A/N: Thank you so much for the review! :)
It's several days after the Yule Ball when Megan throws The Daily Prophet onto the table. She nearly knocks over the cup of pumpkin juice that Hannah has been sipping on for the better part of thirty minutes, almost staining Magnus's book on the goblin rebellion of the 1890s.
"Look at the society pages, you two," she says, a cheeky grin on her face.
Magnus peers over as Susan opens up the newspaper, then quickly wishes he hadn't. There's a five-page spread concerning the pureblooded attendees of the ball. There he is, in the most prominent photo on page three. There's a quiet smile on his face, Susan's arms wrapped around his waist, his around her shoulders, so close their bodies are touching. She's looking up at him with an adoring expression that he doesn't remember her having.
"They're calling me Lady Bones," says Susan, her face as pale as snow.
"That is who you are," Magnus points out.
She elbows him roughly as Merritt and Macmillan snicker.
"Oh, don't you laugh, either of you!" Susan says sharply as she shoots the both of them a glare.
Megan snatches the paper back from Susan's hands, then begins to read it aloud in an imitation of a clipped, posh accent. "In a twist none of us saw coming, the future lord was spotted getting quite cozy with the heir apparent of the Noble House Bones. It seems like being sorted into Hufflepuff has made him acquire a taste for Ladies of the Light - we wonder if Lord Hexberg knows! Will a marriage between them be arranged in the upcoming years? What a way to bridge peace between the Dark and the Light-"
"Stop!" Susan shrieks out, her voice high enough to crack, reaching out to grab the newspaper.
"Arranged marriages?" Merritt asks, wrinkling her nose. "That's absurd. Tell me they're kidding."
Megan shakes her head. "Most of the Dark families still do them."
Magnus stays quiet as a hundred thousand thoughts run through his mind. By the end of the first week of August, after his birthday, Father will likely set him down at his desk. He will give his eldest son that tired look he often has on his face, likely admonish him once more for some minor infraction that Magnus won't even remember having committed, then curtly inform him of who his future wife will be. At some point, he'd felt a great deal of pride knowing that his family was honourable enough to bestow this lifestyle onto him. But now, all he can think of is how any dating he does now will be irrelevant in the long run. He can date any girl he possibly wants - his mind strays to Hannah, as it's wont to do - but it will never go anywhere beyond that.
He frowns.
Merritt looks at him. "Do they really? When? Why?"
"To ensure bloodlines stay pure," Hannah says, her face wrinkled in disgust, as if she's just realizing that Magnus is going to be arranged to someone.
"And to ensure heirs actually produce offspring," he explains further. "If my father doesn't arrange a marriage for me, then there is a fear that I may never marry - and never have heirs of my own to continue the line."
"It's stupid," Macmillan concludes. "Who cares about - continuing the line?"
"Hexberg's father, 'pparently," Zacharias says, cocking his head towards Magnus.
Merritt's looking at him with a funny sort of expression, her face contorted into complete and utter bafflement: thick brows folded together, lips pursed and twisted to one side. "You're - you're going to be betrothed to someone? Genuinely? I thought that stuff was meant for - oh, I don't know, Pride and Prejudice or something like that."
"Eventually," he responds after a few moments of hesitation. "Not yet."
There's silence throughout the common room. Then:
"...Are you going to be engaged to Susan, then?"
Merritt's question makes almost everyone in the room - except for Hannah, Magnus, and Susan - laugh heartily.
"No," says Magnus curtly.
"Why not?" Megan asks, quirking a brow. "You would think your father would be eager to, ah, bridge peace between the Dark and the Light."
He tries to envision a world where Thorsten Hexberg would ever be willing to acquiesce his heir apparent marrying a pureblood from a Light family and quickly comes to the conclusion that there is no alternative universe wherein Father would find that acceptable. "I believe my father would rather die than do that, actually."
