"Careful," Regina says blandly, "We're learning about silencing charms today. My spell may go askew, and you'll be unable to speak for the rest of the day."
Draco has sat beside her in Charms. Again.
"I'm not here to bother you. I'm simply attending class."
There's a look of false innocence on his face. Again.
She knows that look well; as a child, he employed it whenever he and Magnus accidentally broke something in either the Malfoy or Hexberg manor.
Regina opens up her textbook. There's an illustration of a man on the left page, hands up to his throat, attempting to figure out what happened to his voice. His eyes widen occasionally. "It seems like every time you sit beside me, you're about to ask me a barrage of questions I have no interest in answering."
"Even if it's about Durmstrang?"
Her nostrils flare. Delegations from her first school are due to arrive later in the week. "Especially if it's about Durmstrang."
"I only wanted to know what Charms classes were like there, compared to what we have to deal with."
"They were much the same." This is true. Charms are charms. She doesn't know why he would think anything else.
"Really?"
Students continue to file into the room. Next time, Regina decides, she'll be the very last one to enter the classroom. That way, Draco can't sit beside her. "What do I have to gain from lying to you?"
"I didn't say you were lying," he says, voice a bit louder, "I'm simply trying to get to know you better!"
"You can ask me about anything else. That would be more suitable."
He pauses for a moment. Then: "Magnus told me that you're going to ask Professor Snape if he can be resorted into Slytherin."
She sighs, long and heavy and pronounced.
"What?"
"I am not going to ask Professor Snape that," Regina says. "Honestly, if he wants it so badly, then he can bloody well ask the question himself, den lille dritten! I'm not going to try and pull strings to get him in here; maybe in Hufflepuff, he'll realize what a complete and utter idiot he is about-"
Professor Flitwick coughs quite audibly. "If Miss Hexberg and Mister Malfoy are finished conversing, then we can begin our lesson…"
Her cheeks flush a deep red; somewhere in the room, she can hear Parkinson giggle. She didn't realize how, as her voice got louder and her accent more pronounced, the rest of the room got quieter. She certainly didn't notice the quizzical looks on many of her fellow Slytherins faces.
She notices the sympathetic looks of Daphne and Theo; she tries not to react. Draco, evidently well-versed in the art of being gently admonished by professors, shows no signs of being flustered (if he even is).
Before long, the Slytherins are engrossed in learning about the wand movements associated with faucium silentium.
Magnus spends the week trying not to fall prey to various spells and pranks.
Ever since the fiasco in the common room, he's found himself the target of several jinxes, presumably in retaliation for his - as Megan Jones bluntly stated the next morning - total and utter arrogance. He's tripped over his feet more times in the past forty-eight hours than he has in the past fourteen years. On multiple occasions, he was struck by well-timed Impedimentas, making him late for class.
And now, here he is, his textbook for Ancient Runes drenched. A group of Hufflepuffs scurry past him on the way to class, leaving him alone in the hallway, snickering as they leave.
It feels like even the suits of armor are watching with amusement. The paintings of Oswald the Odd and Vincent the Veracious most certainly are.
He almost wishes that Susan was still following him to each class. But she doesn't have Ancient Runes; there's no need for her to be on the sixth floor of the castle at a quarter to ten.
"Your book's soggy," says Merritt.
Magnus furrows his brow, wand in one hand, book in the other. "This is obvious."
"Catch yourself on. You don't have to be a prat about it. That's what's gotten you into this mess."
"Siccesco," he says, deciding not to deign her with a legitimate response, instead focusing on his book. But he can't quite remember the wand movements; the textbook is still dripping water onto the floor -
Quickly, Merritt flicks her wand thrice. "Uisce Imithe," she says, in a thick brogue. In the blink of an eye, his book is as dry as it was ten minutes ago.
He flips through the pages. The text is suddenly decipherable once again.
Her voice is bland. "You're oh so welcome."
"Thank you," he says, somewhat flustered as he tucks his book into his bag. "That was not Latin."
"It's Gaelic." That would make sense. From unintentionally overhearing conversations, she's from some town in County Cork. Bandon? Brandon? All Magnus knows is that he doesn't recognize it.
"The Irish still remember their own spells?" He was taught at Durmstrang that the Irish lost a great chunk of their wizarding culture during the Tudor's conquest of their nation several centuries ago.
"Every country's got their own spells." Merritt shrugs. "It's just that the Irish have the best."
