Author's Note: Enjoy :)
"I beg your pardon?"
Magnus has been trying to get a moment alone with Susan for the better part of the day. Hannah had swiftly gotten the hint by the end of breakfast, awkwardly avoiding them in favour of spending time with Neville Longbottom and a Ravenclaw girl whose long blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail so tight that it looks like it'd give her a headache. It was only when Megan had pulled Merritt away to find some sort of hidden passageway in the Astronomy Wing that he'd finally gotten a semblance of a chance.
Even better: Susan asked if he wanted to accompany her to one of the Herbology greenhouses. She's been working on a potion that requires her to use freshly harvested ingredients, and luckily, no one else is keen on being in a greenhouse three days before Christmas.
Hence his clearly brilliant plan to ask her to the Yule Ball whilst she's attempting to snip off parts of a Herbaria - a large plant that resembles a Ficus, except with vividly purple leaves.
Hence why she's staring at him with her head cocked slightly and her brow crumpled in confusion.
Hence why he realizes his brilliant plan isn't so brilliant after all.
"I - the Yule Ball. You? Me? Maybe?" Words are suddenly ceasing to exist in Magnus's mind - English words, at least. In a way, this is almost worse than asking Hannah.
Susan still has that expression on her face. It's better than the look of sadness that Hannah gave him, at least. That was almost crushingly pathetic to be on the receiving end of.
She turns slightly, back to the Herbaria. The leaf she delicately plucks off fits perfectly in the palm of her hand. She puts it in a jar with about half a dozen others.
The silence in the room is deafening. Perhaps her lack of a response is a response?
Eventually, Magnus can't take it anymore. He has to press. "I am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. You don't have to accept."
And she doesn't. He doesn't expect her to.
"You haven't made me uncomfortable," Susan says after another long pause, pursing her lips for a moment. "I'm just wondering: what does your father think of this?"
He blinks rapidly, trying to understand. "My father?"
"Yes, your father. Because my auntie is going to be very disappointed in me when she finds out I've accepted, and - oh! Put your hands around the base of its' trunk, please, it's about to get quite angry that I'm pruning it!"
Magnus does as he's told, his dragon-hide gloved hands gripping the base of the Herbaria tightly. As if on cue, it tries to wriggle out of the pot for a few minutes, knocking some dirt out as its' leaves shake wildly. He sees its' roots start to wrap around his fingers; not tightly, mind, but enough that his thumb is now encased in a thin layer of white.
A quickly recited cessat motus from Susan and the Herbaria is as still as it was a few minutes before.
"Thank you, you're wonderful," she says lightly as Magnus lets go.
He nods in response.
The jar is now full. Susan takes off her gloves, screwing the lid on tightly with her hands rather than her wand. "But anyways - yes, my aunt is likely to send me a strongly worded letter after Christmas asking why I'm attending the Yule Ball with you - not that there's anything wrong with you, mind, it's more that - it's just - well, your father."
Ah. That makes sense.
"If it's my father," Magnus says, "you don't have to accept-"
"Oh, no, I'm going to, I just want to know if he knows. Because everyone higher up in the Ministry knows about the Yule Ball, and, well - you were always on about Pureblood duties. How would he feel about this? He seems like the type to get all worked up about it."
Magnus's mouth thins into a straight line. Susan has a point. If he told Father about the circumstances that led to him attending the Yule Ball with her…he's certain there would be a very long lecture surrounding the whole thing. Something similar to what Draco had told him, about Susan's family trying to wipe all of them out.
His brow starts to crumple. Perhaps it would be prudent to send a letter to Father or Mother inquiring about the exact circumstances that led to such animosity between their families. Mother would be likelier to tell him…
"I have not told him," Magnus finally answers, slowly. "I - I didn't think there was a need."
It's not that he consciously thought of it. It's that it didn't even occur to him to owl Father about it at all. It's a far cry from where he was just seven months ago. At Durmstrang, he tended to write excruciatingly detailed letters about his daily life-
Wait.
I'm going to.
His eyebrows raise.
"You want to?" he asks.
"No one else has asked me," she replies, repotting the Herbaria back into its' original location. "I'd rather go with a friend than alone."
Magnus nods understandingly as he uses his wand to whisk away specks of dirt from the table and onto the ground. The option to go alone is always there, but in his eyes, it seems rather…pathetic.
