"Blaise says you snubbed him at Hogsmeade."

Tracey doesn't look up from her parchment as she speaks. That's her modus operandi: reveal the gossip that she's heard in a blasé sort of tone while doing something utterly mundane. It's better than the exaggerated wide-eyed, open-mouthed look that Parkinson always has on her face.

Regina snorts, flicking a lolly wrapper off the table. Her cat, Stark, leaps from the table and onto the ground to continue batting at it with his paws. "I left him for maybe ten minutes to get some treats. I came back…eventually."

Their eyes meet momentarily. "The way Pansy put it, he makes it sound like you put him in a body-bind hex and left him to freeze to death in the snow."

"Do you really trust what she's got to say?"

"Not at all," Tracey says, smiling, her dark eyes glimmering. "Which is why I asked you."

"I wouldn't hex another Slytherin. Not in public."

That's the thing about their house. They don't quibble outside of the common room. At least, they try not to. The worst of Pansy and Regina's snide remarks are behind closed doors, but for the most part, they try to maintain an image of unity in front of the other houses.

Unless she does something extra stupid, then Regina's got no other choice.

Tracey dips her quill into her ink pot. "As it should be. So - what happened?"

"I didn't enjoy my time with him," says Regina, shrugging ("an improper gesture for a lady," she hears Father say in the back of her mind). "That's all. He was too invested in a damned piano to listen to me when I told him just that."

Okay. So that last part was a lie. But maybe it's one she can get away with.

The look on Tracey's face tells her she very much won't, but she doesn't press.

"Pansy also says," she continues, "that you and Draco were together. I think that's the part she's most upset about. I'm sure she's conjured up a thousand ideas in her head as to how you're going to steal her - whatever they are away."

Whatever they are. It seems that the terms and conditions of Draco and Pansy's dalliances are just as much a mystery to the rest of the fourth years as they are to Regina.

"Have you ever had a mooncalf follow you around like you're its' mother?" she asks.

Tracey raises an eyebrow. "I can't say I have."

"That's how Draco is around me. I don't get it."

"When you put it that way, you sound like you hate him."

"I…don't. It's just - he always has to be up my arse."

"You're the shiny new broomstick." Tracey laughs, not in an unkind way. "Everyone knew you when we were kids, but three years without frequent visits - you may as well be an entirely new person. Especially to the boys."

"Why…?"

Tracey stares at her for several moments.

Eventually, the realization hits Regina, and she feels terribly stupid. "Oh."

"They're looking at all of us as potential wives." Tracey sniffs. "None of us will even be engaged until we're sixteen. I don't understand. In my opinion, we ought to date more casually before even thinking about our lives outside of Hogwarts."

Regina smiles sadly. "That may be the case, but my father most definitely intends on sending out proposals as early as this coming summer."

This was implied in one of his more recent letters. Apparently, he has been hanging out with his old crowd a lot more than usual. Regina can picture him now: dark eyes glimmering with anticipation of what's to come, all thin-lipped smiles as he sips top-shelf wine and makes conversation with the likes of Lucius Malfoy and Bianca Zabini and Maxen Nott, determining which one of their sons will be the likeliest to marry his only daughter.

"I wonder which one will be the first to respond," Tracey says, more likely musing aloud than truly anticipating an answer.

Regina thinks she'd rather not know.

"That," says Finch-Fletchley, "was absolute shite!"

"It should be against the rules for Potter to use his broomstick…"

Magnus stuffs his hands into his pants pockets. "I agree."

The Triwizard Tournament's first task was interesting to watch. When Cedric managed to get the golden egg from the dragon, the deafening roar that the Hufflepuffs let out made Magnus's ears buzz for several minutes after. He doesn't envy the older boy's injuries, though; it looked as if his face was badly singed.

Delacour and Krum's efforts were just as fascinating. There was a twinge of sadness that made his stomach churn uncomfortably when he saw Krum out there, using the conjunctivitis curse to retrieve his egg, but it was…easier to ignore than it had been previously. So long as no one from Durmstrang attempts to talk to him…

"None of the others used outside resources like that," Merritt says, the expression on her face looking like she swallowed a lemon.