He scoffs, a very un-pureblood thing to do, but he can't resist. "Then you have never seen a Norwegian spell performed."
"Okay. Then show me one." She gives him a sickly sweet smile, like she thinks he's not going to prove her wrong.
He spends a few moments trying to think of one that isn't inherently Dark, one that won't outright harm her. She's a pest, but he doesn't want to hurt her. Then -
"Pull out one of your coursebooks," he says.
"Pardon?"
"Pull out a book."
Reluctantly, Merritt does so - The Total and Utter Trolls' Guide to Astrology. "You're not fixing to ruin this, are you? This cost me more galleons than I'd care to admit…"
Magnus doesn't bother to answer her question. "Leserboken selvstendig," he says, flicking his wrist in a counterclockwise circle twice.
The Divination book opens up on its' own, at a spot that seems to be random. Magnus knows, however, that it's the last page Merritt happened to be reading. As her eyes naturally flicker to the last sentence she read - which happens to be at the bottom of the page - said page flips over to the next. It isn't a major spell by any means, but it's one that's proven particularly useful for him when a bookmark has fallen out
She lets out a small noise of approval. "Is this what they teach you over at Durmstrang?"
"No," says Magnus. "This was one my mother taught me."
Mother isn't a native Norwegian but, upon her betrothal to Father back in the 1970s, took it upon herself to not only learn the language, but also as many Nordic spells as she could. Father doubtlessly knew more - but he wasn't at home, tending to the children when they were younger.
"It's…passable."
"Passable?" He purses his lips. Did he not do the wandwork correctly? Sometimes, if you don't flick your wrist swiftly enough, the enchantment lags a bit behind you…
"I'm sure the Irish have one just like it, without as many syllables."
"You are ridiculous." He says, rolling his eyes as he begins to walk to class.
"Apologies, Lord Hexberg," Merritt says, closing her book and putting it away, a mocking grin on her face.
"I am not Lord Hexberg yet," Magnus replies evenly. "Not until either my father passes or I produce an heir."
Merritt doesn't seem to know how to respond. Perhaps she's simply a halfblood uneducated in pureblood etiquette? Magnus makes a mental note to ask her what she knows of his culture later…
Regardless, she launches into a ramble about how positively annoying History of Magic is. Magnus agrees with her entirely, a rarity. The Durmstrang version was much more engrossing, maybe on account of having an actual human rather than a ghost teaching. Once every two weeks, Professor Trollmann would bring in a painted portrait of a famous figure in history, and the students would take turns asking them relevant questions pertaining to whatever era they were studying. It was vastly engrossing.
It's a shame, really. History of Magic is such a necessary class, yet Hogwarts squanders it.
Ancient Runes, on the other hand, is fascinating. There is no real equivalent of at Durmstrang; the curriculum is entirely new to Magnus.
Merritt immediately sits beside Michael Corner.
He sits beside Alistair Summerby, the only spare seat left, who looks at him as if he's dragon dung.
As Professor Babbling begins to discuss the importance of Elder Futhark runes, he thinks: class can't be over soon enough.
"Are the boys at Durmstrang cuter than the ones here?"
Daphne is braiding Regina's hair as they sit on the former's bed. It almost reminds her of when they were very young children, before they were weighed down by schoolwork and blood purity and the crushing weight of being from noble lineages. Daphne would do her hair or educate her in the ways of makeup; Regina would read from The Tales of Beedle the Bard or Edith Nesbit's Tails.
She misses those days.
"I suppose," Regina says noncommittally.
Viktor Krum's handsome, of course, as are a good chunk of the seventh year boys. There were a couple decent looking ones in her year, too: Aleksei Barracus, Penka Petrov, Nils Bjorklund. A lot of the girls in Durmstrang considered Magnus's best friend, Per, to be handsome, but she thinks he looks too much like a house elf. Then there were the dreadful ones, who had to have some troll blood in their family tree. It kind of balances out, all things considered.
"Did you have a boyfriend? You never mentioned one in letters, but I thought you might just be shy. Is he ugly? He isn't ugly, is he?"
"Have I ever been shy in my life, Daph?" Regina does not - will not, cannot - mention Loki Hansen aloud. They weren't…dating, per say, but there was something there.
It's fine. It's utterly fine. Everything is fine.
Daphne laughs, breaking her out of her thoughts. "Fair enough. If you weren't a snake, you'd be in bloody Gryffindor."
