Their table didn't stay private for long. The next Monday morning when Ancient Runes was held, a slick athletic boy slipped into the seat next to Regulus. His frizzy blond hair actually went well with his green and silver tie. A sharp nod and a cordial "I'm Evan," marked his total introduction to Dorcas, and though she politely responded in turn, she wasn't sure he'd heard.
"Anna," she asked one of her friends later that night in the common room, "do you know Evan Rosier at all?"
"Rosier? No, not really. I think Marie went out with him once last year. But – I don't know. He's not quite the type you should really – you know? He's kind of sketchy." Anna buried herself again at the bottom of a scroll.
"Sketchy?"
Anna peeped up again. "Well. Ask Marie. I do think he was one of those who had to paint Professor Lightfoot a mural, you remember that? The dragon and such? He must have really incurred The Foot's wrath for that. It was quite lovely though."
"Right. Foot made them wash it off afterwards?"
Anna shook her head sadly. "Such a waste. This old castle could do with more decoration."
Dorcas had seen the masterpiece only once, getting lost on the way to potions two years ago. She'd stumbled into a hallway she'd never seen before - she thought - although, that was hard to tell. All of the hallways down near the potions wing were made of solid grey stone, sturdy but drafty. During the winter you could touch the walls andsense solidice just beneath the surface. Dorcas had gotten herself lost and confused, and she got panicky when she realized her breath was billowing into little white clouds. She tripped over her own foot and stumbled down a few steps, landing sprawled on her back. As she looked up, a giant yellow dragon rearing its ugly head, green fire pouring out of its mouth.
Dorcas had screamed. The sound echoed off of the walls, but no one came. She'd been alone with the dragon and the cold stone beneath her hands. A minute passed. She got up and jogged away uneasily.
-
The days and nights passed, the weeks tripping over each other in the strange rhythm of haste and ennui. The snow fell and Regulus again conjured the all-weather-precipitation-guard for the tree. A day before she left for home on the Christmas break, Dorcas went to the tree to collect her books to bring home for study. On the bench was a present wrapped in blue shining paper. She ripped open the package and found a copy of The Prince by Machiavelli, engraved with the Black family sign.
"Merry Christmas, Regulus," Dorcas whispered to the night.