"If he really wanted to show the world he doesn't believe what You-Know-Who believed in, you would think that he'd wanna," Megan says, scratching at her face absentmindedly.
"Oh, come off it," Macmillan interjects, scoffing. "Everyone knows he wasn't really under the Imperius curse, my own mum and dad never believed it for a second."
"Ernie," says Merritt hesitantly.
Magnus grits his teeth on instinct. The war doesn't cross his mind often, but when people around Hogwarts throw around statements like this so casually…well, he's forced to confront it, even if the very thought makes his head pulsate with tension.
"Besides, after what he prob'ly did to Susie's family-"
Before Macmillan can finish his sentence, Susan abruptly gets up from her side of the couch. She visibly bristles before leaving the common room without uttering so much as a word.
Megan cocks her head before briefly tugging on her earlobe. "What's got her all wound up?"
Judging by the heavy silence that follows, Magnus supposes it's something that he would rather not know.
Regina is annoyed.
This isn't anything unusual for her. It seems as if there are a great many things in the world that are designed specifically to irritate her. Astronomy. Pansy Parkinson's face. Watching a Quidditch player fumble an easy move that even a bloody house elf could manage.
No, her annoyance is because of the copy of the Daily Prophet that Daphne's owl, Alyss, had dutifully dropped off at breakfast. At first, it was amusing; the picture of Magnus and his…whatever she is, and the knowledge that it will most certainly irritate their father, was more than enough to put some pep in her step.
Amusing until a few moments later, when Daphne pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the second page. There, Regina looks more like a pureblooded lady than she's ever wanted to: tamed hair, elegant clothes, the works. Draco has an arm wrapped around her, a confident smile on his face. They look like a pureblooded couple in every sense of the word. Then, by the photo:
But that's not the only news we have concerning the House Hexberg. Regina - who, as those who follow pureblood society know, is the only daughter of Thorsten and Lyanna - was seen getting quite close to heir apparent Draco Malfoy. This is in spite of him having another date, one Lady Pansy Parkinson, who this reporter had the honour of talking to briefly.
"She's always been obsessed with him. Ever since she came to Hogwarts, she's constantly followed him around like a lost little mooncalf. I think she's a bit jealous - her father's been having a difficult time finding a suitable arrangement for her, on behalf of her…beliefs."
Those beliefs - which have been outspokenly pro-muggleborn, contrary to what the rest of her family follows - have been seemingly nonexistent since the young Lady Hexberg's arrival at Hogwarts. Perhaps being in Slytherin has changed her mind? Only time will tell…
"I wouldn't call it an honour of any sort to be talking to you, Parkinson," says Regina blandly, throwing the paper down. She's trying to ignore the churning in her stomach at the last paragraph.
Daphne snorts. "Try having lived in the dorms with her for the past three years. She's only gotten more insufferable as time's gone on."
Pansy looks like she wants to say something particularly foul, yet is doing her damnedest to refrain.
"I don't doubt it." She shoves the paper across to Draco. "Tell your girlfriend to stop slandering me in the society papers, please and thank you."
"She's not-" Draco grits his teeth, stabbing his food quite viciously. "Pansy, stop slandering Regina in the society papers."
"I'm not!" Pansy scoffs, pushing her plate away and folding her arms across her chest. "Why do you always take her side over mine? You're being so - so - so incorrigible!"
Tracey sighs, long and heavy, like she's just been given an insurmountable task. "I'm done with all of you." She gets up from the Slytherin table, walking out of the Great Hall to Merlin knows where.
Regina wonders if it's possible to lose any house points before classes have started back up again. The temptation to outright duel Pansy in the middle of a meal is growing more and more every day. If they were in any house but Slytherin, the one that so staunchly abides by house unity outside of the common room…
She grits her teeth, focusing on how many strips of bacon she plans on slipping into her robe pockets to feed Stark when she gets back to the girl's dormitory.
That is, until the Hexberg's family owl unceremoniously drops a letter onto Regina's plate.