"I must say, though, I'm a bit surprised," Susan says.
He runs a hand through his hair. "Are you…surprised that I asked?"
"Not because of that, silly," she says. "I'm more surprised that you didn't approach this like purebloods used to do."
"Do you even know of any pureblood traditions?" He asks, quirking a brow. Something she had said at the beginning of the term sticks out in his mind more often than not, about how no one in the wizarding world really cares about those traditions. To the majority of the populace, they're outdated, relegated to history and to formal letters, but nothing beyond that.
"Of course I do." Susan waves a hand dismissively as she begins cleaning up the rest of the mess they've made. "They're stupid, mind, but I know of them."
Well, she is the heir apparent to Bones. She'll never use them in her life, knowing her, but she had to have learned the very basics at some point.
Magnus pauses - then he gives a very uncharacteristically bright grin.
"Lady Bones," he says, "will you please favour me with your company at the Yule Ball? I should be very glad if you could accept."
She exhales very pointedly through her nostrils, but she smiles nevertheless. "Now I have to decline."
"That is not the proper response. This is the part where you say: I shall have much pleasure in accompanying you to the Yule Ball."
She tucks her gloves into her messenger bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "This could also be the part where I say: I regret extremely that a prior engagement prevents me from accepting. Is that pureblooded enough?"
Now it's his turn to laugh - chuckle softly, more like, but semantics.
"What prior engagement could you possibly have that takes precedence over the Yule Ball?" he asks.
"It's impolite for a pureblood man to ask a lady what her schedule is."
"If this were in true pureblood fashion," Magnus retorts, "then I would have sent this by owl the day after the event was announced."
"Well, I accept," Susan says cheerily as they begin to leave the greenhouse, "but only if you swear by your magic to never engage in pureblood customs with me for the rest of our lives."
"I swear by my magic," he says dutifully, "even if swearing by my magic is already somewhat of a pureblood custom."
She punches him in the arm, grinning, but doesn't refute.
Regina is confused.
The other night, Draco had rather awkwardly requested that they meet in the Astronomy Wing, near the tapestry of trolls wearing tutus whilst they perform ballet. Maybe he's doing it because he wants to taunt her with the fact he got an Outstanding in their Astronomy exam, whereas she got a Poor. Perhaps it's because of the relative silence of this particular corridor; no one wants to get even close to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, for fear of running straight into Professor Moody.
Whatever the case, they're alone. More alone than they would be in the common room, certainly; with no classes and the Yule Ball coming up, more students than ever crowd the room up. More often than not, Regina has relegated her afternoons and evenings to the sanctuary of her dormitory, where the most she'll ever have to deal with are four others, only one of which she dislikes.
But here they are, Regina sitting in one of the mahogany alcoves, trying to polish her wand while Draco sits awkwardly across from her.
"What is it that you wanted from me?" she asks after about five minutes. Her wand still looks dreadfully dirty - at least, according to pureblood standards - but it's not like she actually brought a polishing kit with her. Some particularly ornery wizards do that, with an excess clasp on their holster to store them. She's lucky that she just remembers to put on her wand holster, let alone any other accessories.
"I heard you don't have a date."
"I do not," Regina says, looking up to make eye contact with him. "Entirely by my own choice, mind."
"That can be changed." He smiles. "If you want."
She grips her wand in her hand so tightly that she fears it might break into two - or worse, perform another bought of accidental magic. The bloody Yule Ball is all anyone's been able to talk about since Professor McGonagall announced it a few weeks ago. Anyone who's being asked out at this point is likely being asked out of desperation.
Like every other girl at Hogwarts, Regina's put some thought into who would be likely to ask her. She'd been expecting Blaise, but perhaps the incident at Hogsmeade had put him off of dating her entirely. He's looked at her like he's on the verge of asking a few times, but he just…hasn't. And she didn't expect Draco would take a stab at it; she assumed it was a given that he and Pansy were going, so the thought never even crossed her mind.
"You have a girlfriend you're supposed to ask to go with before you even think of asking me."
Draco scoffs. "I heard you were going alone, and out of the kindness of my heart, decided to change that. Is what I'm doing so wrong?"
"Depends," Regina monotones, "does Pansy know?"