They sit in silence for a few moments. The rest of the girls are still out in the common room, for which Regina is eternally grateful. She's on decent terms with almost everyone else - well, everyone who isn't Pansy - but some one-on-one time with her best, non-Durmstrang friend is always appreciated.
At this point, though, Daphne is her best friend. Full stop. They've been nigh inseparable since the term began.
"Do you like any of the boys in Slytherin?"
"Honestly, do you ever think about anything besides boys?"
"Of course. Potions, Transfiguration, whatever's playing on the WWN's Top 20. The Flittering Faeries have got a wicked album coming out in November." She continues weaving together Regina's hair, so dark it's almost black. "But boys are interesting, because just about every girl's interested in them. It's fun to compare."
Frankly, it's weird to consider any of the boys in Slytherin in a romantic sense, since they've all known each other since they were in diapers. But she knows that Daphne won't take anything besides an actual name for an answer. "Blaise is pretty cute, I suppose."
"I can arrange something," Daphne says, "if you want."
"I - he's cute, I don't know if I fancy him enough to go on a date," Regina starts to splutter. "Plus - I mean - I'm just really bogged down with schoolwork."
As if they all don't have the exact same amount of coursework. As if the two of them don't do their coursework together almost every night.
Daphne finishes braiding her hair. "Ah. I see."
She knows bloody well that Regina's lying. Luckily, she doesn't press.
"It doesn't matter if I have fancy anyone, anyways," Regina continues. "By the time we're sixteen, we'll be engaged."
There's a bit of venom in the word 'engaged'. This is, in her opinion, the worst part of growing up as a pureblooded woman. In order to preserve their heritage - and she grimaces when she thinks about that - pureblood children are arranged to marry other purebloods.
Sooner rather than later, Father will dutifully inform her that she is to be wedded - likely to Blaise or Theo. She will graduate from Hogwarts, proceed to not have a job, almost immediately get married, and will subsequently produce an heir. She will spend the rest of her life mingling with other pureblooded women, and will more or less be forced to assimilate into the bigoted doctrine that her family believes in.
At the mere thought of what the rest of her life is going to be like, Regina bites her tongue so harshly that she nearly draws blood.
She prefers not to think about any of that.
They fall quiet for a bit, Daphne's fingers working deftly. There's a mirror on the other side of the room, and Regina becomes acutely aware of how different they are in looks. Daphne looks like she belongs in the airbrushed pages of a magazine: platinum blonde hair, wicked green eyes, prominent cheekbones, a natural tan.
Regina, on the other hand, looks like she ought to be a vampire, all pale skin and muddy grey-blue-green eyes and messy hair, so brown it's almost black. Her face is a bit too long; her lips are slightly too small considering how wide her jawline is. Any beauty in the family is relegated to her mother and brothers, thank you very much.
She prefers not to think about that, either.
"Merlin," says Daphne, "a bit of blush on the apples of your cheeks would really liven up your appearance. Did Durmstrang ban makeup?"
Alas, Daphne seems to enjoy bringing up subjects Regina would rather never think about for the natural duration of her life.
With that, it's another trip down memory lane. She pulls out her very large, very full makeup bag, and Regina is relegated to having ten different colors smeared onto her lips and another four onto her cheeks.
"Say," Hannah says, "Did Durmstrang teach you anything about magical creatures?"
Magnus knows better than to fight against the Hufflepuff girls' attempts at conversation. Nearly two months into the term, and they have worn him down considerably. When Hannah sits across from him in the library, he doesn't protest. No, he's simply grateful that the others haven't shown up to ambush him.
Regardless. It wasn't an elective, as it is in Hogwarts. Magical Creatures, as it's called at his old school, was a mandatory class for all seven years. "Yes."
"D'you happen to know if Occamies can speak Parseltongue?"
When Magnus doesn't answer immediately, she continues: "It's for this assignment, in Care of Magical Creatures, and I can't find the information anywhere, I've been looking in the library for almost a week. So I was hoping - and it's okay if you don't know, I'm sure I can find the answer if I keep on looking - that you might know, off the top of your head?"
A pause.
"Really," Hannah says, "I promise that it isn't a big deal-"
"Only certain breeds can," he says. "The grounded, four-legged one can, but the winged, two-legged one cannot."
She grins widely. "You're a genius! I know a lot of what Hagrid tells us, but there're some creatures that just aren't talked about that much in our book, and I can't find a lot of information about Occamies outside of it."