Your mother showed me the pictures of you and young Draco at the Yule Ball. Well done. Before you attended Hogwarts, I was beginning to think that you would never act like a proper pureblood. I'm relieved that you seem to finally be cognizant of your place in society.
Wishing a prosperous new year,
Father.
Regina groans.
With Christmas and the Yule Ball now firmly in the past, the Hufflepuff Common Room seems rather subdued. Everyone is focused on the mountains of homework they've to complete before class starts back up. Hannah and Magnus spend the majority of one day attempting to determine the best phase for the moon to be in when one needs to pick porcupine quills and perform the Stargazer Ritual. Another day, Magnus is attempting to write a thirty-six-inch paper on the causes of the sixteenth-century Werewolf Rebellions of the now-United States.
Unfortunately, he also spends the majority of that day having to answer seemingly random questions about magical history. And Norway, too, when Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley get bored.
"Do you two not have anything better to do?" Magnus says, dipping his quill gently into his pot of ink. In the past ten minutes, he's been subjected to various questions involving what Durmstrang was like, how he feels about Hufflepuff, and how the magical community in Norway differs from the one in the United Kingdom.
"Hannah said we have to be more inclusive of you in our day-to-day activities," Finch-Fletchley says coolly. "Though I don't quite understand why."
"I am wondering the same thing," he replies, hunching over his parchment paper as he writes about Samuel Black.
He's not thinking too deeply about it. Hannah has said on several occasions that she wishes he'd get along with the other boys. It gets a bit awkward, apparently, when your best friends and your…whatever he is to her refuse to speak to one another beyond the bare minimum. Magnus supposes she's got a point; he also knows that it'd be wise to form an alliance of some sort with Macmillan. He may be from a Light pureblood family, but he's not someone who Father would actively sneer at, probably…unlike Finch-Fletchley.
"Bet you still call me a blood traitor," grumbles Macmillan.
Magnus stops writing. He sits up a bit straighter, enough so that he can glance over to one of the couches, where the boys are engaged in a miniature game of Summoner's Court. They're using their wands to Accio marbles towards the edge of the shuffleboard, too engrossed in the game to look over at him.
"Actually," he replies evenly, "I don't."
"Fat chance of that being the truth," says Finch-Fletchley as one of his marbles bounces off the board and under the table. "It's a miracle we haven't heard you talking like Malfoy does, going on about how he's going to control the Wizengamot when he's older and make it illegal to be a blood traitor."
"I have never referred to you as anything uncouth," Magnus replies. Not aloud, anyways. He's getting slowly more accustomed to not using the term 'mudblood' in his everyday vernacular, though it's proving to be a difficult task. It's hard to dislodge a word from your vocabulary when it's been in it for, essentially, your entire life.
But it's the right thing to do at the moment. Until he finds research and evidence proving otherwise, of course. That's something he's yet to accomplish - he's poured more effort into this than he has any of his studies, whether they be during his stint at Durmstrang or his time at Hogwarts.
Finch-Fletchley's looking at Magnus like he's a particularly nasty wart on the back of his hand. But Macmillan…Macmillan's looking at him all weird. Not quite filled with hate, but certainly not a look that Magnus would describe in a positive light.
It makes him uncomfortable.
Regina is starting to wonder if the grand scheme of the universe is to conspire against her at every turn.
For whatever reason, Daphne's decided the first week of the new term was a great time to fall ill. Mumblemumps usually only occurs in those under the age of thirteen, but she mentioned vaguely that the Greengrass women tend to be prone to illness. Thus, she's confined to the Hospital Wing for the better part of the next few weeks, positively bored out of her mind (Regina's been having to give her back issues of Witch Weekly to stave it off).
The worst part of this isn't Daphne constantly bemoaning how much her neck hurts. It isn't even how Regina has to make do without someone fixing her mistake in Potions. No, it's the fact that this means there's an odd Slytherin out who has to sit with a Gryffindor for the duration of class.