"Pansy is free to go with whoever she wants. She isn't obligated to go with me."
"You're dating." She rolls her eyes.
"We're not dating, no matter what you've heard." He no longer attempts to lock eyes with Regina, instead staring rather intently at the adjacent tapestry. If she didn't know any better, she'd say that he's got the faintest traces of a blush bleeding onto his high cheekbones. "Honestly, you snog a woman a couple of times and suddenly she's telling everyone that you're her boyfriend…"
Regina mimics gagging. The thought of Pansy caught up in a snogfest with Draco makes her genuinely want to retch and vomit all over Pansy's shoes.
Draco's eyes narrow.
"That's not what she's telling people," says Regina ominously. "Half of Slytherin is under the impression that you two are already betrothed."
This is the conclusion that most of the fourth years have come to, at least. The other day, at breakfast, Daphne casually mentioned that Lucius Malfoy had declined discussing betrothing Draco to Daphne or her younger sister, Astoria. Naturally, discussion turned to rumours; by the end of the day, everyone unanimously agreed that Lord Malfoy and Lord Parkinson had already made marriage arrangements. Regina and Millicent proceeded to take bets on whether they had been wedded in secret within the last few months.
Draco's eyes go wide at the thought - then, just as quick, he narrows them. "No arrangements have been made. Pansy's just…dabbling in wishful thinking."
Regina can't possibly comprehend how Pansy's definition of wishful thinking involves arranged marriages, but it suits her character entirely. "Might want to spread the word that Pansy's full of shit, then, before Theo asks if he can be your best man. Oh, will I get an invitation? I'd love to stand up and object, just to see the look on her face. Will your tuxedo be black, or green, like everything else you wear?"
Genuinely. It seems that he can't fathom the idea of going a day without wearing some shade of green. Right now, he's wearing a sweater that's the exact colour of moss. Green's his colour, but there's an entire rainbow to choose from. Just once, she'd like to see him in orange.
Draco stares at her for a long moment, then - "Do you know that, sometimes, you're positively insufferable?"
"And yet," she retorts, "You think me suitable as a date."
"It's a political maneuver," he says. "I'm trying to be kind."
"We're fourteen!" she scoffs.
"Be that as it may," Draco continues, quirking a brow, "in six months time, my father will be sitting me down and explaining to me how the rest of my life will go. Political maneuvers are only going to get more common from this point onwards. You, of all people, should realize this."
At that, Regina blanches. She knows that the same will happen to her in eight months. It's a suffocating thought.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to ask Pansy out, if it's all politics?"
Draco shakes his head. "No. You make the most sense."
"Elaborate." She cocks her head and purses her lips.
He deliberately tries not to make eye contact with her. Instead, he's focused on balancing the tip of his wand in the centre of his palm, staring at it rather intently. "The Hexbergs may be moderately influential here, but their power in magical Scandinavia is thrice as much as it is in England. Plus, your mother's an Avery - they're higher up on the Wizengamot than the Parkinsons."
She blinks owlishly. He's got a point, one that she didn't think of. Whoever she or Magnus or Erik marries, they'll be gaining international influence. And now that she thinks about it, she's never considered the Parkinsons to be particularly important in the upper echelons of pureblood society. They're part of the U.K.'s Sacred Twenty-Eight, sure, and they've got money, but they don't have the prestige of the Greengrasses, the influence of the Malfoys, the international reach of the Hexbergs. They may be highborns, but they're low on the proverbial totem pole.
Well. Now she knows why the Sorting Hat didn't stick her in Ravenclaw.
"So - will you grant me the honour of attending the Yule Ball with me?" Draco says, coughing awkwardly into his elbow. "Your company would be a pleasure."
He's leaning heavily into pureblood customs with that.
Regina stares at him for a solid ten seconds. It's awkward and heavy and she's glad that, despite his exterior blasé expression, Draco is surely feeling uncomfortable as hell for having asked this.
Then, she gives him a smile. "I am doomed to disappoint."
A classic pureblood response.
Draco scoffs.
"What's the point of attending a bloody ball if you don't have a date?" he asks, exasperated.
"To listen to the Weird Sisters play," Regina says. It's little more than a rumour at this point, up there with Dumbledore ordering a hundred barrels of mead, Dumbledore inviting delegates from the rest of the international wizarding schools, and the potential of Ministry employees attending. "Are we done here? At least you know Pansy will accept when you ask her."