Magnus snorts. "A former Minister of Magic had a burning hatred for them due to a childhood injury and thus banned them from being written about for over a century."
"Really? How'd you know?"
He doesn't quite recall where he got that from, so he settles on: "I like learning about magical creatures."
"Why aren't you in Hagrid's class, then?"
At this point, he's stopped working on his own assignment for Arithmancy entirely. "I…my family thought it best I pursue other electives. In preparation for my job at the Ministry."
"You should be allowed to take whatever classes you'd want." Hannah frowns.
He doesn't expect her to understand. Once, the Abbotts were entirely pureblooded, but they decided to betray their heritage in the 1940s. She likely doesn't have the foggiest idea of pureblood etiquette and the path to lordship. "It is to benefit my future career," he says.
"We're fourteen. O.W.L.s aren't 'till next year. Why're you even worried about what you're going to be? I've barely thought about it.
When Magnus was little, his father carefully explained the stipulations of being the heir to Hexberg. In addition to acquiring all the Hexbergs' land and titles, he would also obtain a job at the Ministry (whether Norwegian or English).The band on the fourth finger on his right hand, which he obtained when he turned thirteen, will be exchanged for a clunkier one, with the Hexberg house sigil and motto engraved in gold. There, he would represent their family, likely in the Wizengamot.
"I am not worried," he says evenly, "I know my place."
He does. He will obtain his lordship, marry a respectable pureblood girl, and eventually raise an heir. Magnus isn't certain of who he will be married off to - the betrothals usually don't begin until the final two years of a wizard's education - but he can speculate.
Hannah looks as if she doesn't know what to say to that. He pities her.
Almost.
They continue to work in relative silence, save for the ambient noises of the library. Students flicker in and out of the surrounding shelves; the candlelights flicker and pop on occasion. Magnus is grateful that it was Hannah who decided to sit with him. She is more amicable than the rest of the Hufflepuff girls when it comes to savouring the quiet. Merritt tends to prefer the sound of her own voice; Susan seems to be anxious whenever the conversation halts, and consequentially, will talk about the most banal of topics.
In a lot of ways, Hannah reminds him of his old friend, Ivan. The dirty blonde hair, the slightly long face, the way in which she carries herself…
He forces the thought out of his mind. Ivan clearly doesn't think of him; Magnus ought to return the favour.
Eventually, the sun sets. Magnus has nearly finished his assignment on the necessity of Arithmancy in the field of potions. He hasn't bothered to ask, but it seems as if Hannah has finished hers; she's beginning to pack away her parchment and quill. The clock on the wall behind her tells him that it's an hour and a half before curfew.
Hannah stands up, slinging her messenger bag on her left shoulder. "There's a Care of Magical Creatures Club, y'know. Tuesday evenings at six. We were meeting out on the grounds, but with the weather getting nippy, we get together in the fourth floor. We're in the classroom by the statue of Kelly the Kind. Usually, we go over assignments, but some of the Seventh Years like to teach us about creatures we'll be learning about in our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. You should come. I think you'd like it."
Magnus's immediate thought is to turn the invitation down. The last thing he wants is to spend more time with Hannah and her friends voluntarily. Especially when he's fairly certain he'll be surrounded by a multitude of mudbloods. He's still not sure which ones are jinxing him and which ones are leaving him alone.
But then he thinks of Regina's promise. She may have said she'd go back on it…but she couldn't have been serious.
And then he thinks of Cedric and the soft way in which he was able to justify Hufflepuff's existence.
He sighs. "Will you take no for an answer?"
"Of course I would," says Hannah, "But I think you'd be missing out. You're always so lonely, Magnus. I get it, given how you were raised. But do you really, honestly wanna spend the rest of your time here starting fights and being rude and giving everyone the silent treatment? You're going to be jinxed so many times that you'll wind up permanently scarred."
He's staring at his closing paragraph. In summation, there are a myriad of uses for Arithmancy in potions…"It is everyone else who is starting fights with me."
"C'mon. You know that's not true. Come to our next meeting. You'll have fun."
"Okay," Magnus says, if only to get her off his back, "But I will only attend this one. No more."
Hannah gives him a soft smile. "Suit yourself. Have a good night, okay? I'll see you later."
As she walks away, he curses under his breath. When he envisioned social functions he would inevitably be attending at Hogwarts, a bloody club wasn't what he was anticipating.
Bollocks.