As luck would have it, Regina's the odd Slytherin out. And she's paired up with the most anxious, stuttering mess of a Gryffindor she's ever had the displeasure of sitting beside.
Neville Longbottom is the heir apparent for the House Longbottom, though she's unsure whether they adhere to pureblood culture much (she hopes, for his sake, that they don't). She's known his name ever since Father started drilling all the European pureblooded family names into her head. It seems that the boy is as ridiculous as his very name. He trembles and shakes so violently when he walks into the classroom that it's a wonder he hasn't blown himself up yet, the way his wand wavers about in his hand. For the first fifteen minutes of class, he refuses to make eye contact with Regina or with Professor Snape, instead attempting to focus rather acutely on the instructions for the Weedosoros potion.
"If any of you decide to be an utter imbecile and dare drink this potion," says Snape at the beginning of class, eyes leering through the crowd of Gryffindors and Slytherins, "I suggest immediately departing to the Hospital Wing. I can assure you that none of us want or need to be bothered with your convulsing, frothing at the mouth, or excessive seizures."
When he finishes his little speech, Longbottom looks so frightened that he's about to fall off his bloody chair.
Wonderful. It's a dual assignment, too.
"I'm dreadful at Potions," she says, copying down the instructions onto a piece of parchment she's placed by her cauldron.
Longbottom stares at her for several moments in apparent confusion, as if he's shocked she's dared to talk to him. Finally, he speaks. His voice is less mousy than she anticipated. "So am I."
"Kind of dreadful at everything," Regina continues, trying to not have to suffer in silence throughout the rest of class. Maybe if she gets them both focusing on conversation, their concoction will be at least passable for Professor Snape.
The tips of his ears turn the same colour as his face. "No - I'm good at Herbology."
"Me, not you," she says, a bit more harsher than she intends.
"Sorry," he squeaks out, looking like he'll faint outright if she even looks at him the wrong way.
She thought she was horrible at Potions, but she's lost track of the amount of times that Snape has berated Longbottom loudly for whatever mess he's made in class. It's a wonder he doesn't have to buy a new cauldron every month.
"I think you're supposed to grind up the dandelion roots a little more," Regina says hesitantly, flipping through her textbook. "Don't add it to the cauldron yet."
They spend the next ten or so minutes in silence, trying to come up with a decent enough potion to not receive a biting insult from their instructor. Despite how she's absolutely rubbish at the subject, Snape never says anything too harsh to Regina; she knows damn well it's because of the colour of her robe's trims and not because he actually likes her. Not to mention, Snape and Father had been in cahoots way back in the day…Of course he'd give some semblance of preference to the children of Death Eaters…
"...Is it true that they make you learn how to use the Unforgivables at Durmstrang in your first year?"
Regina stares at the round-faced boy, still holding her flask of lionfish quills. "Pardon?"
"I - just - well," he stammers, "Some of the Ravenclaws were talking about Durmstrang the other day, and how some of the students there know loads more about Unforgivables than any of us do, and Morag's says she's pretty sure she heard your twin talk about using the Imperius curse when he was eleven, so…"
She tries to think of any context in which Magnus would talk about using an Unforgivable so openly, especially when he's never cast a single bloody one in his life, and immediately decides that Morag MacDougal is spewing utter shite. "No. They don't teach us how to cast them. They taught us all about them, but not until our second year, and they'll never teach the wandwork required to cast any of them. And Magnus has never cast it."
At that, Longbottom looks immensely relieved. Regina's pretty sure he even breathes a tiny sigh. "Oh. Okay."
Regina carefully places a few lionfish quills into the cauldron. Almost immediately, their potion goes from silvery-white to deep purple. "Stir that thrice counterclockwise."
