they were friends, once upon a time, back when they both wore green-and-silver-hemmed robes and Thorsten followed Lucius around like a lost puppy.

But that was decades ago.

They've finished their meal long ago; they're merely enjoying the relative silence, away from their wives, their children, and from the prying eyes of the Ministry. Tonight will be one of the quietest nights they will have for the duration of the year.

"We've a busy year ahead of us," Thorsten says. "A toast, to our children finally attending school together – and to what's to come."

Their wine glasses clink together. Yes, the Hexbergs residing in England once more will be a grand thing.