Megan shakes her head. "It's ridiculous."

"Might skip the next task," says Hannah, "if we're all just going to watch Gryffindors get all the attention…again."

Potter and Krum are now tied for first place. The atmosphere among the Hufflepuffs is almost as angry and tense as it was when Potter's name first came out of the Goblet. Once again, their chance for the spotlight seems to be dashed by the boy-who-lived. On the walk back to the castle, most of the fourth-years are relatively silent, stewing in their anger.

Later that night, away from the Gryffindors and the other schools' representatives, their feeling of disappointment washes away into excitement. This is especially so when the upper years announce that they'll be having a party to celebrate Cedric's accomplishments.

When their champion comes in, accompanied by a few others in his year, there are whoops, hollers, and cheers. The burn wound on his face seems all but gone. For the rest of the night, he's surrounded by his closest friends, along with anyone else who wants to congratulate him, however briefly.

One of the upper years clears the room, pushing the furniture to the outer edges, as another turns on a radio and magics it to the Wizarding Wireless Network. Wherever there is space on the walls - and there's not much, with the round windows, the myriad of portraits, bookshelves, and bulletin boards cluttering up the majority of it - Susan, a third year, and a sixth year have put up giant Hufflepuff banners.

There are treats of all sorts on several tables: butterbeer, pumpkin juice, sparkling water, pumpkin pasties, treacle tarts. Other older students have managed to slip in Firewhiskey - how, he'll never quite know. Fourth years and above can imbue themselves, though the fourth years are, regrettably, quite limited in how much they can have to drink.

After an hour, Magnus feels a slight buzz going on in his head. It's a pleasant one; it makes his belly warm and his mouth more likely to delve into Norwegian than English. Not so much that he's slurring and stumbling, but enough to forget about all the stupid shite in his life, like Father and Slytherin and Draco no longer speaking to him and the definition of being a traitor.

That's how he's found himself with his hands being tugged on by Hannah, attempting to lure him out of his chair.

"C'mon," she says. "Just for one song. Please?"

He supposes that one dance won't hurt.

"Okay, okay," Magnus concedes, standing up as Hannah squeals in delight. None of the other fourth years are around them. Across the room, he can see Merritt and Megan deep in discussion; Susan is frowning, shaking her head and seemingly arguing with Finch-Fletchley and Smith; Macmillan and Hopkins are unsuccessfully attempting to plunder more firewhiskey from the carefully guarded table. When Hopkins tries to levitate two flasks away, a seventh-year scolds him, disrupting the spell and causing the flasks to crash onto the floor.

The booming magically electric guitar of the Wands and Roses song begins to die out, finally ending after the lead singer finishes crooning about feeling like he's been slipped a love potion. There's a brief lull in the music as a commercial for a new shop in Carkitt Market plays…

The new tune is a slow tempo-ed song by the Modern Aurors that Magnus can't name off the top of his head. There's an undeniable feeling behind the frenetic energy of the drums and bass guitar, one that makes his heartbeat quicken.

No one's watching them, too focused on food and drinks and their own dances and conversations to glance at the two fourth years dancing in one corner.

Magnus knows how to dance proper - Mother insisted that all of her children learn it from a young age, as she did - but he doesn't know how to dance to a song like this. All of his lessons as a child featured classical music or instrumentals of Celestina Warbeck songs.

Their dance isn't like the jumping and bouncing that others around them are doing. No, it's just them twirling around in circles, slowly, one of his hands clasped in Hannah's, the other on the small of her back. It's stiff and awkward and overly formal, but Hannah doesn't seem to mind, and neither does he.

"You've done this before?" she asks, a crooked grin on her face. The ever-so-slight slur of the 's' in this lets Magnus know she's proper buzzed.

He chuckles. "På en måte. Not like this."

"It's fun," Hannah says. "Really fun."

Magnus nods in agreement as they continue twirling.

