tw: prejudice

TOLD BY REGULUS

"AVERY. CROUCH. ROSIER." Reg nodded curtly to the older boys as they walked past in the Slytherin common room. He knew he had to greet them, but he wanted to be done with it and go back thinking upon the conversation he'd just had with Miss Arslan.

The Bludger was not that bad, he'd suffered much worse in a lifetime of Quidditch. And in fact, if he had not promised her and if he did not hold her in decent regard, Reg had considered dismissing Arslan right in the middle of their little gathering, to cite gout, or something.

Because he had been having one of the best days since the start of the school year. The Hospital Wing was genuinely hospitable. There was no need to talk to anyone, he had food and water by his side whenever, and he could be by himself in peace for days on end. Yesterday, when he laughed at Miss Fortescue's cake, was the first time he'd laughed in ages. When was the last time? Reg immediately knew, and squashed that thought down, for he did not want to touch upon the memories of his brother just now, not when he'd thought of Miss Arslan just a moment prior.

"Black," the three chorused, as the trio walked downstairs. They were the closest thing to friends Reg had; no one truly ever had friends in Slytherin. Acquaintances, people to take advantage of were the majority. But Barty was probably the closest thing to a friend he had, since they both played Quidditch.

"Oi, Black. Thought you'd want this," Rosier came back up to him, dropping a piece of parchment in his lap before smirking and walking away.

Reg picked the paper up before scanning it with some wandless magic to make sure it was safe to touch. It read:

UNE NOUVELLE ÉRE

Password: Morsmordre

Reg scoffed at the stupidity. Of course Rosier would be the one to hand him an advertisement for a tacky newspaper biased towards the Dark Lord. It was true that the Dark Lord's values mostly aligned with that of his family's (namely: his mother's), but even he understood the need for balance between Muggle and wizardkind. You cannot have one without the other, his grandfather Arcturus told him one day, after he had been yelled at by his mother for asking why Mudbloods were so bad. 

Your mother is what some might call an extremist. We do not want to fraternize with Mugglekind of any, but they are indeed necessary. So we do not associate ourselves with this Dark Lord. Blacks don't serve.

Black's don't serve, Regulus.

That was what Reg repeated in his head a few times, before tossing the parchment into the dimming fire.

-

At dinner, Reg's thoughts were too occupied for his own good. He knew, at his core, that Muggles were equal to wizards, that it was by chance that some people were blessed with magic originally. But every lesson, every beating his mother had given him screamed otherwise. 

And the half-blood girl that lingered around his mind made the problem even worse. He needed to look into her. Find out which one it was, her mother or father that was pure. And who they were. And who their parents were, and so on and so forth. Perhaps that was why she was knowledgeable of the mind arts as he was at Potions.

The Great Hall was partially empty. Regulus was sandwiched between two twittering girls as he poked his toast. He could always have toast, even if it was dinnertime. With the wilting weather, Regulus's appetite dwindled, and he was more likely to eat a measured amount, just enough to sustain his Quidditch expenditures. He had a Newt Scamander textbook open on his lap, and was rather distracted by the descriptions and drawings of a hinkypunk. Most others in the Great Hall were similarly distracted either by others or schoolwork.

So it was quite the shock when everyone in the Great Hall's attention was caught by a shout. Regulus had taken to sitting near the Head of the Slytherin table, to assert his presence, for lack of a better term. So even he looked up when the water in his goblet shook, and someone swaggered onto the table on the other end, near the door. 

"Is that Clorfan Greengrass?" one of the girls next to him whispered too loudly into his ear. Reg winced.

"Doesn't he date Cassana Fortescue?" the other one whispered back. 

"Cassana Alorie Fortescue!" Clorfan bellowed, and the entire Hall winced with his volume. He'd definitely cast a sonorus. 

"What is he wearing?" a girl hissed, and Reg noticed that he was dressed in dress robes with little hearts embroidered onto them. Honestly, ridiculous, and an eyesore.

To be honest, Regulus did not know as much about Clorfan Greengrass as he would've liked. He knew plenty about his family, sure, but not a lot about the man personally. The Greengrasses were a rather quiet bunch, scattered among the Houses. They were going through a bit of a succession dispute, as Regulus knew. The Head of the family was Luthor Greengrass, a Potioneer, who had a daughter named Eloria, who had just graduated Hogwarts a year prior. But Eloria Greengrass was a sickly child, rumored to be afflicted with the blood curse all the pureblood families knew of. But Luthor Greengrass had no other children, so the logical thing to do to plot the path of succession was to go through his deceased brother Lorcan, where there remained Clorfan Greengrass. However, Luthor Greengrass, in an act as green as his name, had declared his sucessor as Eloria rather than Clorfan. But apparently, as his great-aunt Cassiopeia had whispered to him once, the two cousins were rather close, and Clorfan did not only wholeheartedly support his cousin, but was also an idiot and would not fare well with heirdom.

"Will you go to Hogsmeade with me next Friday?" Clorfan Greengrass yelled, and there was a sound as people shuffled to look down the Slytherin table.

Reg could see a hint of frizzy blonde hair there, though Cassana seemed to have both hands over her ears, as she sat next to Talkalot and Carrow. She was rather hard to see among the other heads of long blonde hair studding the table.

"Mister Greengrass, lower your voice!" Professor McGonagall yelled at him. 

"Cassana!" he yelled again, ignoring her as he pointed at Cassana with both hands, silky robes swishing. His friend tried grabbing for the ends of his robes to pull him down, but he slipped on a platter of jello.

"I- um," Fortescue stammered, eyes looking at Alecto Carrow.

"No, she does not want to go to Hogsmeade with you," Carrow stood up in one smooth motion, straight black hair looking extra sleek. "In fact, she does not want to be with you at all,"

"I- what?" Clorfan said, his sonorus wearing off.

"Don't I?" Reg could barely hear Cassana say it, confusedly and a little hurt, to Talkalot. Reg turned the other way, a reluctant wince writ on his face. But the relationship dynamics of three girls were not his business (as Miss Arslan told him so primly the other day).

"We are leaving now. Clean yourself up, Mister Greengrass, and don't follow us," Talkalot also stood up, smoothing her skirt out. "Come, Cassana,"

And Carrow and Talkalot walked out, with a bumbling Fortescue behind them, the latter turning her head around multiple times to make eye contact with Greengrass. But Clorfan was already gone, being chastised by Slughorn to notice.

There was some giggling as the event passed, and the school moved on, but Reg noticed the expression of one Gryffindor.

Malka Arslan looked incredibly uncomfortable and like she wanted to jump out of her seat at any moment, which, Reg noticed, she did, as soon as enough seconds passed so she wouldn't be questioned.

Honestly, why would she hang out with Cassana Fortescue? The blonde girl was flighty, messy, emotional, the total opposite of Arslan. She wasn't worth Malka's time, and how those two fit together never made sense to Regulus. Though perhaps it was desperation; that Miss Arslan could never find another friend aside from Fortescue in her year. Which could also be true, considering there were only two other Gryffindor fifth year girls. Even his House had six fifth year boys—the low number was quite unusual. But Regulus watched her tiptoe out of the Hall anyway, an enduring mystery for him to crack like a pomegranate.