Before he can answer whether they're done or not, she stands up regardless. As she brushes imaginary dust off her robes, she walks away.
Out of the kindness of his heart.
When Regina's far enough away from him, she scoffs. It's loud and obnoxious enough that several of the portraits turn to glare at her.
Good.
"Hexberg."
Even with just one word, Magnus recognizes the cold tone that Headmaster Karakoff has always wielded.
He turns around, wishing desperately that he hadn't taken the shortcut from the library to Central Hall. He ought to have taken the long way around…
"Headmaster," Magnus says, jutting his chin out in an attempt to look confident. "What a pleasure to see you once more."
Karakoff is looking at him with an unreadable expression. His eyes are as blue and chilly as a glacier. The goatee on his unimpressive chin looks rather pathetic. "A pleasure." The clipped echo suggests it is anything but.
"Is there anything I can assist you with, sir?" He hasn't realized they've slipped into German until now. He's more focused on ensuring he sounds like he truly absorbed the etiquette classes Mother had him and his siblings take when they were younger. At some point, he knew the rules inside and out, but being at Hogwarts has nullified a lot of them.
"Your father never did explain to me why he transferred you out of our fine institute. Your sister, that I can understand - but you? It was my understanding that Silen's Head of House was set to designate you as Tribune. Durmstrang was wonderfully suited to your skills."
Tribune? Magnus had no idea. They served as a rank below Prefects, and two below Legionnaires. Tribunes were essentially glorified secretaries for their house, but it was a coveted position. Becoming a Legionnaire - the highest-ranking student in Durmstrang, who was capable of wielding corporal punishment if necessary and represented the institute at extra-curricular events - was highly prized. It was easier to get into university, if you wished to pursue that; some wizards even put it on their resumes when applying for jobs. And in order to become a Legionnaire, you had to be a Tribune, then a Prefect.
A shame. He would've liked to earn that achievement.
"Father told me it was due to our moving back to England," Magnus responds, trying to process the information he's just been given. "If there are any other motives - then I am wholly unaware. If anything, I suspect he intended for me to watch over my sister. Which…is easier said than done, especially when we aren't in the same house."
Karakoff's eyes flicker. "Ah. Yes. That. I was surprised to see you not in Slytherin."
"Join the club," Magnus murmurs under his breath. Is he still surprised to not be wearing green-hemmed robes? Sometimes. After four months, though, he's gotten…used to it all, more or less. Louder, he says, "In any case, my father has hardly spoken to me since the sorting. If he has any other reasons for my transfer, he certainly is in no mood to share them with me."
He's not sure that he should have said that so bluntly. An icy sort of silence falls over the corridor. It feels as if even the portraits have frozen over, they're so silent. Seconds pass.
"Is there anything else that you wished to discuss, Headmaster?" Magnus rubs at the back of his neck. Even when he was a Durmstrang student, he hated having to converse with Karakoff. There was something about him and his magical aura that set off warning signs in his mind.
"No - no, that is all." Karakoff shakes his head. "I presume you are attending the Yule Ball?"
He stands up a bit straighter. "Yes, sir."
"Enjoy it. Perhaps make time to mingle with your former colleagues, if you have a chance."
Magnus has to suppress a scowl. A snowball has a better chance of surviving hell than him interacting with any of the Durmstrang delegates. He's barely taken the time to notice any of them beyond Krum, afraid that he might see someone else he recognizes. "Yes, sir."
Karakoff walks off without another word, leaving Magnus more baffled than he was ten minutes before. The conversation plays on repeat in his mind as he makes his way back to the Hufflepuff Common Room.
Regina is so desperate to get away from the confines of the castle that she's tempted to grab her broom and take off, weaving in and out of the turrets and towers. This is in spite of the intense winter weather brewing. She knows that if she went out on her broom, the cold would nip at her skin, making it chapped and raw. There would be red and pink splotches on her cheeks and nose.
But the idea of shivering in the snow is a better alternative than staring at the dress robes that Mother sent her this morning.