Apparently, two halves of two separate shitty potion makers creates one quasi-decent potion maker. By the end of class, the result of their hard work looks similar to what everyone else has managed to create (save for that Finnegan fellow, who almost blew up his cauldron entirely). Regina's the one to scoop it up and put it in a flask, jamming the cork on it with more force than she usually would when she hears Pansy cooing at Draco over something insignificant.
Grabbing the flask from her hand, Snape looks down at their concoction. Her stomach churns with anxiety, wondering if it's going to be good enough, but then-
"Five points to Slytherin, Miss Hexberg," he says, "for managing to curtail Longbottom's usual idiocy and producing an adequate potion. Longbottom, five points from Gryffindor for not having the common sense to produce a halfway decent potion without having to rely upon another student to do the majority of the work."
When Regina's eyes flicker around the room, she sees Draco's smug smirk and the Weasley boy's face during as red as his hair. He looks like he's about to say something, but Potter elbows him sharply in the ribs, a scowl on the latter's face as he does so. Longbottom looks like he's about to cry.
"Sorry 'bout your luck, mate," says Weasley several minutes later, elbowing the boy as they leave the classroom.
Vaguely, she's aware that Tracey's about to sidle up next to her and begin talking about something banal, but then she notices that Longbottom's walking all alone, and -
"Hey," Regina says, somewhat breathless from catching up to him.
He looks at her quizzically, his brows snapping together. "What?"
"I'm sorry," she says, "That he talked to you like that. I had a teacher like that at Durmstrang. It isn't very fun."
Her nose wrinkles in disgust as she thinks of Professor Hain, a wizard renowned throughout Eastern Europe for his prolific talent in the Dark Arts. He treated the majority of students with respect, but had it out for Regina from the first day she stepped into his classroom. Maybe he could tell she was never going to take well to his field. Maybe she said something particularly sarcastic that she can no longer recall. But she had to deal with three years of constant jeers, snide remarks, and thinly veiled references to her supposed idiocy.
"It isn't," he replies, "But there's nothing I can do to change it."
"Guess you're right, Longbottom," says Regina, not quite knowing what else to say. She feels kind of dumb, now, rushing up to him to offer empathy that doesn't even matter-
"Neville," he says. "Call me Neville."
"...Only if you call me Regina," she replies. She wonders if Draco's somewhere lurking nearby, listening to the two of them as they walk towards the Library Annex.
"Regina it is, then," Neville says.
They walk in silence for a few moments. Regina pretends like she doesn't notice a few of the quizzical glances they're given. It's not very often that a lion and a snake walk beside each other without a fight almost immediately breaking out. And it's not very often that Regina Hexberg even bothers to talk to anyone outside of her house.
Finally, Neville breaks the silence. "D'you maybe wanna - there's a study group, it's got students from almost every house, and we meet twice a week. I'll tell them you aren't so bad." He fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag, averting her gaze. "It might help you, 'cause you said you aren't so good at most of your subjects."
She gnaws on the inside of her cheek, considering the proposition. There's the potential for a bit of drama with some of the other snakes - Draco in particular - but…she does need the help. Regina thinks of the bought of accidental magic she displayed the last time Draco had tutored her, and she thinks about whether more help would solve…whatever that was.
"How do you know I'm not so bad?"
Longbottom - Neville, Regina reminds herself - stammers slightly. "Well - I mean - you know - if a Slytherin's willing to say she's sorry for something she didn't really do - and, well, you haven't made a joke about me since we sat beside each other in Potions - you're not so bad. Unless you are?"
Despite herself, she laughs. "I like to think I'm not."
"Well, there it is, then," Neville says, as if that's the end all be all. "So you can join the group, if you want."
"Who's in it?" she says hesitantly.
Regina only vaguely recognizes some of the names that Neville rattles off, mainly Padma Patil and Morag. It occurs to her, then, how Hogwarts doesn't really value inter-house connections, since she can only name maybe half of the forty or so students in her year.
But this is a chance to improve her skills. This is a chance to escape the snide remarks about Muggles and muggleborns that students like Draco and Theo and Pansy make.
