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    Summary

    Regulus began shaking.

    It started in his hands. Small, rapid tremors he tried to conceal by curling his fingers into his palms.

    His bandaged wrist pressed against the seam of his trousers.

    “Your clothes are torn,” Walburga said. “Your hair is filthy. Your face is bruised. You look like a street urchin.”

    Regulus did not answer.

    “Speak.”

    “Oui, Maman.”

    “Do you agree?”

    Her eyes narrowed. “You agree that you look disgusting.”

    “Oui, Maman.”

    “Say it.”

    Regulus’s lips shook. “Je suis… dégoûtant.”

    Walburga slapped the side of his face. The sound cracked across the classroom. Regulus stumbled. A collective movement passed through the room. Parents rose. Chairs scraped. Professor Sprout left the wall. Fleamont took one step forward. Dorcas’s mother said, very softly, “Enough.”

    But Walburga spoke over them. “Your agreement is irrelevant. You say, ‘Thank you for correcting me.’”

    Regulus looked dazed. His cheek was turning red beneath the scratches.

    “Merci de m’avoir corrigé.”

    “Louder.”

    “Merci de m’avoir corrigé, Maman.”

    Series
    Language:
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