Eventually, the Modern Aurors' song comes to an end, the bass guitar strumming for several seconds before finally turning to silence. As a fast paced Fire Double song starts blaring, Magnus is suddenly aware of how close he and Hannah are. Her body's warm against his, and she smells of citrus and sunshine. He's never been so acutely aware of her before -

- and then he thinks of what Father would say if he caught him here, rubbing elbows so closely with muggleborn sympathizers, and for a moment, he wants to run away -

But Hannah kisses his cheek, a quick peck. "Thanks for dancin' with me, Magnus."

Heat rises to his face; he smiles bashfully. The thoughts he had not even half a minute ago have apparated into thin air. "You are - you're very welcome."

As if she's also become cognizant of the closeness they're enveloped in, she takes a step away, her face just as pink as his own. Magnus lets go of her, hand dropping away from her back. There's an awkward quiet between them as the song talks about reading between the lines, then -

"'Ay, Han," says Hopkins, a loose grin on his face, "Have you had your limit on firewhiskey? Ernie and I wanna split one more mug…"

It's nearly two in the morning before Magnus finally makes the arduous climb upstairs to the fourth-year boys' dormitory. His stomach is full and his head is abuzz with the events of the night. Zacharias Smith and Hopkins are still awake, their words slurred as they argue about whether Cedric will get enough points at the next task to get ahead of Potter and Krum.

When he looks in the mirror before getting into bed, he notices that Hannah's left a smear of sticky, pink lip gloss on his cheek.

He smiles.

"Miss Hexberg. A word, if you will."

Regina's throat is quite drier than she'd like it to be. Every other Slytherin has left the Charms classroom, though she notices the look that Daphne shoots her way before leaving. She looks at her latest essay grade - it's a passing mark. Barely, but passing regardless. That's not bad, she thinks. Why does Flitwick want to talk to her?

At least if she doesn't leave with the rest of her classmates, she won't have to hear Draco complaining that Potter didn't fall off his broomstick and get eaten by a dragon.

Again.

Her stomach churns as she puts her supplies back into her messenger bag and walks up to his desk. "Yes, Professor?"

"Your essays and homework are always superb," he begins, getting right into it. "You have a firm grasp on magical theory; by all accounts, you're a talented witch. Yet your wandwork is lackluster."

She frowns. He's got a point.

"I…understand the theory just fine. It's the practice that I have difficulty with."

"Why do you suppose that is?"

Regina's throat goes dry as she vocalizes some of the worries she's had. "Maybe it's because of my core."

Wouldn't that make sense? She's actually Dark instead of Light or Neutral? Then her shoddy magic skills wouldn't be because of external forces; it'd be because she's been trying to resist for so long. The fear that's been lurking in her mind since she was a first year at Durmstrang starts to slither around in her mind-

Flitwick shakes his head. "I can certainly sense that you come from a Dark family, yes - there's always a bit of resistance in a wizard's magical aura when they've a Dark lineage. But I don't need to perform a core spell to know that you aren't Dark. Quite the opposite, actually."

Regina sighs. "Between you and me, Professor, that's the answer I was hoping for."

"I understand, given the stigma," Flitwick says, "But know that having a Dark core doesn't mean you are intrinsically a bad person, nor does being in Slytherin. I take it Durmstrang wasn't to your liking, then, since they focus so heavily on the Dark Arts…?"

She hesitates.

"I nearly flunked out several times. I…it felt as if something was stifling my magic there." It feels odd to explain this to someone in a position of authority. She'd never bothered telling this to her parents or to any professor, Durmstrang or Hogwarts. It feels like an exercise in futility.

"Ah. This explains a lot. You're developmentally behind."

She looks towards the floor again, shuffling her feet. Was she that abysmal that an instructor had to hold her back after class just to comment on it? "You could say that."

"Might I make a suggestion that I believe will improve your situation tenfold?"

"Please do," she says.

"Transfer students in the past have been given extra assignments outside of the standard curriculum. It's always worked out stupendously."