"Do you wanna come?" Neville asks, puncturing her thoughts.
Regina smiles. "Sure."
Hopefully, this will help, even if only marginally.
Magnus waits for a sign.
At breakfast, his stomach always churns so violently that he finds it hard to swallow down anything; more often than not, he leaves having not bothered to fill up his plate. His eyes are affixed to the ceiling, watching the owls deliver letters, feeling his palms perspire whenever they venture near the Hufflepuff table. When they choose to bestow a letter to anyone besides him, he feels immense relief, but only temporarily.
Every single morning, as the post comes in, his fingers tap restlessly on the table. Every single morning, Hannah will put her hand over his. Sometimes, it helps.
The rest of the time, he's anxious that Father will have made a personal visit to Hogwarts. Surely, if he hadn't seen those Yule Ball photos the day they were published, another Dark family made him aware of them within the week. And surely, Father has some…choice words to say about his date.
Just what those choice words are - and how they will be delivered - is what's driving him mad. He's used to snide remarks delivered through owl letters. If he's at home, it's delivered through strict admonishments, along with the threat of having undesirable hexes placed on him. Only threats, mind; Father never once laid a curse on him, despite what some Light families probably believe.
If there are any signs that he's going to respond, they're too quiet, too subtle for Magnus to notice. That makes it a hundred times worse.
At least there are some good things. When the new term begins, the teasing about him and Susan quells considerably when Rita Skeeter's article about the groundskeeper, Hagrid, is published. He doesn't care much about those rumours. He's just glad Susan doesn't constantly walk around with a look of total mortification on her face. Ever since Macmillan mentioned something about Father and her family, she'd acted odd for the rest of break, hardly talking to any of them. Magnus isn't terribly inclined to ask her what's wrong; not because he doesn't want to, but because he suspects it's a sore subject that she'd rather not discuss. But the way she so staunchly rejected pureblood culture has been pressing on his mind.
"I don't understand," he says suddenly whilst in their first Arithmancy class of the term. His hands are cramping; they've been focusing on their alphabet-number charts since before the end of last term.
Right now, he doesn't understand a lot of things. For example, why Father instructed him to take this particular elective. Magnus can understand Ancient Runes, and he quite likes that class. But Arithmancy? He does fine with certain elements of it - the numerological significance of his name, or why numbers like seven and thirteen are important to so many aspects of magic. When Professor Vector introduces actually solving mathematical equations, however, or calculating the probability of an event occurring, he finds himself totally lost.
It used to bother him when a student like Granger or Finch-Fletchley would be able to come up with the solution first, but now that irritation has dampened to a recent realization. Muggles focus on math far more than wizards do; according to Regina, since they can't rely on magic, they use concepts far beyond most wizards' understanding in order to build their cities, to figure out their transportation, to do…well, just about everything that they're able to do. Of course the likes of Granger would be able to solve the problems quicker than Magnus can.
Susan looks up from her own chart. "What do you mean? Don't tell me Durmstrang didn't teach you how to add numbers together."
"Not this," he says, vaguely gesturing towards the piece of parchment, "I mean - I do not understand why you get so offended when someone reminds you of your status."
Quietly, she sighs, fingers brushing against her quill, gently bristling the edge of the feather. "Because it represents everything that I hate about - well - about being pureblooded."
Magnus's brows snap together at that, wondering if she hates being pureblooded or just hates being a pureblooded highborn. Before he can inquire why she feels that way, however, a screeching noise towards the front end of the classroom disrupts him.
"Less talking," says Professor Vector, after a piece of chalk scrapes across the board to get everyone's attention, "and more charting."
Magnus scowls but does as he's told.
It's a surprisingly balmy day for January. The snow on the ground barely exists, found only in scattered, quasi-solid patches throughout the grass. When Regina walks across the courtyard one morning on the way to Arithmancy, she realizes how it almost feels warm.
