Sanguine - (adj.) eagerly optimistic, especially under terrible circumstances.
Evangeline was a pureblood witch, her parents' perfect porcelain doll. Evangeline lived a sheltered, predictable life, and she didn't mind it. She didn't know there was a...
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Saturday morning, Professor Slughorn gathered the students of his illustrious 'Slug Club' for a commemorative group photo. Regulus held open the door as students filed into the potions classroom. He hadn't been asked, but it seemed like the sort of thing he'd get points for. Anything to gain Slughorn's favor. Standing there at the door reminded him of the days when his parents still hosted parties at their townhouse. He and Sirius would get stuck greeting everyone as they came in. There hadn't been a party on Grimmauld Place in over two years. They didn't want anyone around, after. Wizards—especially those of pureblood status—were known for asking questions, sticking their ears and their opinions where they didn't belong. Instead, the grand rooms were left unoccupied to gather dust. Even Kreacher had given up maintaining them.
Regulus had put on his nicest robes and spelled his hair perfectly into place for the photo. It seemed he was one of the few people who had actually put any effort into their appearance. He didn't have the mind to be embarrassed, instead he saw it as a small victory. Maybe this way he would stand out. He was only a fifth year, but he was determined to work his way to the top of the club as deftly as possible.
His 'competition' consisted of the ten most accomplished students at Hogwarts, or so Slughorn claimed. In actuality, it was just a collection of whoever he found to be the most interesting. Alice Fortescue, for example, was only an average student, but she had an interminable will and had earned her way into a coveted position on the Slytherin quidditch team. Lucius Malfoy frequently received terrible marks, but at only 17 he already had many social and political connections. Dirk Cresswell was passionate about goblins, spoke many languages, and was well traveled. He was Slughorn's favorite, the bastard. Regulus vied for that coveted spot. He didn't even like Slughorn terribly much, but to be favored less than a mudblood was something of a slap in the face.
From his place at the door, he heard Lily Evans talking animatedly to Alice about someone named Elton John, who he assumed was some Hufflepuff bloke he hadn't bothered meeting. The two girls were probably the only Slytherin and Gryffindor who actually got on beyond exchanging stilted pleasantries. He would have been impressed by Lily's bipartisan willingness to bridge the gap...if she weren't a worthless muggle, that was.
Mulciber was the last to enter the room, carrying a clunky camera with him. Slughorn insisted he had a particular talent for photography, and Regulus was inclined to agree. He was the most mild mannered of his friends by far, but he had an undeniable shine to him. It was impossible not to like him, even when he was nitpicking their positioning and moving them around like ragdolls. Evans and Snape, who were on opposite ends of the line, were moved into the middle to stand next to each other. He was thrilled about it, but she seemed rather uncomfortable. Professor Slughorn took his place front and center in the group, beaming widely.
Suddenly, third year Miranda Goshawk—who was younger than everyone else but who Slughorn deemed to be so very clever—spoke up. "Professor, we only have eight students."