It's not as if they're ugly. Far from it, in fact. The last thing Mother would ever do is decide her only daughter needs to look like a Hidebehind. No, her Yule Ball robes are intricately designed, silky, and a beautiful shade of green, somewhere between sage and fern. When she opened up the package earlier that Tuesday morning, she had to stifle a gasp at how beautiful they were.
But now that the initial excitement has worn off, Regina thinks of how she'll be wearing robes like these at every formal event for the rest of her life. She'll be clinging to the arm of some pureblooded boy, drinking wine imported from magical Italy, talking about how well their son and heir did at Hogwarts the prior term. He will probably be in Slytherin, and he will probably hate muggleborns.
"Are you okay?" Daphne asks.
Regina looks down at her hands. She's clutching so tightly onto the robes that her knuckles are stark white against her already pale skin.
"Yeah," she says. "I'm okay."
She isn't. She never sent an owl to Mother, in the hopes that maybe she just wouldn't get any dress robes. That'd give her a fine excuse to skip attending the ball. Damn it all, she shouldn't have signed up to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays - but then again, a bloody ball was loads better than having to spend a few weeks with her miserable curmudgeon of a father…All he'd do was complain about his heir being in Hufflepuff.
Not to mention, home doesn't have the Weird Sisters playing.
Tucked in the box the robes came in is a slip of parchment. Regina lets go of the robes in lieu of the paper, the robes flumping as they fall into her bed.
My loveliest daughter,
I hope that your first term at Hogwarts has gone well. You know how near and dear that school is to me, and I wish that you feel the same. Don't tell your father, but it surprised me to hear you were sorted into Slytherin. You always struck me as rather Gryffindor or perhaps Ravenclaw.
Regardless, Slytherin has and will do you well. It must be nice, surrounded by your childhood friends once more. Rosalie Greengrass has mentioned to me multiple times over tea how Daphne is delighted to have you sharing a dormitory with her. And Narcissa Malfoy has informed me that Draco seems quite happy that you're in the same house as him. It seems as if your very presence lights up the room - I know that I have always felt that way, but mothers are biased, in a sense.
Enclosed are your dress robes for the Yule Ball, which you have undoubtedly noticed before this letter. I hope they're to your liking; Rosalie helped to design the embroidery, and I must say, I think it will look quite stunning on you. I'm sure your date will feel the same way. Perhaps that Zabini boy? Bianca has mentioned you on more than one occasion.
Have a wonderful Christmas and an equally as wonderful New Year.
Wishing you lots of happiness,
Mother
Despite the end of the last paragraph, Regina smiles.
When Magnus wakes up on Christmas Day, there's a stack of presents by the end of his bed. It's a bigger pile than he's ever gotten from his family for Christmas and his birthday combined. He eagerly sets them close by.
"Happy Christmas," says Macmillan from across the room, speaking to no one in particular. The rest of the boys respond in kind, sans Magnus, who isn't quite sure whether he ought to speak or not.
When Finch-Fletchley opens up a present, half a dozen origami birds of all sizes and colours start flapping their wings and flying wildly around the room. They immediately get to pecking Zacharias in the head, making him drop one of his gifts, only for it to shatter. Before he has to deal with the inevitable row that his roommates are about to get in, he decides it isn't worth bearing witness. Magnus quickly grabs his wand, flicks his curtains shut, and unwraps his presents.
Hannah had given him the Modern Cryptozoologist's Bestiary, whose intricate ink drawings literally leap out of the yellowed pages of the thick book; from Susan, a beautiful painting of the Seljordsormen, a legendary Norwegian magical sea serpent that resided in Lake Seljord; Regina, a leather wristband that had the logo of his favorite Quidditch team, the Karasjok Kites; Erik, a large bag of sweets of every kind, though how he procured them, Magnus had no idea; and a grammar-checking quill from Merritt, as she had once glanced over at a History of Magic essay and declared that he had an atrocious grasp on English grammar. Mother also sent him a very gushy letter, letting him know she loved him very much and hoped he had adjusted better to Hogwarts, along with a topaz ring that her grandfather had owned. It matches the yellow of his school robes perfectly.
Father sends him nothing, but he didn't expect anything else. Not with the correspondence - or relative lack thereof - they've had since the start of term.
Almost immediately, he feels bad. His friends had taken the time to go Christmas shopping for him, and he hadn't returned the favour. Maybe if he explains how his family celebrates the holiday, they'll understand…Or maybe he'll just lie and say it got lost in the owl post. He wonders if Hannah or Susan would call him out on that. Merritt certainly would.