"I…That would be very much appreciated." She isn't thrilled at the idea of having even more coursework to accomplish, but if it ensures she doesn't look like a complete fool every time she waves her wand or raises her hand, Regina will eagerly accept it.

"If you can hone your wandwork to be as good as your theoretical work, then I believe you would be able to easily obtain an O.W.L. in Charms. I want to see you succeed. It would be a shame if your post-Hogwarts career was limited because you were in an institution that was not right for you or didn't do all it could for you."

Regina wants to tell him that a post-Hogwarts career is practically impossible for a woman of her stature. Does he even know what being pureblooded entails? She wants to tell him that all of her dreams are, at the moment, futile ones.

"Now, do you need a pass excusing your tardiness for your next class…?"

"No, thank you." The fourth year Slytherins have a free period after Charms.

"Very well." He waves a hand about. "Run along now, off you go - do try to have a good day."

"Thank you again, Professor." She swallows. "It means a lot."

There's a smile on his face that seems entirely genuine. "Every student should have the chance to succeed."

For the first time in a while, she feels hope.

The beginning of December strikes harsh and fast, like a basilisk. Wind whips itself against the castle walls; sleet coats the highlands for the better part of a week. Hogwarts becomes drafty. If it weren't for heating charms, Magnus and Regina's cheeks would be permanently tinged a light shade of red.

But it's not the cold that occupies their minds: it's the fact that it's close to the end of term. The realization that they'll soon be sitting their first Hogwarts exams is anxiety-inducing.

Regina studies a thousand times harder than she ever did at Durmstrang. Most of her days are no longer occupied with broomstick riding or idly playing Gobstones or Exploding Snap with Erik. She spends a large amount of time in the library, working on her coursework, both from the standard curriculum and the extra assignments that professors have given her.

On multiple occasions, Daphne and Tracey come to the library on the pretense that they have schoolwork and studying to do, but more so are hoping to see either Viktor Krum or one of the handsome Beauxbatons boys. Draco follows her around just as often, to the eternal dread of Pansy and the initial irritation of Regina. However, he's less focused on talking her ear off and more on studying. He's quite serious when it comes to his academic career; nowhere near as intensely as a Ravenclaw or Granger, but enough that his marks are always consistently near the top.

The extra assignments are tedious. A lot of the time, it consists of practicing wand techniques repeatedly until she feels like she's about to go mad. She has to delve into the inner machinations of the wand itself, too, looking deep into the lore behind the wand's core, the wood it's carved from, its' flexibility. Truth be told, Regina doesn't know a lot about her wand.

It technically isn't her wand; it's a family heirloom, passed down since the 1700s on her fathers' side from her Great-Great-Aunt Freya. The eldest daughter of each generation is meant to wield it, and it's served the three witches before Regina just fine.

Regardless, the lessons feel like they help. When she casts a new spell, she doesn't nearly light something on fire or watch as sparks feebly fly from the tip of her wand a few times before the spell actually works.

Maybe, instead of just feeling like she's thriving at Hogwarts, she actually will.

Magnus, on the other hand, feels fairly confident in them, despite anxiety constantly gnawing at the corners of his stomach. He struggles more with written work than practical - an unfortunate bought of luck, considering Hogwarts' term exams always focus on the former - but he understands the basics of everything just fine. Enough so that he'll be passing with relatively high marks, he supposes.

Instead, he focuses on the book that Tremblay had given him after the first club meeting. Every time he attends another - he swore he wouldn't, but he can't help be drawn to a group of people who appreciate magical creatures like he does, so every Tuesday evening, he finds himself sitting in the same damned classroom - he notices Tremblay giving him a knowing glance. It's almost as if Tremblay knows the book is in his messenger bag, knows he's been thumbing through the pages whenever he gets a chance, knows he's been digesting every word.

Statistics run through his brain. Twenty percent of the wizarding populace in the United Kingdom consists of muggleborns. Ninety percent of that twenty percent go on to higher wizarding education post-Hogwarts or post-homeschooling; many of them go on to have respectable careers. There is no study, as of 1993, that can conclusively prove their magical capabilities are any better or any worse than a halfblood or a pureblood wizards'.