Which means just one thing.
She weaves in and out of the Chaser goalposts of the Quidditch arena. To potential onlookers, it merely looks like a girl who's practicing using her broom; to Regina, she's thinking of all the ways she'd thrive as an international Quidditch star. She envisions winning the Quidditch World Cup for Norway by scoring the winning goal, the way the crowds would cheer and chant her name, how she'd never be obligated to talk to her father ever again-
"Bet I can fly faster than you."
She hadn't even noticed anyone else was around, but here's Draco on his Nimbus 2001. There's a smirk on his face, like usual, but it's devoid of any malice. The glimmer in his eye suggests he's up for a bit of competition.
Regina gives him a matching smirk in return. "Do you promise not to claim I cheated when I inevitably kick your arse?"
"Fat chance of that," Draco says, chuckling, "But let's see you try."
In an instant, he dashes off ahead of her, close to the commentator's booth. Immediately, Regina follows behind, leaning ever so forward so as to increase momentum, thus increasing her speed. They're a blur of green and silver and black in the air, each of them trying their damnedest to stay ahead. At certain points, Draco gets the lead, only for Regina to snatch it back mere moments later. She's not sure how long he intends on racing her for, but her stamina is something wicked; at Durmstrang, she once had to deal with a Quidditch match that lasted almost ten hours. She doubts that Hogwarts has a match equivalent to that length. She would've heard about it.
They lap around the Quidditch pitch several times. The wind laps and licks at Regina's cheeks, making her shiver; it's a lot colder up here compared to down below. She maintains a steady lead for quite a while, and she thinks that Draco's about to give up and call it quits-
-but then he zooms past her, standing on his broom, smirking, and she wonders if she'll be expelled from Hogwarts if she knocks him off of it.
"Alright, alright," Regina shouts out when he's stayed several feet ahead of her for at least a few minutes. "You bloody win!"
He sits back down on his broom with ease. The smirk has been replaced with a shit eating grin. Both of them have dialed back on their speed, and are doing little more than floating just above the Quidditch pitch.
"Are you going to accused me of cheating?" Draco says, arrogance dripping onto every syllable.
Regina rolls her eyes. "I'm not a sore loser."
"Sure, sure," he says casually, circling around her. "Just remember - I can now officially claim I'm faster than you. Might even have to ask Snape if we can get it on a plaque and put it in the Trophy Room…"
"We have a Trophy Room?" she asks. Something in her stomach drops, and she realizes that, since he's gone this long without bothering to mention it, Draco didn't notice her and Neville walking together earlier in the week. (Thank Merlin.)
His brows curl upward as his forehead wrinkles. "Bloody hell, woman, have you ever even bothered to explore the castle?"
"Kind of hard to," she deadpans, "When I've constantly got you up my arse. Is it too late to rescind my offer of teaching you my skills? Clearly, you're the better Quidditch player. I don't think you need my tips and tricks."
He leans on his broom so that he floats closer to her. They're close enough that Regina can smell him, the heavy, forest-like aroma of sandalwood and clove wafting all around her. It's…not an unpleasant scent. "I'm a good flyer, but I can always use some tips, and it seems you've got that in droves. Your mother's always bragged to mine about how good of a flyer you are, in case you haven't heard."
Regina smiles, much more softly than she'd like to in front of him. Mother always made it a point to attend her Quidditch matches, if she had the time. She swears, every time she helped to win a game, she could hear her mother cheering louder than the rest of the damn crowd, even when she beat out Magnus in a match.
"Have you ever heard of the Nine-Meter Dash?" she asks suddenly.
Draco shakes his head.
"Well," Regina says, lifting herself up, "You're about to see it."
The rest of the time is spent with her showing off the various Quidditch maneuvers she learned while at Durmstrang. They wind up being outside for so long that they have to run from the Bell Tower Wing's entrance to the Slytherin Common Room in order to make it there before curfew begins.