At least the house elves don't expect anything from him in exchange for a Christmas feast.
"Oi," calls out one of the boys, "Hexberg."
Reluctantly, he flicks his curtains open. "Yes?"
Zacharias is looking at him with a rather bored expression that Magnus has long since deduced is his usual look. "Do they even have Christmas in Norway?"
"...It's Norway."
"Well," he sniffs, "We'd heard your lot doesn't celebrate Hallowe'en."
"Norway has Hallowe'en, but most wizards celebrate Samhain instead. Most celebrate Christmas, but they call it Yule." Magnus picks absently at some of the wrapping paper that litters his bed. It's got Demiguises all over a navy blue background.
"Your lot's…peculiar," says Wayne. The tone of his voice suggests he's trying very hard not to be rude.
Magnus isn't qute sure whether he means Norwegians or purebloods, but decides not to press the issue. Not today. Instead, he gives a thin smile. "I cannot disagree with that."
They all stare at him for a long moment, then:
"...I didn't know you could smile."
The bluntness of Finch-Fletchley's statement makes the rest of the boys laugh. Magnus almost - almost - joins in.
Regina is quite pleased with her Christmas haul, all things considered.
The best gift had come from Tracey, who'd gotten her top shelf broom polish and a new pair of friction-resistant Quidditch gloves. But everything else had been nice, too: a wand holster from Daphne; an ever-expanding makeup bag from Millicent; a box of sweets from Erik; and a book titled A Brief History of Quidditch in Scandinavia from Magnus. Interestingly enough, Blaise had given her a silvery-grey pullover - it looked to be worth a years' salary of a lower level Ministry employee - and a brief note stating that it would go well with her eyes.
The most intriguing gift, however, is from Draco. Inside a tiny jewelry box, he'd given her a bronze ring. Instead of a gemstone at the top, the head opens up, and a tiny Golden Snitch will fly all around your hand, encouraging you to try and catch it. While Regina can't say it's something that she'll wear every day, it's certainly a thoughtful present. She spends several minutes toying with it, watching as the Snitch weaves in and out and around her fingers.
"Merry Christmas!" Daphne says excitedly, crossing her legs as she sits up in the bed to Regina's left. The giddiness in her voice makes her sound four rather than fourteen. She'd forgotten how much Daphne loved every aspect of the holiday. Of course, that adoration is likely exacerbated by the impending ball.
The Yule Ball. Regina suppresses her instinct to make a face of disgust. "Merry Christmas, Daph."
"What'd you get?" she says as she makes a move towards a gift box with an obnoxiously bright pink bow on top.
"What didn't I get would be a better question," replies Regina. Before this year, none of the others had really gotten her gifts. It wasn't a matter of whether they wanted to; what likely occurred was that Father told other purebloods it was a grave offense for them to celebrate Christmas in the modern sense, and consequentially, they ensured none of the Hexbergs would be offended.
A damn shame, because she likes getting free things. Luckily, this year they've gone against that tradition.
"Oh, the colours are gorgeous on these," Daphne says, peeling back the gift wrap to reveal several eyeshadow palettes. "Thank you!"
"Don't mention it," Regina says. She wasn't certain that the palettes she'd ordered were good ones, but the saleswoman at Hogsmeade had promised they were, mentioning something about the pigments being made in France. The packaging promised that the eyeshadow was enchanted to be smear-proof and maintain its' vibrancy for up to forty-eight hours. It seemed like a good deal; she's glad that it was.
Tracey slips one of her presents back into its original box. "Oh, Papa got me season tickets to see the Fizzing Freightons play - I know they're not your team, Regina, but if you ever want to go to a match…"
"Careful. She never wants to go anywhere with anyone. You never did get a date, did you?" says Daphne, peering over at her.
Regina rolls her eyes. "I didn't want one."
"More like no one wanted you," Pansy sniffs. "You're just jealous you don't have someone like Draco."
She weighs the pros and cons of telling Pansy that Draco had asked her a few days ago. She then decides that, despite it being a wonderful present to herself, pissing Pansy off would probably ruin the other girls' Christmases.
Maybe next year. There's a ball to get ready for.