All of them overwhelmingly conclude that stereotypes are the result of centuries of fear-mongering and propaganda.

There are citations, too, citations for books that exist right in Hogwarts' library. Carefully, Magnus seeks them out, slender tomes that have been published in the last decade that spell out the fact that the only difference a muggleborn wizard has from a pureblood one is their family history.

Just to double check, he combs through the anti-muggleborn books, too, hoping to find statistics that can disprove what others have said.

But he can't. They all lead to dead ends, citations that either have been taken out-of-context or have been made up entirely, hoping the wizard that reads it won't bother looking any deeper.

He's never been more frustrated in his blasted life.

"The book you're reading," Draco says, "That's for third years. Why are you bothering with that tripe?"

Regina's got several scrolls of parchment unfurled up around her, the book on the centre of the floor, where she's sprawled out. There's not enough room on any of the tables; besides, with end of term exams creeping up, most students are completely occupying all the ones in the common room.

"It's for a project," she replies vaguely.

He quirks an eyebrow. "We don't have any projects in Charms."

She curses under her breath. "Sit down."

Draco does as he's told, sitting cross-legged beside her, his eyes darting between various rolls of parchment. Luckily, none of the nearby students are in their year, nor do they particularly care about their conversation. She'd cast a silence bubble charm around them, like she's done with Magnus countless times over the years, but it'd be too obvious right here, right now.

So, instead, she speaks low, enough so that only Draco can hear. "I…You know I'm not that great of a witch. Professor Flitwick thinks that being at Durmstrang…stifled me, somehow." She doesn't bring up the fact that it's because Durmstrang is a Dark school and she is very much not Dark.

"Ah." His eyebrows raise, ever so slightly. "He gave you remedial work."

"Yes." Regina looks back down at the book - A Practical Guide to Wandwork, Edition 3.2. "I'm to read this, then practice wandwork till my magical energy is exerted for the day. I've got extra work like this in every class."

"I can help," Draco says, in a much kinder tone of voice than she's accustomed to hearing from him. "If you'd like. I'm great in Charms…I know you struggle. Snakes are loyal to other snakes."

Snakes are loyal to other snakes. It's been months since she arrived at Hogwarts, but Regina still can't quite believe she's in Slytherin.

"I'd really appreciate it," Regina replies.

Draco smiles at her, and for a moment, she sees the boy she knew growing up - the one who barely espoused anti-muggleborn beliefs, the one who was more interested in flying than anything else. "There's a catch, though."

Of course.

"Which is?"

"When the weather gets a bit nicer," he says, grinning, "You teach me your Quidditch skills. I want to kick Potter's arse on the field next year."

She laughs. "Alright, you got it."

Potions always goes by dreadfully slow.

Magnus isn't nervous around Professor Snape. No, he'd met the man on multiple occasions growing up. Snape was always invited to the Malfoy's Christmas party, and in reply, he always showed. He isn't Magnus's favourite teacher by any stretch of the imagination - especially because he seems just as irritated that he's in Hufflepuff as his damned father - but he isn't his least favourite, either. (That honour belongs to Binns - it's a shame that he makes the vast and fascinating subject of magical history so boring.)

No, he hates it for the same reason he hates cooking: he has to go exactly by the book, or else everything will turn out horrendously.

None of the other Hufflepuffs seem to be overtly excited to be in Potions, either.

Magnus usually sits with Susan or Hannah - at first because he didn't have a choice, and now because he'd rather sit with them than with the likes of Ernie Macmillan. But they have chosen to sit beside each other for this class session. With Merritt sitting beside Megan, he's stuck with Macmillan, who is visibly anxious. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he looks like he's been clenching his jaw since class began. The Wiggenweld Potion is supposed to be as green as a clover and rather thick. Instead, his concoction is the colour of vomit, and it looks runny.

"You need to add more powdered Wiggentree bark," Magnus says, leaning away from his cauldron. "Too little, and the potion will thin out, turning into the Angel's Trumpet Draught."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Probably because he's sitting right next to you and doesn't want shattered cauldron pieces lodged in his skull," says Merritt a few seats away.

For a long while, Macmillan stares at him. Then, with a rather dour look on his face, he adds a half cup of powdered Wiggentree bark.

Almost immediately, the potion begins to gurgle slightly, looking as if it's simmering, then boiling. A flash of fear shines in Macmillan's eyes, then - it quiets down. The colour lightens several shades, turning clover green.

"...Thanks," he says, somewhat awkwardly.

Magnus is very pointedly looking down towards his textbook. "Potions are very important in Scandinavia."

Legend has it that magic spread in the Scandis thanks to Odin. He'd given the Norse Gods a potion that made them capable of using magic; those powers, eventually, passed down onto a select percentage of the human populace, and the wizarding world expanded from there. The only branches of magic more important than Potions are Ancient Runes and Divination.

An uneasy truce seems to settle between the boys.

For now.

"Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall holds up the guinea pig that had been a guinea fowl naught more than a few moments ago. "Five points to Slytherin."

The class spares only a brief glance at the tiny animal before going back to their own. Regina stifles a snort at Vincent Crabbe's primitive attempt at transfiguration. It seems that his guinea fowl has only half transformed into a guinea pig; the body of the latter is there, but it still possesses the elongated neck and beady eyes of the fowl.

Regina's is…passable. Not as good as Draco's attempt. The pig still has the claws of a fowl, but they're slowly shrinking. Slowly. She wants to believe it's better than whatever she would have come up with.

"Congratulations," she says once their professor goes to admonish Crabbe's handiwork. "Here I thought your high marks were the product of nepotism. You never were too bright as a child."

"Don't make me hex your legs together," Draco says, rolling his eyes as he smiles.

Regina smiles back. "I'd love to see you try."

He quirks a brow. "Did Magnus not tell you of the time I absolutely obliterated Potter in a duel? When we were first years? Hexing you would be just as easy. Probably even more, given your wandwork in Charms."

Regina lets out a huff. She hasn't mentioned to anyone how she's about to receive extra tutoring and assignments, primarily out of embarrassment. No one else is in her situation; not even Crabbe and Goyle seem to be given extra coursework. And if her brothers have been struggling, they haven't mentioned it…

Regardless, she ponders the logistics and ethics of dueling Draco. Would Father finally send her a Howler? That's an accomplishment she's yet to achieve…

Furthermore, who would win? Is Draco's magical core, so intrinsically Dark, just as stifled as hers' was at Durmstrang? Would it result in a draw?

"I have no interest in dueling you," Regina responds after a few moments (and a few squawks from Crabbe's abomination of a beast)."I would hate to upset you so. Would your father be hearing about it if you lost? Or only if I kicked your arse?"

"Miss Hexberg! In my classroom, we do not threaten to duel other students!"

"My apologies, Professor McGonagall," says Regina, rather abashedly.

She purses her lips, then says: "Do not do it again. Now, Mister Crabbe, show me exactly what you did to make your guinea pig have so many peacock feathers…"

When Professor McGonagall turns away from the majority of the class, Pansy very pointedly grins quite maliciously at Regina. She passes a note along to Millicent, who looks rather annoyed with the entire thing, but still puts it on the corner of Regina and Draco's desk.

You stole my seat.

What a load of rubbish. Being separated from her beloved Draco for one class session seems simply too much for her to bear.

She wonders about the decorum of sending a note back that simply says Sod off. But that's too Gryffindor-ish, even for her. Instead, Regina opts to give her a smile that's almost as simpering as hers'. She then begins to engage Draco in an entirely pleasant conversation about how she believes Durmstrang will win the tournament.

Pansy's grin dissipates in a flash. Her irritation, Regina decides, is almost as satisfying as two front-row tickets to a Quidditch World Cup match between Norway and the United States.

That is, until McGonagall says she has an announcement to make, and then it's Regina's turn to be irritated.